Chapter 8 - THE WOUNDED LION
A sudden screech of tires tore through the courtyard below, followed by the roar of heavy diesel engines. Sirens wailed in the distance—not police sirens, but the distinct, low-frequency horns of Griffin’s heavy tactical reinforcements returning from the city perimeter.
Dominic Vance cursed loudly, realizing his window had slammed shut. "This isn't over, Hales! Chicago will bleed until you're in the dirt!"
Vance hurled a flashbang grenade up the stairs.
"Get down!" Griffin lunged backward, wrapping his massive frame entirely around Fay, slamming her to the floor just as the grenade detonated in a blinding burst of white light and concussive sound.
The blast blew the remaining doors off their hinges. Fay’s ears shrieked with high-pitched agony, her vision swimming in white spots. When the ringing faded into dull thuds, she felt a heavy, warm wetness soaking through the front of her sweater.
"Griffin?" she whispered, coughing through the acrid smoke.
Griffin didn't move. He lay heavily across her, his breathing shallow and ragged.
Fay pushed against his shoulder, scrambling out from underneath him. Her hands came away slick and crimson. A jagged piece of metal shrapnel from the blast had torn through Griffin’s side, embedding itself deep between his ribs. Blood was welling up rapidly, staining his white shirt a terrifying, spreading scarlet.
"Griffin! Look at me! Griffin!" Fay cried, tears cutting clean tracks through the soot on her cheeks.
His eyelids fluttered open, dark and unfocused. "Fay... did you... did you get him?"
"He ran," she sobbed, ripping the hem of her cashmere sweater with her teeth, pressing the bunched fabric hard against his bleeding side. Griffin groaned in agonizing pain, his teeth bared. "You have to stay awake. Reinforcements are coming up the stairs right now. Don't you dare close your eyes!"
"You shot Leo," Griffin rasped, a faint, bloody cough shaking his chest, though his lips curved into a weak, defiant smirk. "Hell of a shot... for a dishwasher."
"Shut up and breathe!" she commanded, pressing all her weight into the wound to stem the hemorrhage.
Footsteps pounded up the marble staircase—Marco, his face bloody and tactical vest shredded, burst into the corridor backed by a dozen heavily armed loyal soldiers.
"Boss!" Marco shouted, skidding to his knees beside them. "Medics are right behind us! Vance slipped through the service tunnel, but we have the perimeter sealed!"
"Forget Vance," Fay snapped at Marco, her voice ringing with an authority that made the seasoned capo instantly obey. "Help me keep pressure on this artery! If he goes into hypovolemic shock before the surgeon gets here, we lose him!"
Griffin’s cold, blood-stained fingers reached up, weakly curling around Fay’s trembling wrist. His dark eyes searched her face through the haze of fading consciousness.
"Fay..." he whispered, his grip surprisingly tight despite his fading pulse.
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"I'm here," she cried, leaning down until her forehead touched his. "I'm not going anywhere, Griffin. I'm staying right here."
A soft, ragged exhale left his lips, and his eyes slipped closed as the medical team flooded the hallway.
