THE BLOOD TIES THAT BIND

Vincent didn’t wait for a response. He lunged forward, sprinting toward the blinding headlights.

“Clara!” he screamed, dropping his weapon and throwing his arms wide to catch his wife.

“Vincent, stop!” Santiago roared, pushing off the concrete pillar.

It was too late.

As Vincent reached the silhouette, the woman stepped out of the harsh glare.

It wasn't Clara.

It was a woman of the same height, wearing the exact same distinct, emerald green coat. But her face was scarred, her eyes cold and dead.

She didn't embrace him. She stepped smoothly to the side, pivoting with military precision, and drove the butt of a heavy assault rifle directly into Vincent’s stomach.

Vincent folded in half, gasping for air. Before he could recover, two massive men in tactical gear stepped out from behind the idling SUV. They grabbed Vincent by the arms, dragging him brutally into the blinding light.

Sarah screamed. Santiago raised his gun, ignoring the searing pain in his chest, and fired.

Bang. Bang.

One of the tactical men grunted, stumbling back as a bullet grazed his shoulder armor. But the woman in the emerald coat was faster. She raised her rifle and laid down a deafening burst of suppressing fire that chewed through the concrete pillar Santiago was hiding behind.

“Throw the gun out, Moretti!” the woman shouted, her voice echoing in the concrete garage. “Or I put a bullet in your dog’s head right now!”

Santiago peered around the shattered edge of the pillar.

Vincent was on his knees, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. The woman had the barrel of her rifle pressed firmly against the back of Vincent’s skull.

Santiago looked at his oldest friend. The man who had taken bullets for him. The man who had brought a poisoned IV bag into a hospital room because he was terrified for his family, but couldn't bring himself to actually kill his boss.

Santiago didn't hesitate. He tossed his pistol across the smooth concrete. It slid into the light, stopping near the woman’s boots.

“Smart boy,” the woman sneered. “Hands where I can see them. Walk out slowly.”

Santiago stepped out of the darkness, his hands raised. He held his head high, adopting the posture of an untouchable king, even as blood seeped visibly through his hospital gown.

Sarah stayed hidden in the shadows, trembling uncontrollably. Santiago had given her a silent look just before stepping out. Stay hidden.

“Where is Clara?” Vincent choked out, spitting blood onto the garage floor. “Where is my son?”

The woman in the green coat smiled. It was a cruel, empty expression.

“Your wife is safe, Vincent,” the woman said. She reached into the pocket of the emerald coat.

She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She tossed it onto the concrete in front of Santiago.

Santiago looked down.

It was the other half of the torn photograph. The half showing the face of five-year-old Mateo, smiling brightly.

But there was handwriting scrawled across the boy’s face in thick black marker.

THE EAST WING. ROOM 4B.

“The East Wing?” Vincent whispered in horror. “That wing has been closed for asbestos removal for two years. It’s completely sealed off.”

“Not completely,” the woman smirked. “It’s a very quiet place to keep a five-year-old boy. Especially when the rest of the hospital is burning.”

Santiago’s eyes narrowed. “You don't work for the Bratva. The Russians don't play these theatrical games. You work for Leo.”

The woman laughed. “Leo is a visionary. He knew you survived the poisoning. He knew you’d escape the room. He told us exactly where you’d run.”

“If Leo is so smart,” Santiago said coldly, stepping an inch closer, “why did he send a cheap decoy in a stolen coat to do his dirty work?”

The insult landed. The woman’s smirk vanished. Her finger tightened on the trigger against Vincent’s head.

“Get in the back of the SUV, Moretti,” she snarled. “You have an appointment with your brother.”

“I don't think so,” Santiago said softly.

Suddenly, a deafening, metallic crash echoed through the garage.

Sarah hadn't stayed hidden. While they were monologuing, the terrified nurse had crept along the dark wall of the basement. She had found the heavy emergency fire axe enclosed in a glass case near the stairwell. She hadn't used it as a weapon.

