Chapter 5 - The Hospital Corridor Ambush
I instinctively dropped my hand toward my jacket pocket, gripping the heavy steel flashlight I used as a makeshift baton, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Through the narrow frosted glass panel of the hospital door, two dark silhouettes drifted past in the hallway.
They weren't wearing white medical scrubs. They were wearing dark, unmarked tactical jackets, their faces partially obscured by ballistic caps, moving with the synchronized, deliberate sweep of professional security contractors.
One of them stopped directly outside Room 412.
A gloved hand reached out, gently testing the brass doorknob.
Inside the room, Eli stirred slightly in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible and pulling the teddy bear tighter against his chest.
The doorknob turned an inch.
Rook didn't wait for them to push the door open.
With an explosive burst of speed, Rook grabbed the edge of the door, jerked it violently inward, and caught the lead operative by the tactical vest, hauling him bodily into the room before the man could react.
The intruder slammed hard against the linoleum floor, dropping a suppressed pistol that skidded across the tiles toward my feet.
“Quiet!” Rook hissed, pressing his heavy boot squarely onto the man’s chest, pinning him to the floor while pressing the blade of his knife an inch from the operative’s throat.
The second operative in the hallway reacted instantly, raising a submachine gun and stepping toward the threshold.
Before he could pull the trigger, Dr. Samuel Whitaker—with surprising, athletic agility for an elderly surgeon—grabbed a heavy metal IV pole and drove it horizontally across the doorway, catching the second man square in the chest and knocking him off balance against the wall.
I lunged forward, kicking the dropped pistol further under the hospital bed, and slammed my shoulder into the second intruder’s chest, pinning him against the drywall.
“Who sent you?” Rook demanded, his voice a low, terrifying growl that rattled the windowpanes. “Who’s paying you to hunt veterans' orphans?”
The man pinned beneath Rook’s boot didn't struggle. Instead, a cold, humorless smile spread across his bruised face. He looked past Rook, staring directly at little Lucy lying motionless in her bed, and then up at me.
“You think you’ve protected them by keeping that server unit in your garage?” the operative rasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “The drive wasn't the target, old man. It was a tracer.”
Rook froze. The knife in his hand stopped trembling, but his eyes went wide with sudden, chilling realization.
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“What do you mean, a tracer?” Rook snarled.
The operative let out a raspy, hacking laugh. “The moment your boys powered up that server to check the files... it pinged our satellite grid. A full strike team is already five minutes away from your clubhouse. And right now... they’re burning the garage to the ground.”
