Chapter 5 - The Siege of St. Catherine’sThe hospital corridor transformed into a war zone in a matter of seconds. Heavy fire doors at both ends of the wing slammed shut automatically on the backup grid, sealing us inside a long, narrow hallway lined with drywall and glass panels.
“Get back inside the room,” I ordered Tessa, grabbing her arm to pull her behind me.
She didn't panic. Instead, she grabbed a heavy metal oxygen tank from the supply cart, planted it against the door handle to jam the latch, and looked at me with cold, sharp clarity. “If they breach this wing, your stitches are going to rip open the second you throw a punch. Let me help.”
“You’re a civilian—”
“I am a trauma surgeon who knows how to apply a tourniquet and lock down a perimeter,” she snapped. “Move!”
Outside, the heavy sound of combat boots echoed against the linoleum floor, followed by the dull, suppressed thud-thud of silenced gunfire. Glass shattered down the hall as my men engaged the intruders in the west wing junction. Shouts, heavy thuds, and the unmistakable smell of cordite drifted through the ventilation system.
Malcolm appeared around the corner, blood dripping from a shallow graze on his temple, holding a spare Sig Sauer pistol. He slid it across the floor toward me.
“Boss, they bypassed the lobby security,” Malcolm yelled over the gunfire. “It’s a hit squad. They aren't here for ransom. They’re here to clean house.”
I scooped up the pistol, checking the magazine slot with practiced fluidity. My side screamed in protest, a white-hot flash of agony radiating from the fresh stitches, but I forced the pain down into the dark corners of my mind. Adrenaline flooded my veins, numbing the physical shell.
“How many?” I asked.
“At least four in the primary wave. More coming up the service elevator.”
I looked back into the room. June was huddled under a heavy steel surgical table, terrified but quiet. And standing right beside her, holding a heavy scalpel tray like a weapon, was Tessa. She caught my eye through the open door and gave a single, firm nod.
The drywall beside the doorway exploded in a flurry of white dust and wood splinters as enemy fire concentrated on our position.
“Malcolm, suppress the right flank!” I roared, stepping out into the corridor.
The next three minutes were a blur of controlled violence. Gunfire echoed deafeningly off the hard hospital walls. I caught movement near the nurses’ station, fired twice through the cover of a medication cart, and heard a heavy body hit the floor. Another operative tried to flank us from the linen closet, but Malcolm dropped him before he could raise his weapon.
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Silence descended on the hallway just as quickly as the violence had erupted, broken only by the steady, rhythmic beeping of medical monitors and the groans of a wounded man down the hall.
I lowered my pistol, my breath coming heavy and ragged, blood slowly soaking through my black shirt from the torn stitches.
