Chapter 4 - Blood in the Basement
The basement of St. Gabriel’s Hospital was a labyrinth of steam pipes, industrial laundry units, and concrete corridors that smelled of bleach and damp cardboard.
At 2:45 AM, the service elevator on the sub-level chimed softly.
The heavy steel doors slid open with a whisper. Four men stepped out into the dim fluorescent lighting. All of them wore black tactical turtlenecks, heavy combat boots, and carried suppressed submachine guns tucked tightly against their chests. Their movements were disciplined, military-grade. They were professionals hired from out of town—men who didn't ask questions about targets, only about the payout.
"Clear," the leader muttered, gesturing down the left corridor toward the laundry sorting room.
They moved forward in a tight diamond formation, boots clicking silently against the polished concrete. They expected a quiet hospital. They expected drowsy night-shift orderlies or terrified nurses.
They did not expect the lights to suddenly go out.
Click.
Every fluorescent bulb along the hallway shattered simultaneously in a cascade of popping glass. Total darkness swallowed the corridor.
"Hold position!" the leader barked, raising his weapon and switching on his night-vision scope.
Through the green-tinted glow of his optic lens, the hallway ahead looked empty. But a low, rhythmic sound echoed from the shadows near the ceiling—the sound of heavy boots stepping down from a overhead maintenance catwalk.
Before the leader could pivot his weapon, a heavy combat boot slammed directly into his chest.
The impact was like being hit by a freight train. The assassin crashed backward into the concrete wall, his weapon flying from his hands as the wind was forcefully driven from his lungs.
"Ambush!" one of the other operatives shouted, sweeping his rifle toward the catwalk.
Too late.
From the darkness behind them, Tony Morello stepped out, a heavy iron pipe gripped in his right hand. With a single, brutal swing, he caught the second operative across the side of the helmet, sending him crashing unconscious to the floor.
The remaining two assassins tried to scatter, diving behind industrial laundry carts for cover.
"Drop your weapons," a voice rang out from the pitch black.
It wasn't Tony. It was Vincent.
He stepped into the faint beam of emergency backup lighting near the stairwell door. He wasn't holding a gun. He held a heavy steel wrench in one hand, his face illuminated by the harsh red emergency glow.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the trapped assassins snarled, desperately trying to raise his pistol.
Vincent didn't answer with words. He simply closed the distance with terrifying speed.
The assassin fired. The bullet chipped the concrete wall inches from Vincent’s ear. Vincent didn't even flinch. He grabbed the barrel of the submachine gun, twisted it upward with bone-crushing force, and slammed the stock back into the operative's face. The man dropped instantly like a slaughtered steer.
The final assassin threw his hands up, dropping his weapon to the floor, his knees trembling as he stared at the towering, blood-streaked figure standing before him.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! We were just hired! We didn't know—"
Vincent grabbed the man by the collar of his tactical vest, lifting him off his feet until their faces were inches apart. The cold fury in Vincent’s eyes made the seasoned killer freeze in absolute terror.
"Who sent you?" Vincent whispered.
"V-Victor Rossi! It was Rossi! He said the woman in the hospital had papers that could ruin him!"
"What papers?"
"I swear to God I don't know! Rossi just said she had the ledger from the 1995 warehouse fire! He said if she woke up, everything he built would burn!"
Vincent’s grip loosened slightly. The 1995 warehouse fire. The very fire that supposedly killed Maria.
"Tony," Vincent said without breaking eye contact with the terrified assassin.
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"Yeah, boss?"
"Tie these rats up and throw them in the trunk of the third SUV. We're going to pay Victor Rossi a little late-night social call."
