Chapter 4 - Blood in the PinesThe world outside the second-floor bedroom dissolved into a chaotic symphony of shattering glass, splintering wood, and the relentless, stuttering roar of automatic gunfire.
“Clara, get down!” Leo shouted, grabbing the back of my scrubs and hauling me violently to the floor behind the heavy mahogany wardrobe as a hail of bullets punched straight through the exterior wall, riddling the headboard of Liam’s bed with splintered wood and stuffing.
Liam was already on his feet, his right leg locked rigidly in the metal scaffold, his face drained of all color. Sweat poured down his temples, matting his dark hair, but his grip on the Glock was terrifyingly steady. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, using the wall to support his weight, refusing to let the agony of his shattered bone compromise his aim.
“Leo, take the eastern staircase,” Liam barked, his voice cutting through the gunfire like a razor. “They’re trying to flank the main hall. If they reach the landing, we’re cornered.”
“Boss, you can’t walk, let alone cover the corridor—”
“Do it!” Liam roared, cocking the slide of his pistol with a sharp, metallic snap.
Leo hesitated for a fraction of a second, his loyalties warring with basic survival instincts, then nodded sharply, unholstering his own weapon, and slipped out through the adjoining dressing room door.
I crawled across the carpet, dragging my medical bag with me, until I reached Liam’s side. I grabbed the hem of his black t-shirt, yanking him downward.
“Get down on the floor, you idiot!” I screamed over the deafening rattle of gunfire echoing up the stairwell. “If you rupture that artery, no amount of shooting is going to save you!”
Liam looked down at me, his ice-blue eyes burning with a desperate, furious adrenaline. He didn't drop. Instead, he grabbed my arm, yanking me behind the reinforced steel pillar supporting the stone archway of the bedroom entrance.
“Listen to me,” Liam said, his voice dropping into a harsh, urgent whisper as footsteps thundered up the wooden stairs outside. “If they breach this room, you take the black ledger from the bottom drawer of the desk. It has the bank routing numbers for the offshore accounts. It will buy your family immunity for the rest of your lives. Do you understand?”
“I don't want your damn ledger, Mercer!” I yelled, pulling a heavy roll of sterile gauze and a pressure bandage from my kit. “I want you to stop bleeding on my clean floor!”
Before he could answer, the bedroom door exploded inward.
The heavy oak panels splintered into a million pieces as a flashbang grenade was tossed directly across the threshold.
Flash!
A blinding white light and a deafening, concussive roar detonated inside the room, sucking the air right out of my lungs. My ears rang with a high-pitched, agonizing whine. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms against my skull, tumbling backward against the baseboard.
Through the roaring in my ears, I heard the rapid, staccato pop-pop-pop of silenced gunfire.
I forced my eyes open, blinking against the drifting gray smoke and the stinging smell of sulfur.
Two men in black tactical gear lay motionless near the shattered doorway.
A few feet away, Liam was slumped heavily against the wall, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The white bandage around his abdomen was now entirely soaked in dark, wet crimson, spreading rapidly across his shirt.
He had fired both shots while half-blind from the flashbang.
“Liam!” I scrambled across the floor, ignoring the ringing in my ears, and threw myself down beside him.
I ripped open my medical kit, tearing open packets of gauze and antiseptic. I pressed my hands directly over the weeping wound on his abdomen, throwing all my body weight behind the pressure.
Liam groaned, his head lolling backward against the wainscoting. His fingers loosened around the Glock, the heavy weapon clattering uselessly against the hardwood.
“Clara…” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roaring rain outside.
“Shut up and breathe,” I ordered, tears of pure adrenaline burning the backs of my eyes. I reached into my kit, grabbed a massive trauma pad, and slapped it over the laceration, securing it with medical tape. “You are not allowed to die on a Friday, Mercer. Not after you promised me my paycheck.”
A weak, ghost-like smile flickered across his pale lips. His hand twitched, his cold fingers brushing feebly against my wrist before his arm went completely limp.
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His eyes rolled back.
His breathing stopped.
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