Chapter 5 - THE CORRIDOR OF FIREThe silence in the hospital wing shattered instantly.
Down the hallway, the emergency exit door clicked shut. Two men in dark tactical windbreakers—Julian Vance’s sweepers—were moving swiftly toward Room 412, their suppressed pistols held low and ready.
"They're here," Miller muttered, drawing his service weapon with a swift, practiced motion. He shoved the spare keycard into Wren's hand. "Go through the service stairwell. Get to Viktor before they do."
"And leave you?" Wren demanded.
"I'm a cop—or what's left of one," Miller said, shoving her toward the back door. "If I go down here, it's official business. If you go down, you're just another convict caught in the crossfire. Move!"
Patch didn't wait for permission. The moment Miller released the tension on the leash, the gray shepherd bolted down the hallway like a silver streak, heading straight toward the two armed hitmen.
"Hey! Drop it!" Miller shouted, stepping out from the archives into the corridor.
The first hitman spun around, his pistol tracking toward the detective. A muffled pfft echoed down the tiled hall, and a chunk of drywall exploded inches from Miller’s ear. Miller returned fire, his bullet catching the shooter in the shoulder and spinning him against the wall.
But the second hitman kept moving, his sights locked on the door of Room 412—where Viktor Vance lay recovering on the bed.
"No you don't," Wren growled.
Adrenaline surged through her veins, a cold, lethal focus taking over every fiber of her being. She didn't run away. She grabbed a heavy steel IV pole from the cart beside the doorway, ripped it free, and charged down the hall behind the dog.
Patch reached the second hitman first. With a terrifying snarl that sounded less like a domestic pet and more like a wolf, the shepherd leaped, sinking his jaws deep into the forearm of the man holding the suppressed pistol.
The hitman screamed, dropping the gun as Patch wrenched his head sideways, tearing the fabric and skin.
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As the man stumbled backward, swearing furiously and reaching for a backup knife on his belt, Wren rounded the corner. She didn't hesitate. She swung the heavy steel IV pole with all the fury of seven stolen years, catching the hitman squarely across the temple with a sickening crunch.
The man collapsed to the linoleum floor, completely unconscious.
