Chapter 5 - The St. Jude Ambush
My heart leapt straight into my throat.
"Adrian," I whispered, grabbing the sleeve of his coat.
He didn't panic. In a fluid, terrifyingly practiced motion, Adrian grabbed my arm and yanked me down behind the tall wooden pharmaceutical shelving just as the first gunshot shattered the front window of the store.
Glass exploded inward like a wave of glittering shrapnel.
"Stay down!" Adrian ordered, his voice sharp as broken glass. He didn't have his custom Sig Sauer with him—he had left his sidearm in the car to comply with my rules about coming unarmed. But he didn't need a gun to be lethal.
The two men in leather jackets fanned out, their boots crunching loudly over the shattered glass on the linoleum floor.
"Voss!" one of them shouted, laughing coarsely. "Boss says hello! Drop the bag!"
Adrian crouched behind the shelf, his eyes darting across the cluttered aisles. His gaze locked onto a heavy, floor-to-ceiling metal rack stocked with heavy medical reference books and diagnostic equipment.
I crouched beside him, my breath hitching in my chest, my fingers clutching the plastic bag of medical supplies as if it were a shield. "Adrian, there's a back exit behind the dispensary," I hissed. "The pharmacist keeps the key on a hook by the sink."
"I'm not running, Lucia," Adrian muttered, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line.
One of the gunmen rounded the corner of the aisle, his heavy black pistol raised, scanning the shadows with a predatory grin.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He lunged forward from the shelf like a striking viper, grabbing the gunman’s wrist and slamming it upward against the metal shelving unit with bone-crunching force. The pistol went off, the bullet burying itself harmlessly into the ceiling tiles. Before the man could recover, Adrian swept his leg out, catching him behind the knee, and drove his elbow down into the back of his neck with lethal precision.
The man collapsed instantly, unconscious before he hit the floor.
The second gunman rushed around the opposite side of the aisle, his eyes widening in horror as he saw his partner go down. He raised his weapon directly toward Adrian’s chest.
I didn't think. Adrenaline overriding every instinct of self-preservation, I grabbed a heavy glass jar of medicated cough syrup off the shelf and hurled it with all my might straight at the gunman's face.
The jar shattered against his temple, staggering him just enough to throw off his aim.
Adrian closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing the man by the throat and slamming him backward through the glass display case with a deafening crash of splintering wood and tumbling merchandise.
Silence fell over the pharmacy, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the heavy, ragged breathing of the two men bleeding out on the floor.
Adrian stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving, his knuckles bruised and streaked with blood. He turned slowly toward me, his dark eyes wide with a mix of shock and burning intensity.
"I told you to stay in the car," he panted, stepping over the debris to reach me.
"And I told you I don't run," I snapped back, my hands trembling as I clutched the medical supplies.
Adrian reached out, his calloused hand gently catching my chin, tilting my face upward to inspect a small scratch on my cheek where a piece of flying glass had grazed my skin. His thumb brushed lightly across my cheekbone, his touch surprisingly soft for a man who had just dismantled two assassins with his bare hands.
Before either of us could speak, the distant wail of police sirens began echoing down Tenth Street, growing louder by the second.
"We have to go," I whispered, my heart still hammering against my ribs.
Adrian dropped his hand, his expression hardening back into the stone-cold mafia boss he was born to be. He grabbed the bag of medical supplies from my grip, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed my hand with a grip that brooked no argument.
"Run," he said, pulling me toward the back exit.
We slipped out into the alley just as the first squad car pulled up front, but as we reached the battered sedan, Adrian’s satellite phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his entire face turned to stone.
May you like
"What is it?" I asked, breathless.
"Maya," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "The clinic. Someone just breached the recovery ward."
