Chapter 8 - DARKNESS IN THE CORRIDORAs Ryan spoke, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, and then died completely.
Emergency backup generators kicked in seconds later, bathing the hallway in a sickly, humming amber glow. But the heavy, metallic smell of high-grade explosives drifted in through the ventilation system.
“How many?” I demanded, gently laying Hannah’s hand down and standing up, instantly transforming from grieving husband into the apex predator of the New York underworld.
“At least twenty men,” Ryan reported, pulling a submachine gun from beneath his trench coat and checking the magazine. “Professional contractors. Not street thugs. They bypassed our downtown security detail in under three minutes. They’re coming up the service elevators right now, and their primary target isn't you, Jack—it’s the NICU.”
Hannah tried to sit up, clawing at her IV lines with a desperate cry. “My baby! They’re coming for our daughter!”
“Stay down!” I ordered, grabbing her shoulders firmly and pushing her back onto the pillows. I pulled my custom sig sauer P226 from my shoulder holster, checking the chamber with a sharp, lethal click. “Look at me, Hannah. Trust me. I built the walls of this city. Nobody touches our daughter.”
I turned to Ryan. “Lock down the stairwells with C4 tripwires. Give me the tactical tablet.”
Ryan tossed me the ruggedized tablet showing the hospital’s security camera feeds.
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On screen four, the heavy steel doors of the ground-floor lobby had been blown off their hinges. Through the smoke walked a figure wearing a tactical vest and a cold, emotionless grin—Marcus Vance, the head of the Russian-backed syndicate that had tried to assassinate me three years ago.
Julian hadn't just been dabbling in corporate rivalry. He had sold us out to the wolves.