She had swung it with all her might, smashing the main water main pipe that ran along the ceiling.

A massive, explosive torrent of highly pressurized, freezing water blasted down from the ceiling, directly onto the idling SUV and the tactical team.

The blinding headlights short-circuited with a loud POP, plunging the garage into chaotic darkness illuminated only by flashing sparks.

The woman in the green coat shrieked, blinded and battered by the violent spray. Her rifle jerked away from Vincent’s head.

That fraction of a second was all Vincent needed.

Vincent surged upward from his knees. He didn't run. He lunged like a rabid wolf, driving his shoulder into the woman’s chest, tackling her violently to the wet concrete.

The two massive tactical men stumbled blindly in the pouring water, trying to raise their weapons.

Santiago moved through the chaos like a ghost. He slid across the wet floor, snatching his dropped pistol. He didn't hesitate. He fired twice in rapid succession.

Both tactical men dropped heavily to the flooded floor, dead before they even understood what hit them.

The roaring water began to slow as the automated shutoff valves engaged. The emergency red lights flickered back on, painting the flooded garage in a sinister, bloody glow.

Santiago walked over to Vincent.

Vincent was kneeling over the woman in the green coat. He had his heavy hands wrapped tightly around her throat, choking the life out of her. Her eyes were bulging, her hands weakly clawing at his iron grip.

“Vincent. Stop.” Santiago commanded.

Vincent didn't listen. The rage of a terrified father had consumed him entirely. “Where is my son?!” he roared into her face, squeezing harder.

Santiago stepped forward and grabbed Vincent’s wrist, pulling him off with a brutal yank.

“She doesn't know!” Santiago shouted, dragging Vincent back. “She’s a mercenary. She’s disposable. If you kill her, we lose our only map to the East Wing.”

Vincent stood panting, his chest heaving as he stared down at the gasping woman. He ran a trembling hand through his soaked hair.

Sarah emerged from the shadows, completely drenched, clutching the heavy red fire axe. She looked at the bodies on the floor, shivering violently, but her jaw was set.

“Thank you, Sarah,” Santiago said quietly. It was a genuine, profound acknowledgment from a man who rarely handed them out.

Sarah nodded tightly. “I couldn’t let them take you. I need my job.”

Santiago offered a small, grim smile. He turned back to the gasping woman on the floor.

He knelt down beside her, ignoring the water soaking into his bandages. He picked up the torn half of the photograph showing little Mateo’s face.

“You are going to tell me exactly how many men are guarding the East Wing,” Santiago said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “And then you are going to give me your radio.”

The woman coughed, spitting water. She glared at him defiantly. “Go to hell, Moretti. Leo has an army up there. You walk into that wing, you’re a dead man.”

Santiago didn't raise his voice. He simply leaned closer.

“I was already dead today,” Santiago whispered. “Now, I’m just a ghost looking for company.”

The woman’s bravado finally cracked. She looked into his eyes and saw the absolute, uncompromising truth. He wasn't going to negotiate.

“There are six men,” she stammered, pointing a shaking finger toward the stairwell. “They barricaded the heavy fire doors on the fourth floor. The only way in is the service elevator. But it requires a biometric keycard.”

Santiago held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

She reached into her tactical vest with trembling fingers and pulled out a heavy black keycard. She dropped it into his palm.

“Thank you,” Santiago said politely.

He stood up, looking at Vincent and Sarah.

“We are going to the East Wing,” Santiago announced.

But as he turned toward the service elevator, Sarah suddenly gasped, pointing a shaking finger at the woman on the floor.

“Mr. Moretti… look at her coat.”

Santiago stopped. He turned around.

The heavy torrent of water had washed away the grime and shadows. Under the red emergency lights, the emerald green coat was completely soaked.

But the water had revealed something hidden beneath the thick collar.

A heavy, ornate gold necklace.

Vincent saw it. He stopped breathing.

“Clara never took that necklace off,” Vincent whispered in absolute horror. He looked at the mercenary on the floor. “Why are you wearing my wife’s necklace?”