And that’s when we see it.
All the blood.
5
As if anything would ever be that fucking simple. We are here to see Dr Madden, but instead we find carnage. Fresh fucking decimation.
“Gun out, Angel,” I snap as my club brothers move in tight around my wife, protecting her like she’s the queen herself.
A queen that carries a gun, and is hot as fuck, I might add.
The pandemic security guards we were expecting to be manning the entrance lay dead in pools of their own blood just inside the door, and a woman behind the information counter is sprawled in a lifeless heap on the floor.
Bloody boot prints leave a trail up the passage, so we silently follow them, each one of us alert as we move as a pack.
At the end of the first hall, we reach the bank of lifts, one with the doors held open by a dead man dressed in scrubs, his body half in and half out of the carriage.
“Stairs,” Smitty barks quietly, so we move to the stairwell, and silently make our way up to the maternity floor.
I take in everything as we move, checking for threats, but also, keeping an eagle eye on my wife, checking that she’s doing okay.
It’s hard to tell with her helmet covering her face, but her hold on the gun is steady, so I have to assume she’s just as locked in on the situation as me.
Reaching the maternity floor, we move with stealth to the ward doors, Vender and JD peering in through the windows before pushing the doors open, only to find more blood.
Fuck.
Two nurses at the nurses’ station are still in their seats, their eyes lifeless, red bloody holes in their foreheads, and their brain matter painting the wall behind them.
“Who the fuck are we dealing with?” Smitty whispers, and fuck, I have the same thought.
This looks like a professional fucking hit. Still bloody but not chaotic the way Satan’s Rebels would leave it.
The sound of a baby crying has Abbey pushing through my men, and she hurries up the passage towards the shrieking.
“Shit. Angel!” I whisper-snap, charging after her and nearly running into her back when she skids to a stop outside a closet door.
Tugging off her helmet, Abbey’s eyes dart to me, and she taps her ear.
I force my fucking ears to work past the pounding of my pulse, and that’s when I hear it. Not just the crying baby, but whimpering women.
Turning to my club brothers, I send a few silent signals, directing Vender and Murf down the hall to the fire exit where a smear of blood coats the handle, and order Stocky and Trunk to watch our backs.
“Let me go first, Angel,” I whisper close to her ear, and I half expect her to disagree, but she nods, taking a step back.
Fuck. I’ll have to reward her for that obedience later.
Pulling my helmet off, I place it to the side on the floor before raising my gun and gripping the handle. Slowly, as I ease the handle down, gasps erupt behind the door like they can see someone trying to get it.
I fucking brace myself.
Quickly shoving the door open, I’m met with wide, terrified eyes of seven women, the screeching baby in the arms of one woman at the back, frantically trying to soothe it as it cries.
“Ringo?”
My eyes widen at the sound of my name coming from inside the room, and I flick the light on so I can see the faces better.
There, at the front of the women, holding a bedpan out like it’s a shield, is Andrea Mitchell. Ayden’s mum.
