Chapter 7 - The Blood Price
Patricia’s expensive coat was splattered with dark blood, but her grip on the combat knife was terrifyingly steady.
David was on his knees, bleeding profusely from a deep stab wound in his lower abdomen.
"You soldiers are always so predictable," Patricia mocked, pressing the blade harder against his skin.
"You fight bravely for your family, but you always forget to watch your own back."
I slowly raised my sidearm, aiming perfectly at the center of Patricia's forehead.
"Let him go, or I will put a bullet through your skull," I promised, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
Patricia laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the metal walls.
"If you shoot me, my dead weight will slice your husband's throat wide open."
She slowly backed toward the heavy warehouse doors, dragging a severely weakened David with her.
"I have the weapon codes, and you have exactly three minutes to save your dying daughter."
She shoved David violently to the concrete floor and sprinted out into the dark alley.
I rushed forward to shoot her, but David grabbed my ankle, stopping me in my tracks.
"Let her go, Rachel," he gasped, clutching his bleeding stomach.
"We have to save Abby."
I holstered my weapon, making the agonizing choice to let the traitor escape.
I ran back to Abigail, hauling her limp, feverish body into my arms.
"We need a doctor right now, David," I yelled, panicking as her breathing grew incredibly shallow.
"The smuggler has a medical bay in the basement," David groaned, pulling himself up using the wall.
We carried Abigail down a hidden staircase into a surprisingly sterile underground surgery suite.
The smuggler, proving his worth beyond forged passports, was already prepping a surgical table.
"I was a combat medic in Fallujah before I started selling fake IDs," the smuggler grunted, pulling on sterile gloves.
He quickly assessed Abigail's horrific injuries, his hardened expression growing incredibly grim.
"She has a ruptured spleen and massive internal bleeding," he diagnosed rapidly.
"I have to operate immediately, or she won't survive the next twenty minutes."
I stood in the corner of the small room, holding David's hand as we watched the smuggler cut into our daughter.
For two agonizing hours, the only sounds were the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the clinking of surgical tools.
I prayed to a God I hadn't spoken to since David's fake funeral.
Finally, the smuggler stepped back, wiping bloody sweat from his forehead.
"I stopped the bleeding," he exhaled heavily.
"She is incredibly weak, but she is going to live."
I collapsed into a nearby chair, crying tears of pure, unadulterated relief.
My daughter was safe, and my husband was finally back by my side.
May you like
I looked at David, ready to tell him that we could finally disappear and start over together.
David was holding a sterile scalpel, aiming it directly at my chest.
