Chapter 5 - THE MOTHER'S DEBT
The smoke from the hallway explosion drifted lazily through the amber-lit NICU, carrying the acrid stench of cordite and burning plastic. I coughed, grabbing a sterile gauze pad and pressing it firmly against Sebastian’s bleeding shoulder. He didn't even flinch. He stood perfectly still, his eyes scanning the monitors, assessing the babies’ vitals as if he were a medical professional rather than a crime lord.
"Hold this," I instructed Dante, guiding the large man's hand to press on the gauze. Dante looked terrified of hurting his boss, applying pressure with surprising gentleness. I quickly turned my attention back to Baby Boy Miller, checking his O2 sats. They were holding steady at 92%. Good enough for now, but not sustainable if the temperature kept dropping.
"You said we need to move the child," I said, my voice urgent. "Mr. Moretti, we can't just carry a four-pound premature infant through a warzone. He needs a transport incubator with a self-contained power supply, oxygen tanks, and continuous IV fluids. If he gets cold, or if his airway compromises for even a minute..."
"I have a transport incubator," Sebastian interrupted quietly.
I stared at him, bewildered. "Where? The hospital's transport units are on the ground floor in the ambulance bay, and that's currently crawling with mercenaries."
"Not the hospital's," Sebastian corrected. He looked at Dante. "Call Dr. Evans. Tell him to prep the Vanguard Facility. Tell him we're bringing in a Class 1 VIP. Premature infant, high-risk respiratory. Have the trauma surgeon on standby for me, just in case."
Dante nodded, pulling out his encrypted phone.
"What is the Vanguard Facility?" I asked, securing a heavy pressure dressing over Sebastian's shoulder wound.
"When you run the kind of organization I do, Clara, you can't exactly walk into a public emergency room with a gunshot wound and expect discretion," Sebastian explained, his voice low and steady. "I funded the construction of a private, state-of-the-art trauma hospital hidden beneath an old textile factory in the industrial district. It has surgical suites, an ICU, and a fully equipped neonatal unit."
My jaw dropped. "You built a secret hospital? With a NICU?"
Sebastian looked down at the faded bracelet on his wrist. "After Julian died... I wanted to ensure that no one under my protection would ever lack the medical care they needed because of hospital politics or rival gang interference. The Vanguard has the best equipment money can buy."
"How are we supposed to get the baby there?" I demanded, gesturing to the smoke-filled hallway.
"There's a service elevator at the end of the east wing that goes directly to the underground maintenance tunnels," Dante chimed in, hanging up his phone. "It bypasses the lobby entirely. We have an armored transport waiting in the loading dock. But we need a portable incubator to make it from here to the truck."
"There's one in the equipment closet down the hall," I said, my mind racing. "But it's heavy. And the hallway..."
"I'll clear the hallway," Dante said, racking the slide of his submachine gun.
"No," Sebastian countered, stepping away from my medical care. "We move together. Clara, you prep the baby for transport. Secure his lines. Dante, you and the men form a wedge around the incubator. We push through to the equipment closet, load the boy, and make for the service elevator."
"Mr. Moretti, you're injured," I argued. "You've lost blood. You shouldn't even be walking."
Sebastian reached out, his bloody, tattooed hand gently gripping my shoulder. His eyes were entirely devoid of fear. "Clara. I have spent seventeen years building an empire of blood and violence because I couldn't protect one fragile life. Today, I am going to save this boy, or I am going to die trying. There is no alternative."
His absolute conviction silenced any further argument. I turned to Baby Boy Miller. I carefully transferred his IV lines to portable infusion pumps. I secured a small oxygen tank to the bed and switched his airway support to a portable CPAP machine. I wrapped him in three layers of sterile, heat-reflective blankets.
"He's ready," I whispered, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
"Let's move," Sebastian commanded.
We formed a tight formation. Dante and two men took the front. I pushed the baby's rolling bassinet in the center. Sebastian, holding his pistol in his uninjured hand, guarded the rear. As we stepped out of the NICU and into the devastated hallway, the reality of the violence hit me. The walls were riddled with bullet holes. Blood stained the linoleum. The hospital, a place of healing, had been turned into an abattoir.
We moved swiftly down the corridor, the wheels of the bassinet squeaking loudly in the eerie silence. We reached the equipment closet. I threw open the door and dragged out the heavy, self-contained transport incubator. With Dante's help, we carefully transferred Baby Boy Miller inside, securing the plexiglass lid and activating the internal heating and oxygen systems.
"He's stable," I announced, checking the digital readout on the transport unit.
"Good," Sebastian said. "East wing elevator. Go."
We pushed the heavy incubator down the intersecting hallway. We were halfway there when the double doors at the far end burst open. Five Volkov mercenaries flooded the corridor, heavily armed and wearing night-vision goggles.
"Contact front!" Dante roared, opening fire.
The hallway erupted into a terrifying crossfire. I dropped to my knees behind the heavy base of the transport incubator, covering my ears as bullets sparked against the walls and shattered the overhead lights. Dante and his men laid down a suppressive wall of lead, forcing the mercenaries to take cover behind a nurse's station.
"We're pinned!" Dante yelled, changing magazines.
Sebastian stepped forward, completely ignoring the bullets whizzing past him. He didn't fire wildly. He took calculated, deliberate shots, his face a mask of cold, lethal concentration. Two of the mercenaries dropped, hit with surgical precision. But the remaining three laid down a hail of automatic fire that forced Sebastian back against the wall.
"We can't stay here!" I screamed, watching the battery indicator on the transport incubator. The cold from the hallway was forcing the heater to work overtime.
Sebastian looked at the service elevator, only thirty feet away. Then he looked at Dante. "Smoke them."
Dante unclipped a cylindrical canister from his tactical vest, pulled the pin, and hurled it down the hallway. Thick, gray smoke immediately billowed out, completely blinding the mercenaries and filling the corridor with an impenetrable fog.
"Move!" Sebastian roared.
I stood up, pushing the heavy transport incubator with everything I had. We sprinted through the blinding smoke, coughing and gasping for air. Bullets blindly tore through the fog around us, completely indiscriminate. We reached the elevator doors. Dante slammed his fist against the call button. The doors opened instantly, and we shoved the incubator inside.
As the doors began to close, a mercenary emerged from the smoke, raising his rifle right at me.
Sebastian stepped in front of me, taking the shot. A bullet tore through his side, spinning him around. Without missing a beat, Sebastian raised his pistol and fired a single shot directly through the closing gap of the elevator doors, dropping the man instantly.
The doors sealed shut. The elevator began its descent.
Sebastian collapsed against the wall, clutching his bleeding side. I rushed to him, my hands covered in his blood, tears finally streaming down my face. "You're hit again! Oh my god, you're hit."
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Sebastian looked up at me, a faint, breathless smile touching his lips. He looked past me, at the transport incubator where Baby Boy Miller was sleeping peacefully, completely insulated from the violence.
"We got him out, Clara," Sebastian whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as the elevator plunged into the darkness of the underground tunnels. "We got him out."
