Chapter 8 - The Blood Spilled
The massive mercenary screamed in absolute terror as the lethal overdose flooded his bloodstream.
He dropped the heavy zip ties, clutching his neck as his heart instantly accelerated to a fatal rhythm.
He collapsed onto the concrete, convulsing violently before his eyes rolled completely back into his head.
Vincent did not waste the beautiful distraction I had just given him.
He spun around with blinding speed, sweeping Matteo’s legs out from under him with a crushing kick.
Matteo hit the floor hard, his pistol clattering away into a dark puddle of motor oil.
The remaining two mercenaries raised their rifles, but Vincent was already moving inside their guard.
Despite his torn stitches and severe blood loss, he fought like a rabid, cornered animal.
He shattered the first man's windpipe with a brutal elbow strike and disarmed the second in a single, fluid motion.
He turned the stolen rifle on the remaining attacker, firing two deafening shots into his chest.
Matteo scrambled backward, trying desperately to reach for his lost handgun in the dark.
Vincent dropped the empty rifle and hauled his former friend up by the collar of his expensive suit.
He drove his fist into Matteo's face repeatedly, completely shattering his nose and jaw.
Matteo slumped against the bumper of the car, laughing weakly through a mouth full of broken teeth.
He coughed up a thick spray of blood, looking up at Vincent with a delirious, psychotic grin.
He whispered that Vincent was fighting a war that had already been lost hours ago.
Matteo claimed that surviving the garage didn't matter because Isabella's real plan was already in motion.
Vincent drew a combat knife from his boot, pressing the cold steel against Matteo's throat to demand answers.
Before Matteo could speak another word, his eyes glazed over, and he choked on his own blood.
Vincent dropped the lifeless traitor and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward a spare armored SUV parked nearby.
We jumped inside, and Vincent hotwired the ignition with practiced, desperate speed.
The engine roared to life, and he slammed his foot on the gas pedal.
We smashed completely through the heavy wooden garage doors, exploding out into the freezing, rainy Chicago night.
I slumped back against the leather seat, shaking uncontrollably as the adrenaline finally began to fade.
Vincent reached over and gently squeezed my knee, promising me that the worst of the nightmare was over.
Suddenly, the encrypted radio on the dashboard crackled to life, overriding all secure channels.
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A frantic city-wide news alert broadcasted a terrifying breaking story to every station in Chicago.
The anchor announced that Vincent Mercer had just been framed and identified as the mastermind behind a massive, catastrophic bombing at the civilian hospital where I used to work.
