Chapter 9 - The Final Stand in Trauma TwoWhen my SUV screeched to a halt outside the emergency entrance of St. Mary’s Hospital, the automatic glass doors were shattered into a thousand sparkling fragments across the pavement.
Two of my security guards lay unconscious near the entrance, bleeding from heavy blows.
I drew my Sig Sauer pistol, flicked off the safety, and charged into the hospital like a combat veteran storming an enemy redoubt. The emergency corridors were dead silent—the eerie, unnatural quiet before a storm. The overhead lights flickered and buzzed, throwing long, distorted shadows down the hallway.
I sprinted down the familiar corridor toward Trauma Room Two.
The heavy glass door was blown inward, its electronic keypad smoking and dead.
I stepped through the threshold, holding my weapon high, sweeping the room with tactical precision.
The room was bathed in the red glow of emergency backup lights.
Emily lay on the hospital bed, still unconscious, her breathing shallow and ragged.
And standing beside her bed, holding a stainless steel medical tray with a fresh syringe, was David.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His custom white dress shirt was soaked in sweat, the right cuff torn and stained with blood. He looked up slowly as I stepped into the room, a manic, desperate grin spreading across his face.
"Well, well," David whispered, his voice trembling slightly with adrenaline. "The old war dog made it back from the slaughterhouse. I told Uncle Julian you were stubborn."
"Step away from the bed, David," I said, my voice dangerously low, the barrel of my gun locked directly on the center of his chest. "Put the syringe down, and put your hands where I can see them."
David laughed, a high-pitched, unstable sound.
"You think you can shoot me, Richard? Go ahead. But look at the IV drip attached to your daughter's arm."
My eyes flicked downward for a fraction of a second. Connected to Emily’s IV line was a remote-detonated micro-pump, its digital display ticking down rapidly from 10 seconds.
"It’s hooked to a dead-man’s switch in my hand," David smiled, holding up a small black remote control with a blinking red LED light. "If my thumb leaves this button—or if your bullet stops my heart—the pump will instantly flush a lethal dose of potassium chloride into her veins. She'll be dead in three seconds."
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The world seemed to stop spinning.
For the second time in my life, I felt the terrifying, helpless paralysis of a father whose child is held hostage by a monster.
