Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
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The illusion of safety shattered the following afternoon.
I was in the adjoining kitchen, preparing a specialized protein shake for Vincent, when the heavy oak door of the medical wing exploded inward. The sound was deafening, a concussive blast that knocked me entirely off my feet. I hit the tile floor hard, my ears ringing violently.
Through the smoke and dust, I saw three men dressed in black tactical gear step into the corridor. They weren't Vincent’s guards. Silas and the exterior security team had been bypassed.
“Find him! Finish it!” one of the men barked in Russian.
They were heading straight for Vincent’s room.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. I didn't think about running. I didn't think about hiding. I grabbed the only thing within reach—a heavy stainless-steel oxygen tank from the corner of the kitchen.
I dragged it to the kitchen doorway just as the first gunman passed. With a desperate, adrenaline-fueled scream, I swung the heavy metal cylinder with every ounce of strength I had.
It connected sickeningly with the back of the gunman’s knee. He roared in pain, collapsing to the floor, dropping his suppressed submachine gun.
The second gunman spun around, raising his weapon toward me.
Before he could pull the trigger, three deafening gunshots erupted from Vincent’s room. The second gunman’s chest exploded in a spray of crimson. He fell backward, dead before he hit the ground.
Vincent stood in the doorway of his room. He was pale, swaying on his feet, his fresh bandages soaking with blood from the exertion, but he held a heavy .45 caliber pistol in his good hand. His eyes were utterly merciless.
The third gunman raised his weapon, but Vincent fired twice more, dropping the man instantly.
The first gunman, the one I had hit, scrambled to reach his dropped weapon. I didn't hesitate. I kicked the gun across the floor, out of his reach.
Silas and a dozen Mercer guards finally swarmed the wing, securing the downed men.
Vincent dropped his pistol, his knees buckling as the massive surge of adrenaline faded, leaving only agonizing pain. I rushed forward, catching him before he hit the floor, letting his heavy body drag us both down to the blood-stained carpet.
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“You’re bleeding again,” I cried, pressing my hands frantically against his chest.
“You didn't run,” Vincent gasped, looking up at me, awe cutting through his pain. “Nora… you fought for me.”
