Chapter 2 - The Bleeding Corridor
The sound of a scuffle in the dark—the brutal thud of a fist connecting with bone, the sharp intake of breath, the frantic scuffling of combat boots against linoleum—shattered the sterile silence of the hospital wing.
“Dorian!” I screamed, my feet refusing to move. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to help him, to pull him away from whatever nightmare had just broken through the door.
“Go! Move!” Dorian’s voice strained through gritted teeth as he grappled with someone in the pitch black near the threshold.
Tears blinded me as I stumbled backward, my hand sliding along the cold wall of the examination room until I found the exit. I threw myself out into the hallway.
The emergency strip lighting cast long, distorted shadows down the corridor. North Shore Memorial’s VIP wing was eerily deserted. Where were the nurses? Where was the security staff? The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: whoever had cut the power had locked down or cleared out the entire floor. We were completely isolated.
My breath came in ragged, hyperventilating gasps as I sprinted down the corridor toward the exit sign glowing a sickly, radioactive green at the far end. My stomach gave a violent lurch—a sharp reminder of the morning sickness that had started all of this just an hour ago. Every step felt heavy, like I was wading through wet cement.
Don't think about the nausea. Don't think about the baby. Just run.
Footsteps echoed behind me—heavy, fast, and unyielding.
I risked a glance over my shoulder. Through the dim amber gloom, a tall figure in a dark trench coat was emerging from the examination wing, moving with terrifying speed. It wasn't Dorian. It was someone else. Someone wearing a face mask that obscured everything except a pair of cold, dead eyes.
“Help!” I screamed, though I knew nobody would answer.
I reached the heavy fire door at the end of the hall, shoved the horizontal panic bar with all my weight, and tumbled headfirst into the concrete stairwell.
The metal door slammed shut behind me with a resounding bang.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, and began throwing myself down the concrete steps. Flight after flight. Seven floors to the basement. My lungs burned, and a sharp, cramping pain began to stitch itself across my lower abdomen.
Please, God, no, I prayed, pressing a hand against my stomach as I took the stairs three at a time. Not now. Keep the baby safe.
By the time I hit the heavy metal door marked Basement - Parking Garage, my legs were shaking so violently I could barely stand. I slammed my weight against the push-bar and burst out into the subterranean gloom of North Shore Memorial’s underground lot.
The garage was vast, echoing, and cast in the dim, flickering yellow glow of overhead hanging bulbs. Rows of parked cars stretched out into the shadows like sleeping metallic beasts.
“Bay Four,” I muttered to myself, desperately scanning the overhead signs. “Where is Bay Four?”
I started running down the center lane, my eyes darting from pillar to pillar. Bay One. Bay Two. Bay Three.
A pair of twin headlights suddenly snapped on twenty yards ahead of me, blinding me with their glare. The deep, guttural roar of a high-performance engine reverberated off the concrete walls.
A black SUV crept forward from the shadows of Bay Four, its tinted windows rolling down to reveal the grim, weathered face of Marcus, Dorian’s long-time head of security.
“Mrs. Cross! Get in!” Marcus shouted, slamming his door open and leaning across the center console.
I didn't hesitate. I sprinted toward the idling vehicle, practically diving into the front passenger seat. Marcus threw the SUV into reverse before the passenger door was even fully latched, tires screaming against the polished concrete as he whipped the heavy vehicle around toward the exit ramp.
“Where is Dorian?” I gasped, clutching the dashboard as we rocketed toward the security gate.
Marcus didn't answer immediately. His eyes were locked on his rearview mirror, his jaw set in a hard, grim line.
“He’s right behind us,” Marcus said, though his voice lacked conviction. “He told me to get you out first.”
“Stop the car,” I demanded, turning to look at him.
“Ma'am—”
“I said stop the car, Marcus!”
Before Marcus could argue, the exit security gate ahead of us suddenly exploded in a shower of splintered wood and shattered glass. A massive, matte-black sedan came barreling down the exterior ramp, slamming directly into our path and cutting off our escape route.
Marcus slammed on the brakes, sending the SUV skidding sideways across the wet pavement.
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The doors of the blocking sedan flew open, and three men stepped out into the headlights, their faces obscured by ski masks, heavy automatic weapons raised and pointed directly at our windshield.
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