Chapter 11 - The Bloodbath
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The freight elevator doors groaned open with a heavy, metallic shudder.
Instead of foot soldiers, the Russians had sent their elite execution squad. Six men stepped out, carrying heavy, unsuppressed combat shotguns and tactical body armor. They looked like walking tanks, designed to overwhelm and obliterate anything in their path.
“Fall back to the chokepoint!” Wade roared, grabbing Silas by the tactical vest and dragging him behind the reinforced concrete pillars near the nurse’s station.
The hallway erupted in a deafening, catastrophic explosion of violence. The heavy shotgun blasts shattered the drywall, tearing the ceiling tiles down in a chaotic rain of debris. The hospital corridor was instantly transformed into a war zone of smoke, noise, and destruction.
Wade and his remaining ten men returned fire, but their standard weapons struggled to pierce the heavy Russian armor.
“We can’t hold them!” Silas yelled over the gunfire, taking cover as a blast shredded the desk next to him. “They’re pushing too fast!”
Wade looked over his shoulder. The red light above the operating room was still glowing. Dr. Evans was inside, holding his son’s tiny, fragile heart in his hands. If the Russians breached those doors, the surgery would fail. Leo would die.
Wade dropped his empty rifle.
He didn't reload. He drew his two heavy, customized 1911 pistols from his shoulder holsters.
“Cover me,” Wade commanded, his voice eerily calm amidst the madness.
“Boss, no! It’s suicide!” Silas screamed.
Wade didn't listen. He stepped out from behind the concrete pillar, walking directly into the open hallway, completely exposed to the advancing Russian death squad.
He moved with a terrifying, supernatural grace. He didn't run. He walked forward, raising both pistols, his gray eyes locked onto the targets.
He fired.
He didn't aim for their armored chests. He aimed with lethal precision at the unprotected gaps—the throats, the unprotected thighs, the narrow visors of their tactical helmets.
Two Russians dropped instantly, choking on their own blood.
The remaining four panicked, turning their heavy weapons toward the demon walking through their crossfire. A bullet grazed Wade’s shoulder, tearing through his expensive shirt, but he didn't even flinch. He absorbed the pain, using it to fuel his absolute, monstrous rage.
He closed the distance, firing relentlessly until his magazines clicked empty.
The last Russian stood standing, raising his shotgun toward Wade’s chest.
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Wade lunged forward, grabbing the scorching hot barrel of the shotgun with his bare hands, wrenching it upward as the blast blew a hole in the ceiling. He drove his forehead brutally into the Russian’s nose, shattering bone, and drove a combat knife cleanly into the man’s neck.
The hallway fell dead silent.
