Chapter 3 - Blood on the Welcome MatTom and Jerry, who had been dozing in the waiting room, were instantly on their feet, their hands slipping beneath their jackets with terrifying smoothness.
The glass front door shattered inward.
Glass exploded across the waiting room floor. Through the jagged frame stepped three men in gray trench coats, their faces obscured by black tactical balaclavas. In the hands of the lead man was a suppressed submachine gun, its black barrel gleaming maliciously under the fluorescent lights.
"Vance!" the lead intruder barked, his voice distorted through a synthetic filter. "Don't move or the dog gets a second surgery—permanently."
Inside the recovery ward, Caesar let out a low, distressed growl, struggling to lift his heavily sedated head.
Nick didn't panic. His entire posture shifted in a fraction of a second, dropping into a cold, lethal stillness that terrified Jen more than the guns. He didn't look back at her. "Stay down, Jen. Under the desk."
"Nick, they have—"
"I know what they have."
With blinding speed, Nick drew a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer from a concealed holster beneath his coat. He didn't yell or negotiate. As the lead gunman stepped through the doorway of the recovery ward, Nick pivoted around the corner, fired twice with absolute, surgical precision, and the intruder dropped like a stone, his weapon clattering across the linoleum.
"Jerry! Flank the window!" Nick roared.
Chaos erupted. Gunfire chewed through the drywall, sending plaster dust raining down over the animal cages. Cleo the Scottish Fold shrieked, shooting out of the room like a white streak of lightning to hide beneath the reception counter. Jen huddled behind her metal desk as bullets punched through the wooden panels just inches from her head.
Through the haze of smoke, Tom lunged from the hallway, tackling the second gunman through the waiting room window in a flurry of shattering glass and curses.
The third gunman, realizing he was outmatched and his backup was neutralized, dropped his weapon, threw his hands up, and backed toward the broken front door. "Wait, wait—we can talk—"
Nick stepped out from the shadows, the barrel of his gun resting casually against the man's forehead.
"Who sent you?" Nick's voice was a lethal whisper.
"The... the Moretti family," the man choked out, shaking violently. "They said... they said the dog was just a message. Next time, it's the vet."
Nick's finger tightened on the trigger. For a heartbeat, Jen thought he was going to pull it right there in her clinic.
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"Get out of my city," Nick said coldly, lowering the gun by a fraction of an inch. "And tell your boss that if he ever looks at this clinic again, I won't just take his territory. I'll take his breath."
The man scrambled backward over the broken glass and fled into the Brooklyn night like a ghost.
