No hesitation. No aggression.
They knelt beside me almost simultaneously.
One slid his arms carefully under her shoulders. The other positioned his hands beneath her legs.
“Where are you taking her?” I demanded sharply, rising to my feet as they lifted her.
“To the hospital, ma’am,” the taller one replied. His voice was calm, professional — not unkind. “Now.”
They carried her with practiced coordination — efficient yet surprisingly gentle for men that size.
“I’m coming,” I said immediately, stepping after them.
“No, ma’am.” The shorter, broader one didn’t look at me. He adjusted his grip on her body. “Orders. Tell Mr. Baranov to bring you if you must come.”
Mr. Baranov.
The name hit like a reminder.
Like a leash.
My jaw clenched.
They moved fast toward the exit — boots steady, carrying her like time was critical.
We reached the loading bay.
An ambulance waited — white, unmarked, engine already running. Silent emergency lights pulsed softly against the dark.
The doors were open.
Inside, a doctor and nurse were already prepared.
IV bags hung.
Monitoring equipment beeped to life.
They transferred Elena onto the gurney with seamless coordination.
The doctor immediately checked her pulse and airway while the nurse connected monitors and prepared an IV line.
“Please,” I begged, stepping toward the vehicle. “Let me ride with her—”
The taller guard stepped in front of me.
Not aggressively.
But firmly.
“Orders,” he repeated.
That word burned.
The ambulance doors slammed shut.
The engine roared louder.
Tires screeched as the vehicle pulled away — flashing red lights bleeding into the night, fading down the long driveway until they disappeared into darkness.
