Chapter 5 - Midnight Extraction
By three-thirty in the morning, the storm outside had escalated into a full-blown Pacific Northwest gale. Rain lashed against the glass, and thunder shook the foundation of the luxury skyscraper.
Inside the penthouse, the air was thick with the smell of copper, gun oil, and burning paper.
Grant’s remaining men were frantically shredding sensitive documents from Adrian’s safe and packing encrypted hard drives into heavy tactical duffel bags.
Evelyn was standing beside Adrian, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was dressed in a dark tactical turtleneck and heavy trousers, though he was still unable to stand unassisted.
Evelyn was wrapping a thick wide leather lumbar support belt around his waist, pulling it tight to stabilize his fresh spinal sutures.
“This will keep the tension off the incision,” Evelyn explained, her hands working efficiently. “But if you take a bullet or fall down a flight of stairs, the wound will tear open, and you will bleed out internally before we reach a hospital.”
Adrian looked up at her, his face inches from hers. Up close, she could see the subtle golden flecks in his dark eyes, the faint lines of stress around his jaw, and the sheer, unyielding willpower radiating from his skin.
“Then don't let me fall, nurse,” he murmured.
Evelyn let out a soft, nervous breath. “I’m five-foot-six and broad-built, Mr. Vale, but you weigh at least two hundred and thirty pounds of pure stubborn muscle. If you fall, we’re both going down.”
A sharp chime sounded from the security console near the door.
Grant sprinted over, staring at the live camera feeds. His face went dead pale.
“Boss,” Grant reported, his voice tight. “We’ve lost the perimeter cameras on floors eighty-four and eighty-five. Three armored vans just pulled into the underground loading dock. They aren't syndicate men.”
“Who are they?” Adrian asked smoothly.
“Rogue SWAT contractors,” Grant spat. “Julian hired a private tactical paramilitary firm from Idaho. They have heavy body armor, thermal imaging, and automatic weapons. They’re using the express service elevator right now.”
Evelyn grabbed her heavy medical tote, slinging it over her shoulder. “Is there a back exit?”
“The penthouse has a private elevator that leads directly to the subterranean parking garage,” Grant said. “But Julian’s men have likely already cut the power to the main grid.”
“The service chute,” Adrian commanded, his voice calm despite the impending assault. “The old laundry freight elevator in the kitchen. It runs on a secondary hydraulic system powered by an independent diesel generator in the basement.”
BOOM!
A massive explosion rattled the heavy double doors of the penthouse master suite. The lights flickered, died, and were instantly replaced by the eerie red glow of emergency backup lanterns.
Screams and heavy automatic gunfire echoed down the marble hallway outside.
“They’re inside!” Grant shouted, leaning around the doorframe and firing three rapid rounds from his rifle down the hall. “Boss! We have to move NOW!”
Grant grabbed Adrian’s left arm, supporting his weight, while Evelyn lunged under his right arm.
Together, they heaved the massive mafia Don off the bed.
Adrian’s legs buckled slightly as his feet touched the floor, the severe nerve inflammation shooting sharp agony up his back, but he gritted his teeth, resting his massive weight against Evelyn’s broad shoulders.
Evelyn braced her hips, digging her rubber-soled nursing shoes into the hardwood floor. She didn't sway. Her strong legs and wide stance held his weight firmly, her arm wrapped tight around his waist.
“Got you,” Evelyn grunted, her teeth gritted. “I’ve carried three-hundred-pound stroke patients down three flights of stairs in a hospital fire. You’re nothing.”
A faint shadow of a smile touched Adrian’s lips despite the pain. “You’re a terrifying woman, Evelyn Mercer.”
“Move!” Grant barked.
They hurried through the dark, luxurious kitchen, stepping over shattered crystal wine glasses and copper cookware. Behind them, heavy tactical boots stormed into the bedroom, followed by the sound of furniture being shredded by submachine gun fire.
Grant threw open the heavy stainless-steel door of the industrial freight elevator.
Inside was a bare, utilitarian metal cage designed for laundry carts and maintenance gear.
Grant helped slide Adrian onto a metal bench mounted against the interior wall. Evelyn squeezed in beside him, immediately checking his pulse and spinal dressing in the dim red emergency light.
“Grant, get in!” Adrian ordered.
Grant stood at the threshold of the shaft, holding two heavy magazines in his hand. He looked back at Adrian, his eyes filled with fierce, unwavering loyalty.
“There are eight mercs coming through the dining room, Boss,” Grant said quietly. “If I come inside, they’ll trace the hydraulic cable and drop a grenade down the shaft before you reach the basement.”
Adrian’s jaw hardened. “Grant... that's an order. Get inside.”
“My job is to keep you alive, Adrian,” Grant said, giving a brief, respectful nod toward Evelyn. “Take care of him, Nurse. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s worth saving.”
Grant slammed the heavy manual steel door from the outside and locked the latch.
“GRANT!” Adrian roared, slamming his fist against the wire-reinforced glass window.
Through the narrow pane, they saw Grant turn, draw his sidearm, and stride calmly back into the kitchen toward the oncoming gunfire.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
May you like
Evelyn slammed her hand down on the manual descent lever.
The heavy steel cables screeched above them, and the freight elevator plunged down into the dark, silent depths of the eighty-six-story building, leaving the war zone behind.
