Chapter 4 - Blood on the DoorstepIt was past midnight when a frantic banging shook the front glass of the clinic. Not the polite knock of a customer, but desperate, heavy blows.
Elena scrambled out of her back cot, grabbing a heavy metal flashlight as a weapon. She flicked on the exterior porch light and pulled back the security curtain.
A young man was collapsed against her glass door, clutching his side. Dark, crimson blood was pumping rapidly between his fingers, staining his expensive silk shirt. But it wasn't just him—dragging behind him was a massive, shivering German Shepherd, its hind leg completely mangled by what looked like gunshot wounds.
"Help... please," the young man choked out, his face pale as paper. "They're coming. They breached the safehouse on 8th Street. They said... they said anyone tied to Moretti dies."
Elena froze. Tied to Moretti? She had only known the man for four days!
Yet, looking at the bleeding man and the terrified, wounded dog whimpering on her welcome mat, her veterinary and human instincts overrode her fear. She unlocked the door in a flash, grabbing the young man under the shoulders and dragging him inside, while whistling frantically for the German Shepherd to crawl in.
"Lock the doors!" the man gasped, spitting up blood. "Vance’s men... they’re wiping out everyone. They know Ajax was brought here. They think Moretti’s weakness is centered around this clinic!"
Elena’s blood ran cold. Victor Vance. The ruthless rival syndicate boss who had been waging an underground war against Alexander for control of the entire shipping ports. And now, because Alexander had brought his dog to her clinic, Vance’s hitmen had marked Pine Street Animal Care as a target.
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"Get on the operating table," Elena commanded fiercely, shoving her fear down into the darkest corner of her mind. She grabbed her new laser scalpel—the one Alexander had sent—and looked at the dog, then at the man. "I'm going to save both of you. But once you're patched up, you're calling your boss and telling him to clean up his mess."
Before the wounded courier could reply, the street outside illuminated in a harsh, blinding glare. Headlights. Not twenty cars this time—just three heavy, armored SUVs sliding to a violent halt right outside her curb.
