Chapter 8 - The Desperate Flight
Clara gasped in pain and collapsed onto the cold concrete floor.
Arthur scrambled to his feet, trying to make a run for the open garage door.
I didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.
I raised my pistol and shot Arthur in both of his kneecaps, dropping him instantly.
I scooped Clara into my arms, feeling the warm, sticky blood soaking through her uniform.
I placed her gently in the passenger seat of the sports car while Marcus helped load my mother into the back.
“Drive to the docks,” Marcus told me, holding his own bleeding wound.
I stomped on the gas pedal, and the sports car roared to life, tearing out of the estate just as Marcus’s explosives detonated.
The sky lit up with bright orange fire as the Russian blockade was blown to pieces.
I sped through the empty city streets, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Clara was pale, her breathing shallow as she pressed a towel against her stab wound.
My mother was holding Clara’s hand from the back seat, whispering prayers of survival.
I knew we couldn't go to a normal hospital without the Volkovs tracking us down.
I pulled into a hidden underground clinic operated by a neutral syndicate doctor I trusted.
The doctor rushed out with a gurney, taking Clara straight into the emergency trauma bay.
I stood in the waiting room, my hands covered in the blood of the woman who had saved my family twice in one night.
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The doctor emerged an hour later, his expression grim and unreadable.
He told me Clara had survived the surgery, but someone had just anonymously purchased the entire clinic building.
