Chapter 14 - Blood on the Snow
-14-
The snow began to fall in heavy, wet flakes as Damian’s black Mercedes SUV tore through the slush-covered streets of Manhattan, breaking three traffic lights in rapid succession as it raced toward the Mount Sinai medical complex on the Upper East Side.
Inside the vehicle, Damian’s fingers flew across his secure satellite phone, patching directly into the clinic’s private internal security feed.
The screen flickered to life. The hallways of the third-floor neurological ward were eerily deserted. The nurses' station was empty, chairs knocked over, medical charts scattered across the linoleum floor in a chaotic scramble.
"Damn it," Damian cursed under his breath, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.
He had arrived too late.
When the SUV screeched to a halt in front of the clinic’s emergency ambulance bay, Damian didn't wait for the vehicle to settle. He threw open the door, drew his pistol, and sprinted up the concrete steps into the lobby like a bolt of lightning. Two private security guards lay unconscious near the elevator bank, breathing shallowly from chemical sedatives.
Damian ignored the elevator—it was a trap waiting to be sprung—and took the concrete stairwell three steps at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs with a fury he hadn't felt in years.
He burst through the third-floor fire exit door into the neurological wing.
The hallway was dead silent. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered ominously against the white walls. At the far end of the corridor, inside private room 312, a sliver of warm light spilled out onto the dark floor.
Damian crept forward silently, his boots making no sound against the rubberized floor, his pistol raised and locked on the target.
He reached the open door of Room 312 and pivoted inside, his weapon aimed at the center of the room.
What he saw froze the blood in his veins.
Lily was sitting upright in her hospital bed, trembling violently, tears streaming down her pale face. Standing directly beside her, holding a heavy surgical scalpel pressed delicately against her jugular vein, was a tall, scarred man with cold, dead eyes—Marcus Vance.
Beside Marcus stood two armed mercenaries holding automatic weapons, their laser sights sweeping across the threshold the moment Damian appeared.
"Well, well, well," Marcus sneered, a cruel, triumphant grin splitting his scarred face as he pressed the scalpel fractionally closer to Lily’s skin, drawing a tiny bead of crimson blood. "The great Damian Croft. Walking right into the slaughterhouse like a loyal dog."
Damian didn't lower his gun, but his finger hovered dangerously close to the trigger. His voice, when he spoke, was dangerously low and devoid of all human emotion.
"Let the girl go, Marcus," Damian said, his eyes locked onto the enforcer. "She has nothing to do with this. Your feud is with me."
"Oh, she has everything to do with this," Marcus laughed darkly, tightening his grip around Lily’s shoulder as the terrified girl sobbed softly. "You destroyed my family, Damian. You took my brother, you took our assets, and you humiliated us in front of the entire syndicate. I want to watch you bleed out on this hospital floor—starting with the girl you care about most."
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Marcus’s finger tightened on the scalpel.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. Damian calculated the trajectory, the distance, the positioning of the two guards blocking his angle. He had a split second to make a choice that would determine whether everyone in this room walked out alive or died in the snow.
