Chapter 6 - Crossfire in the Red-Tinted Hall
The staccato crack of automatic gunfire echoed down the emergency-lit corridor, turning the sterile hospital hallway into a flash of muzzle sparks and shattering glass.
Arthur didn't flinch. Activating muscle memory forged in a dozen warehouse ambushes and dockside turf wars, he dropped to one knee behind a heavy steel vending machine just as a wall of lead chewed the plaster inches above his head.
“You missed, Malcolm!” Arthur shouted over the din, firing two precise, suppressed rounds that dropped the nearest Croft enforcer before the man could adjust his sights.
Malcolm Croft cursed, dragging himself behind a concrete structural pillar as Leo Barnes and a secondary tactical squad poured out of the service stairwell behind the attacking syndicate forces, sandwiching them in a brutal crossfire.
“Flush them out!” Leo roared, his voice cutting through the smoke. “No casualties in the civilian wards! Keep them pinned against the west wing!”
The corridor dissolved into chaos. Smoke alarms began to shriek, their strobe lights flashing a piercing white against the eerie red emergency glow. Inside Trauma Room 3, Chloe pressed her back against the reinforced concrete pillar, her hand clutching the metal tray, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as bullets punched through the outer drywall.
She wasn't just thinking of herself anymore. Every concussive blast outside sent a sharp, agonizing cramp rippling through her lower abdomen.
Not now, she prayed, closing her eyes tightly as a warm trickle of moisture broke down her thighs. Please, not now.
Outside, Arthur moved with terrifying efficiency, closing the distance to Malcolm’s position. He kicked the weapon out of the remaining enforcer's hands, grabbed the man by his tactical vest, and hurled him against the wall with enough force to shatter bone.
Malcolm tried to raise his cane, but a heavy boot pinned it to the floor.
Arthur loomed over him, his face shadowed by the strobe lights, his clothes soaked with sweat and gunpowder. The suppressor of his pistol rested lazily against Malcolm’s collarbone.
“Your men are down, Malcolm,” Arthur whispered, his voice dangerously calm. “Your logistics are frozen. And your daughter is sitting in a hotel room waiting for a father who is about to run out of breath.”
Malcolm glared up at him, a bloody grin twisting his lips. “You think... you think I’m the only one who wanted you dead, Romano? Look at the security feed in your private pocket archive. Vivien didn't just act alone.”
Arthur froze, his grip tightening on the pistol. “What are you talking about?”
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Before Malcolm could answer, a high-pitched, frantic scream echoed from inside Trauma Room 3.
Arthur’s blood ran ice cold. He shoved Malcolm away, turned on his heel, and sprinted down the corridor, throwing open the door to Chloe’s room—only to find the window shattered, glass littering the floor, and the room entirely empty.
