Chapter 5 - Surgical Precision
The steel door gave way with a deafening screech of tearing metal and a cloud of white smoke.
Two men in unmarked black tactical gear lunged through the breach.
Julian moved like a predator. He stepped out from behind the desk, his weapon barking twice. The first intruder collapsed instantly, hit squarely in the neck where his armor didn't protect him.
The second intruder fired a spray of bullets across the room. Sparks flew off the concrete walls. A stray round ricocheted, grazing Julian's shoulder. He stumbled back, his shirt instantly soaking through with dark red blood.
"Julian!" I screamed.
The second gunman turned his weapon straight toward the corner where Leo was sleeping.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I raised the heavy pistol with both hands, squeezed the trigger, and held my breath.
The shot cracked through the small room. The bullet struck the gunman right in the temple. He crashed to the floor, dead before his helmet hit the concrete.
The room fell dead silent again, save for the hum of the air filters clearing out the sulfur smoke.
I dropped to my knees beside Julian. He was leaning against the heavy desk, clutching his left shoulder, his teeth gritted in agony. Blood was pouring down his arm, pooling on the glossy concrete.
"I'm fine," he growled through his teeth, trying to push himself up. "Check the baby."
"Shut up and let me look," I commanded, my nanny persona vanishing completely, replaced by the trauma nurse who had handled gunshot wounds for five straight years.
I ripped open his crisp silk shirt, exposing the muscular chest underneath and the jagged entrance wound near his collarbone.
"The bullet hit the subclavian artery's outer branch," I said rapidly, assessing the damage with my fingers. "You're bleeding out internally. If I don't compress this right now, you'll go into hypovolemic shock in three minutes."
"We don't have... three minutes," Julian rasped, his eyes fluttering slightly as his blood pressure plummeted. "More... coming..."
"They aren't getting in," I snapped, grabbing a roll of surgical gauze and blood-clotting powder from the emergency medical kit built into the desk wall.
I leaned over him, pressing my weight directly down onto the wound. Julian let out a low, guttural roar of pain, his hands flying up to grip my waist, his fingers digging into my hips so hard it left bruises.
"Look at me, Julian," I demanded, bringing my face inches from his. "Look at me! Keep your eyes open!"
He locked his dark eyes onto mine. Through the sweat and pain, there was something else in his glare—an intense, consuming heat that made my skin prickle.
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"You're bossy... for a nanny," he ground out, a dark smirk touching his pale lips.
"You're terrible at staying alive... for a mob boss," I retorted, applying the tourniquet with tight, ruthless efficiency. "Now hold still while I stop the bleeding."
