Chapter 3 - The Restricted Corridors
The chilling order from the tactical radio echoed off the cold walls of the private hospital suite.
We had less than two minutes before heavily armed men flooded the entire ninth floor to silence us permanently.
Owen ripped the remaining IV tubes from his arms, wincing in pain as tiny drops of blood blossomed on his pale skin.
He swung his legs over the side of the enormous bed, his bare feet touching the cold marble floor for the first time in two years.
His knees immediately buckled, but I rushed forward and caught his heavy frame before he could hit the ground.
"Lean all of your weight on me."
I wrapped his arm securely around my shoulder, bracing myself against his surprising mass.
"You do not have to do this, Clara."
He whispered my name, having read it off the laminated hospital badge pinned to my blue scrubs.
"If I stay here, they are going to kill me too."
It was the terrifying truth, and it propelled us both forward out of the luxurious room and into the dimly lit hallway.
The usually bustling private corridor was now eerily deserted, signaling that the assassins had already cleared out the legitimate medical staff.
We hobbled awkwardly toward the flickering red glow of the emergency exit sign at the far end of the hall.
Every step Owen took was agonizing, but the sheer willpower radiating from the hardened crime boss was absolutely awe-inspiring.
Suddenly, the heavy metal doors of the main stairwell violently burst open just fifty feet ahead of us.
Two men dressed in fake orderly uniforms stepped into the corridor, carrying suppressed submachine guns completely unsuited for a hospital environment.
I violently shoved Owen backward into a darkened linen storage closet just as the men raised their weapons.
A deadly hail of silenced bullets tore through the drywall where we had been standing mere seconds before.
We were trapped in a space no larger than a telephone booth, surrounded by stacks of fresh white towels and hospital gowns.
"We have to use the old laundry chute."
I pointed to the square metal door built securely into the back wall of the cramped closet.
Owen looked at his broad shoulders and then back at the narrow opening, shaking his head grimly.
"I am way too big to fit down that pipe, Clara."
He was absolutely right, which meant our only remaining option was the highly restricted freight elevator used for moving medical machinery.
I peeked carefully through the cracks of the closet door and saw the two assassins advancing slowly down the hall.
I grabbed a heavy, industrial-sized bottle of chemical floor stripper from the supply shelf and unscrewed the cap.
I blindly hurled the heavy plastic jug out into the corridor, directly at the feet of the approaching gunmen.
The thick, highly slippery liquid exploded across the linoleum, causing the lead assassin to lose his footing and crash heavily to the floor.
I pulled Owen out of the closet, and we desperately scrambled toward the heavy steel doors of the freight elevator.
I slammed my palm aggressively against the call button, praying silently that the car was currently on our floor.
By some miracle, the doors immediately slid open with a soft, hydraulic hiss.
We stumbled inside, but my fragile sense of relief shattered instantly into a million pieces.
May you like
Standing inside the elevator was the hospital's Chief of Medicine, flanking a highly sophisticated medical cart.
He stared at us with cold, calculating eyes while holding a massive syringe filled with an opaque, deadly looking fluid.
