Chapter 7 - The Blood of a King
The world exploded into thunder and fire.
Lev’s submachine gun barked in relentless, three-round bursts, suppressing the crane tower where the muzzle flash had erupted. O'Sullivan’s men scattered like roaches into the fog, diving behind shipping containers as crossfire chewed through the gravel apron, sending sparks flying off the steel hulls.
Victor collapsed onto one knee, his hand clutching his shattered left shoulder.
Arterial blood—bright, frothing crimson—spurted between his black-gloved fingers, soaking through his bespoke tuxedo into the wet stones. His pale face was suddenly drained of all color, his lips turning a sickly, waxy blue.
“Boss!” Lev roared, sprinting through the hail of ricocheting bullets, firing his sidearm into the mist. “Extract! Extract now!”
Aliyah didn't wait for Lev.
She was already on her knees in the freezing gravel, her five-thousand-dollar emerald gown dragging through mud and motor oil. The socialite facade vanished; the fourth-year critical care nursing student took absolute control.
“Victor! Look at me!” she commanded, her voice cutting through the gunfire with surgical clarity.
Victor’s eyelids fluttered, his gray eyes glazed with the onset of acute hypovolemic shock. “Aliyah... run... get in the car...”
“Shut up and keep your eyes on mine!” she snapped.
She didn't have her medical kit. She didn't have tourniquets or hemostatic gauze.
With violent, desperate strength, Aliyah grabbed the heavy silk skirt of her gown with both hands and tore a long, thick strip of emerald fabric from the hemline.
She ripped open Victor’s tuxedo jacket, tearing through his soaked linen shirt to expose the wound. The bullet had punched through the anterior deltoid, narrowly missing the subclavian artery, but severing the brachial plexus vessels. He was losing blood at an alarming rate.
She balled a section of the silk into a tight fist, driving it directly into the open wound with the full weight of her body.
Victor let out a low, guttural roar of agony, his right hand shooting up to grip her wrist so hard the bones groaned.
“Press it!” she yelled at him, ignoring the pain in her wrist. “Hold the compression, Victor! Do not let go!”
She took the remaining strip of heavy silk, wrapping it tightly around his shoulder and under his opposite armpit, creating an improvised figure-eight pressure dressing, knotting it with vicious, unyielding force.
Lev slid on his knees beside them, grabbing Victor’s good arm. “The crane sniper is down! Two chase cars incoming from the highway! We have to move, Miss Brooks!”
Together, Aliyah and Lev hauled Victor’s massive, deadweight frame across the gravel, shoving him into the rear cabin of the Maybach.
Aliyah dove in behind him, slamming the heavy armored door just as a burst of automatic fire shattered against the bulletproof glass, leaving white, spiderweb fractures across the surface.
The Maybach launched forward, tires screaming against the wet asphalt, rocketing out of the Charlestown terminal into the dark city streets.
Inside the cabin, the stench of copper and burning rubber was suffocating.
Victor lay sprawled across the leather seat, his head resting heavily in Aliyah’s lap. His skin was freezing to the touch, cold sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead. His breath came in ragged, wet hitches that rattled deep inside his chest.
“Stay with me, Victor,” Aliyah pleaded, pressing both palms firmly against the soaked emerald bandage on his shoulder. “Stay with me! Lev, step on it! He’s slipping into bradycardia!”
Victor’s right hand moved weakly across the leather.
His trembling fingers reached up, brushing against the side of her throat, leaving a smear of warm blood along her jawline. His eyes, clouded with darkness, struggled to focus on her face.
“You... took a bullet... for me,” he rasped, his voice barely a breath against the hum of the engine.
“I didn't take it, you idiot, I pushed you out of the way!” tears burned her eyes, falling hot onto his pale cheek. “Don't talk! Save your breath!”
A faint, tragic smile touched his blood-flecked lips.
“Twelve years,” Victor whispered, his fingers curling weakly into the fabric of her torn dress. “I prayed... for death... every single night.”
He coughed, a violent spasm that wracked his entire frame.
“And now... you make me... want to live.”
May you like
His hand slipped from her throat.
His eyes rolled back, and Victor Malenkov’s heavy body went entirely limp against her lap.
