Chapter 4 - The Price of Survival
The silence in the concrete tunnel was suffocating.
Cross felt his grip on the Glock slip slightly with sweat. He looked at Vance, then glanced up at the concrete ceiling. He knew the layout of St. Vincent’s. The pediatric ward was filled with children on ventilators and neonatal incubators who couldn't be evacuated in time.
Vance was a monster, but he was a calculating monster. He didn't bluff.
“Lower the weapon, Marshal,” Sloan said softly, laying a hand gently on Cross’s arm. “He’s telling the truth. That’s how he operates. Collateral damage is his favorite shield.”
Cross slowly lowered his barrel, though his jaw remained clenched so hard his teeth throbbed. “You won't get out of this hospital alive, Vance. Federal agents are already surrounding the perimeter.”
Vance let out a dry, cold laugh. “The federal agents outside are currently taking orders from Deputy Director Miller—one of my oldest business partners. They’re not here to rescue you, Marshal. They’re here to secure the scene after I clean up.”
Vance stepped closer, the suppressive barrel of his pistol trained directly on Sloan’s forehead.
“The drive, Sloan,” Vance commanded, holding out his hand. “Give it to me, and I’ll let you ride out of here in an ambulance. Refuse, and I blow the third floor, shoot the Marshal, and rip it off your corpse anyway.”
Sloan looked at Vance. For the first time, a faint, cold smile appeared on her lips.
“You haven't changed, Victor,” she said quietly. “You still think everyone around you is playing by your rules.”
She reached toward her collar, grabbing the silver titanium tag. She unclasped the chain slowly, letting it dangle between her fingers.
“Here,” she said.
She tossed the tag through the air.
Vance’s eyes instinctively tracked the silver object as it arched through the dim light. He reached out his left hand to catch it—
In that fraction of a second, Sloan moved.
She didn't draw a gun. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the 14-gauge angiocatheter she had stolen from the trauma room, and lunged forward with explosive speed.
She drove the long, thick steel needle straight into the nerve cluster at the crook of Vance’s left elbow—the cubital tunnel.
Vance’s hand involuntarily spasmed. His fingers opened, and the digital detonator slipped from his grip, falling toward the wet concrete floor.
“Cross! Catch!” Sloan screamed.
Cross dropped to his knees, sliding across the wet floorboards like a baseball player sliding into home base. He caught the detonator two inches before it hit the ground, clutching it tightly against his chest.
Vance let out a roar of rage, bringing his Sig Sauer down toward Sloan’s head.
Sloan ducked beneath his guard, slamming a vicious kidney punch into his side, followed by a double-leg takedown that sent both of them crashing into the rusted supply crates.
Metal buckled. Glass shattered.
Vance was broader, heavier, and possessed terrifying combat strength. He pinned Sloan against a steel pillar, his large hands closing around her throat, cutting off her air supply instantly.
“You... were... always... just... a nurse,” Vance hissed, his bloodshot eyes staring into hers as he squeezed.
Sloan’s vision began to spot with black stars. She couldn't breathe. Her hands clawed at his wrist, but his grip was like iron.
Then her hand touched something sharp lying in the debris on the floor—a broken piece of thick glass from a shattered medicine bottle.
She didn't hesitate.
She drove the glass shard straight into Vance’s thigh, severing his femoral muscle.
Vance screamed, his grip loosening as his leg collapsed beneath him.
Sloan tumbled to the floor, gasping for air, her chest heaving as she rolled away.
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Cross jumped up, stepping over Vance’s writhing body, and slammed the butt of his Glock across Vance’s jaw.
The former commander went limp, collapsing unconscious into the dark pool of standing water.
