Chapter 8 - THE EIGHTH FLOOR AMBUSH
The elevator bell chimed softly on the eighth floor.
The doors slid open. The hitman stepped out into the quiet, antiseptic-smelling corridor, his hand locked around the grip of his suppressed pistol inside his utility cart.
He took three steps toward Vera Castillo’s private recovery suite—and froze.
Standing directly in the center of the hallway, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light, was Daniel Choi.
He sat in his custom wheelchair, wearing a dark wool overcoat, his hands resting calmly on the armrests. Flanking him on either side were four massive, heavily armed private security operatives, their tactical shotguns raised and pointed squarely at the hitman's chest.
There were no hospital nurses in sight. The entire floor had been cleared.
The hitman’s face drained of all color. He realized with paralyzing terror that he hadn't walked into an ambush; he had walked into a slaughterhouse designed specifically for him.
"You..." the hitman gasped, his hand twitching toward his hidden weapon.
"Don't," Daniel said. His voice was soft, carrying the absolute, crushing weight of a man who had stared death in the face and decided he was no longer afraid of it. "If your hand moves another inch, my men will turn you into red mist before you hit the floor."
The hitman slowly raised his hands, letting the utility cart roll forward a few inches. "Moretti sent me. He said—"
"I know what Moretti said," Daniel interrupted, propelling his wheelchair forward a few feet, the rubber wheels squeaking softly against the linoleum. "Moretti is a dying dog howling at a locomotive. He thought he could use a child to get to me. He thought compassion was a weakness."
Daniel stopped his chair just two yards away from the trembling assassin.
"Tell Dominic Moretti something for me," Daniel continued, his dark blue eyes locking onto the man with terrifying intensity. "Tell him the monster he was so afraid of twenty years ago was never buried in Cicero. He was just sitting down, waiting for someone to give him a reason to stand back up."
Before the hitman could draw another breath, Theo Park stepped out from behind a structural pillar, bringing the heavy steel butt of a tactical rifle down across the back of the assassin's skull.
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The man collapsed like a broken marionette, unconscious before he hit the floor.
"Clean him up," Daniel ordered without looking back. "And bring Dominic Moretti to me. I want him sitting in my dining room by midnight."
