Chapter 2 - THE VEIN COLLAPSES

"Hey," the taller hitman snapped from the doorway, stepping back into the trauma bay. His hand tightened on the grip of his Glock. "Why hasn't he flatlined yet?"

Clara’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The clamped hemostatic forceps were completely hidden beneath the sterile white sheet, biting down on the IV tubing. The lethal dose of potassium chloride hung suspended in the plastic line, inches from the man's tattooed arm.

"His vein collapsed," Clara lied, her voice shockingly steady. She didn't look at the hitman. She kept her eyes glued to the monitor, where the mobster's heart rate was strong and even. "The shock from the blood loss. His vascular system is shutting down. The fluid isn't pushing through."

The second cop, the one who had injected the poison, pushed his way into the room. His eyes narrowed. "Then find another vein, sweetheart. Now."

"I have to flush the line first, or I’ll push an air embolism into his heart and you'll have an autopsy proving homicide," Clara shot back. Weaponized apathy. It was the only tone she knew how to fake. "You want it to look like a natural cardiac arrest, right? Let me do my job."

The taller cop took a step closer, his boots squeaking on the bloody linoleum. "You've got exactly one minute, Florence Nightingale."

Clara leaned over the man on the table. His pitch-black eyes were still locked onto hers. Up close, she could see the faint webbing of scars around his jaw, the sheer, imposing width of his shoulders even as he bled out. He was completely silent, but his gaze shifted infinitesimally downward, toward the tray of surgical instruments by his right hand.

He wasn't just watching her. He was waiting for her to move.

Clara pretended to adjust the blood pressure cuff. As her body shielded his right side, she subtly nudged the stainless steel surgical tray half an inch closer to his fingertips. Resting on the edge was a number 10 scalpel.

"Hurry it up," the second cop growled, stepping up right behind Clara. She could smell the stale coffee and cheap menthol cigarettes on his breath. "Step aside. I'll just shoot him and we'll burn the building down."

"No," the taller one argued, stepping into the room. "The boss said it has to look clean. Heart attack. No bullets."

That argument cost them exactly three seconds. It was all the man on the table needed.

With terrifying speed, the mobster's right hand snapped up from under the sheet. He didn't just grab the scalpel; he palmed it, twisting his massive torso off the gurney despite the gaping wound in his side. In one fluid, brutal motion, he lunged forward, driving the short blade directly into the femoral artery of the cop standing behind Clara.

The man screamed, a wet, horrifying sound, as a geyser of arterial blood painted the yellow walls red. He dropped to his knees, his hands scrambling at his thigh.

Clara didn't scream. She threw herself flat against the floor.

The taller cop drew his Glock, raising it toward the gurney. But the mobster was already moving. He kicked the heavy metal surgical tray directly into the cop's chest, throwing his aim off. The gunshot deafened Clara, the bullet shattering the glass cabinets above her head. Showers of glass and sterile gauze rained down on her.

Before the cop could adjust his aim, the mobster closed the distance. He tackled the officer through the swinging double doors. The heavy thud of bodies hitting the hallway floor was followed by a sickening crack of bone.

Then, dead silence.

Clara lay on the floor, trembling, covered in glass. The only sound was the bubbling gasp of the first cop bleeding out on the tiles, and the relentless beep of her own clinic's heart monitor, now attached to a discarded, bloody sheet.

A heavy boot stepped back into the trauma bay.

Clara squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the bullet.

"Get up."

The voice was like grinding gravel. Deep. Hollow. Clara opened her eyes. The mobster was standing over her, pressing a handful of sterile gauze against his bleeding torso. His bespoke Tom Ford suit was ruined, but he held the taller cop’s Glock in his right hand.

"You clamped the line," he said, staring down at her.

"I couldn't let them kill you," Clara whispered, slowly pushing herself up on trembling arms.

"You don't know who I am."

"I don't care," she said, finding her footing. "You were my patient."

He stared at her for a long, heavy second. Then, he reached into his ruined jacket pocket. He pulled out a heavy, intricately engraved silver pocket watch. It was tarnished with age, completely out of place with his expensive modern suit. He checked the time, his expression hardening into something terrifying.

"They aren't cops," he said softly. "And in exactly ten minutes, the real cleanup crew is going to walk through those doors to make sure the job is done. If you're here, they will kill you. If they find out who you are, they will kill anyone you love."