Chapter 6 - The Siege of St. Jude
Dominic stumbled backward through the shattered glass doorway, his hand pressed tightly against a bleeding gunshot wound on his left shoulder.
"Boss!" Dominic spat out, his face slick with sweat. "It's the Moretti strike team! They used fire department uniforms to bypass the main lobby security! They’ve taken out the elevator guards!"
Behind Dominic, three men in dark tactical gear stepped over the shattered glass, automatic submachine guns raised, their faces covered by black balaclavas.
"Kade!" the lead gunman barked, his voice amplified by a helmet comms unit. "The Don sends his regards! Your bloodline ends tonight!"
Weston didn't hesitate.
He didn't yell, he didn't negotiate. He raised his pistol and fired three shots in rapid succession.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
The lead gunman dropped instantly, two heavy 9mm rounds shattering his ballistic visor.
The remaining two attackers opened fire, spraying the entryway with automatic rounds. Concrete dust, plaster, and shattered glass rained down like hail.
Priya crouched low behind the heavy steel-reinforced prep station, holding Owen tightly against her chest, her body covering his entirely. The baby began to wail in terror, the sharp, piercing sound of his cries cutting through the deafening roar of gunfire.
"Shh... shh... I've got you, baby, I've got you," Priya sobbed, tears streaming down her dusty cheeks, keeping her back pressed hard against the steel cabinet.
Weston moved like a shadow. He didn't stay behind cover; he flanked the attackers, using his intimate knowledge of the room’s layout. He slid behind a heavy rolling medical equipment tower, knocked it over into the second gunman's legs, and drove a steel surgical tray directly into the man’s throat before firing a single point-blank round into his chest.
The third gunman turned his weapon toward the corner where Priya was hiding. "Die, you little bitch—"
"Look at me!" Weston’s roar echoed through the room like thunder.
The gunman spun around, but Weston was already upon him. Weston grabbed the barrel of the automatic rifle, wrenching it upward as a spray of bullets tore through the ceiling tiles. With a terrifying surge of physical power, Weston slammed his knee into the man’s ribs, shattered his wrist, snatched his combat knife from his tactical vest, and drove it downward through the attacker’s collarbone.
The room fell dead silent except for the low, rhythmic hum of the emergency backup monitors and the frantic wail of little Owen.
Weston stood amid the devastation, his suit jacket torn, his white shirt splattered with red, holding the bloody combat knife in his right hand. His chest heaved as he swept his dark eyes across the ruined room.
"Priya!" Weston shouted, dropping the knife, his voice laced with frantic panic. "Priya!"
"We're here!" Priya called out, her voice shaking violently from behind the steel cabinet.
Weston rushed over, sliding on his knees onto the dusty floor. He reached around the cabinet and pulled Priya and Owen into his arms, squeezing them against his chest with desperate, trembling strength.
He checked Owen over frantically—his tiny chest, his arms, his blanket—looking for any sign of blood or injury.
"He's okay," Priya sobbed, pressing her forehead against Weston’s bloody shoulder. "He's okay, Weston! I kept him covered! He's not hurt!"
Weston let out a choked, ragged breath, resting his face against Priya’s neck, his whole body trembling with the aftershocks of lethal adrenaline. "Thank God... thank God..."
He pulled back, his large, calloused hands framing Priya’s dusty face, his grey eyes shining with unshed tears. "Are you hit? Look at me, Priya, are you hurt?!"
"I'm okay," Priya whispered, looking into his eyes. "We're both okay."
Dominic limped over, holding his bleeding shoulder, looking down at the three dead attackers on the floor. "Boss... police units are responding to the main lobby alarm. We have less than five minutes before federal SWAT breaches the building."
Weston stood up, his face hardening into absolute resolve. He looked around at the destroyed NICU, then down at Priya holding his precious son.
"This hospital is no longer safe," Weston declared fiercely. "Dominic, bring the armored transport to the private sub-basement loading dock. We are taking my son home."
He looked down at Priya, holding out his hand to help her up. "Come with us, Priya. Please. I can't protect him without you. And I won't leave you behind."
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Priya looked at Weston’s outstretched hand, then down at Owen, who had finally stopped crying, his tiny fingers clutching her scrub top.
She didn't hesitate. She took Weston’s hand. "I'm coming."
