Chapter 6 - THE PENTHOUSE AMBUSHThe freight elevator chime sounded like a gunshot in the silent, sterile service corridor of Memorial General’s executive floor. The heavy steel doors slid open with a smooth, pneumatic hiss, revealing a dimly lit hallway lined with polished mahogany panels and expensive oil paintings.
Gabriel stepped out first, his suppressed submachine gun raised, scanning left and right. I followed closely behind, carrying my medical bag like a shield, while Sebastian walked right behind us—not rolling in a wheelchair, but walking with a stiff, unnatural, mechanical stride, his hands steady, his boots striking the marble floor with a slow, deliberate rhythm that echoed through the empty hall.
"Floor security is dead," Gabriel murmured into his comms piece after checking the central monitoring station alcove. "Mercer pulled everyone to the roof helipad. He thinks we're walking right into his final trap."
"He's right," Sebastian said coldly, rolling his shoulders as he tested the strength in his legs. The chelating agent was doing its job; the initial tremor in his knees had faded into a cold, lethal stability. "He wants to finish what he started twenty years ago. Let's not disappoint him."
We rounded the corner toward the private executive stairwell leading to the rooftop helipad. The heavy fire door stood slightly ajar, casting a shaft of pale moonlight and cold Chicago wind across the carpet.
As we approached, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the shadows above.
"Freeze!" a voice barked.
Three private security contractors in tactical gear dropped from the stairwell landing, their assault rifles leveled directly at our chests.
Gabriel moved with terrifying speed. Before the lead guard could pull the trigger, Gabriel’s submachine gun barked twice—thip-thip—and the lead operative dropped like a stone. The second guard lunged to the side, trying to bring his rifle to bear, but Sebastian didn't hesitate. With a sudden, explosive burst of speed that no one—least of all the guard—expected from a man supposedly paralyzed for twenty years, Sebastian closed the distance, caught the guard’s weapon barrel with one hand, and drove his palm upward into the man's chin with bone-crunching force.
The guard collapsed unconscious before he hit the ground. The third operative threw down his weapon and raised his hands, backing away against the wall.
"Don't shoot! I'm just contract security! Mercer didn't tell us—"
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"Shut up and open the roof access hatch," Sebastian commanded, his voice dripping with lethal iciness.
The guard fumbled with an electronic keycard, swiping it against the biometric wall reader. The heavy steel door unlocked with a loud clack, and the howling wind of the Chicago night rushed down the stairwell, carrying the steady, rhythmic chop of a idling helicopter turbine from the roof above.
