The emergency exit was twenty feet away. Might as well have been twenty miles. My vision kept sliding in and out of focus. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright, then too dim. My shirt was completely soaked now, blood running down into my pants, filling my left boot with warmth.
Footsteps behind me. Close. I turned, raising my gun, but my hands were shaking. The shot went wide, punching into the wall. The guard didn't even flinch, just raised his own weapon.
I threw the knife. Pure instinct, muscle memory from years of practice. It took him in the throat, dropping him instantly. But the effort cost me. My knees buckled, and I went down hard, catching myself on my hands. Blood from my abdomen dripped onto the white floor, joining all the rest.
Get up. The thought was desperate, primal. Get up or die here.
I got up.
The exit door was heavy, reinforced steel with a crash bar. I hit it with my shoulder—the good one—and stumbled into the night. Cold air hit my lungs like broken glass, but it cleared my head slightly. The parking lot stretched before me, my Escalade a black shadow among the others.
Behind me, the door burst open. Gunfire erupted, bullets sparking off cars, shattering windows. I didn't look back, just ran—or tried to run. It was more of a controlled fall forward, momentum and stubbornness keeping me upright.
The Escalade's door handle was slick with my blood by the time I got it open. I collapsed into the driver's seat, fumbling for keys with numb fingers. The engine roared to life, a beautiful sound.
In the rearview mirror, I saw them pouring out of the hospital. Four, maybe five men, all armed, all running toward me. Brand's voice carried across the parking lot: "Stop him!"
I threw the vehicle in reverse, tires screaming, then shifted to drive and punched it. The Escalade lurched forward, clipping a sedan as I swerved toward the exit. More gunfire, rear window exploding in a shower of safety glass.
But I was out, tearing onto Neptune Avenue, leaving Brighton Medical Center and its organ-harvesting operation behind. The problem was, I was also leaving most of my blood behind too.
My hands on the steering wheel were pale, shaking. The shoulder wound had gone numb, which was bad. The abdominal wound felt like someone was continuously stabbing me with a hot poker, which was worse. I needed medical attention. Real medical attention.
But I couldn't go to a hospital—gunshot wounds meant police reports, and police reports meant questions I couldn't answer. Couldn't go to the compound either. If Brand had connections to the Belyaevs, they might follow me there. Lead them straight to Sophie and the baby.
The monster in my chest had gone quiet again. Not satisfied this time—worried. It could feel what I was trying to ignore: we were dying. Actually dying, not action movie dying where the hero walks it off. This was real, permanent, lights-out dying.
But maybe not yet. Maybe there was one option left.
TheEscalade'ssteeringwheelwas slick with blood, making it hard to grip as I took a hard left onto Brighton Beach Avenue. My vision kept doing this thing where it would narrow to a tunnel, then expand again, like someone was playing with a camera lens. Not good. Really not good.
Eight blocks. The shadow doctor was eight blocks away. I'd written down the address three days ago during surveillance, just another piece of information in my notebook. Never thought I'd actually need it.
"Shadow doctor in Brighton Beach," Maks had laughed over drinks last week. "Patches up lowlifes, no questions asked. Can you imagine? Some back-alley hack playing surgeon."
Right now, that back-alley hack was my only option.
I pulled over twice to check my notes, unable to trust my memory. Blood loss did that—made everything fuzzy, uncertain. The notebook was in my jacket pocket, pages now decorated with red fingerprints. Brighton 6th Street. Basement entrance, east side of the building. Condemned structure, supposedly empty.
A horn blared as I drifted into oncoming traffic. I jerked the wheel back, overcorrected, sideswiped a parked car. The impact jolted through my abdomen, and I might have screamed. Hard to tell. Everything was becoming distant, like I was watching myself from outside my body.
Three more blocks. Then two. Then one.
The building was exactly as surveillance had described—a rotting brick thing with boarded windows, graffiti, and a condemned notice that had been there so long it was mostly weathered away. I parked badly, front tire up on the curb, enginestill running. Reached to turn it off, missed the key twice before managing it.
Getting out of the Escalade required planning. Open door. Swing legs out. Use door frame to stand. Simple steps that felt like climbing Everest. My legs shook, threatened to fold. The sidewalk tilted at an impossible angle.
The basement entrance was down three concrete steps, hidden in shadows. I made it down one step before my knee gave out. Caught myself on the railing, left a bloody handprint on the rusted metal. Second step. Third.
The door was steel, painted black sometime in the last decade. No window. No nameplate. Just a door that could have led to storage or utilities or nothing at all.
I raised my fist to knock and missed, my hand hitting the wall instead. Tried again. This time my whole body followed the motion, and I crashed against the door, shoulder first. The impact sent lightning through my wounds. I slid down the metal surface, leaving a red trail, until I was on my knees, forehead pressed against the cold steel.
Had to knock. Had to make noise. But my arms weren't responding properly anymore. I managed to hit the door once with my fist—barely a tap. Then my body decided it was done taking orders, and I slumped completely against the door, my weight making a dull thud.
Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. The monster in my chest was quiet now, probably dying too. We'd had a good run, the monster and I. Killed a lot of people who needed killing. Saved one girl tonight. Maybe that balanced the scales a little.
I tried to knock again, but my hand just twitched against the door. Blood was pooling beneath me now, seeping under the door gap. If the shadow doctor was real, maybe they'd see it. Maybe not.
