Chapter 7 - The Shadow of the Syndicate
Flashbangs detonated with ear-shattering cracks.
Blinding white light and concussive sound waves ripped through the boardroom. Windows shattered inward as the shockwave rattled the glass.
*“FBI! Nobody move! Hands on the table! Down on the floor now!”*
Dozens of federal agents clad in black tactical gear and helmets swarmed into the room, their assault rifles raised, laser sights painting crimson dots across every suit and tie in the room.
Isabella shrieked, dropping the .22 pistol as the concussive blast threw her backward against the presentation screen. Dominic Marcone immediately dropped to his knees, his hands locked behind his head, knowing better than to resist a federal tactical team.
Beside me, Vincent swayed violently.
The cardiac monitor in my pocket shrieked continuously now: *Heart Rate: 168 bpm. Ventricular Tachycardia Warning.*
“Vincent!” I dropped my trauma kit, catching him under his arms as his legs finally gave out.
He collapsed against me, his heavy frame driving us both to the carpet. His face was drenched in a cold, oily sweat, his lips tinged with a faint cyanotic blue. His pulse beneath my fingers was erratic, racing like a hummingbird trapped in a cage.
“Agent down! We need a medic!” an agent screamed, mistaking Vincent’s collapse for a gunshot wound.
“I’m his nurse!” I roared, my voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. “He’s in ventricular tachycardia! Gabriel, open my trauma kit! Grab the pre-filled syringe of Amiodarone!”
Gabriel threw himself onto the floor beside us, ripping open the zippered nylon bag. He pulled out the pre-filled cardiac medication and handed it to me with trembling hands.
I uncapped the needle, wiped the access port on Vincent’s taped forearm with an alcohol prep pad, and slammed the medication directly into his venous line, flushing it with saline.
“Stay with me, Vincent,” I begged, leaning over him, pressing my fingers into his neck. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on me!”
Vincent’s dark eyes rolled back in his head, fighting against the dark void of unconsciousness. He reached up with weak, shaking fingers, his hand catching my wrist—the exact same gesture he had made in his bedroom twelve hours ago when I had first stopped his infusion.
“Hannah…” he whispered, his breath shallow and ragged. “Don't… let them… take her.”
“Focus on breathing!” I commanded, tears blurring my vision as I checked the monitor screen. *155… 142… 128…*
The anti-arrhythmic medication was working. The lethal rhythm broke, settling back into a rapid, but stable, sinus tachycardia. Vincent let out a long, shuddering exhale, his head falling back against the carpet.
Two federal agents knelt beside us, their weapons lowered, replaced by a tall woman in a sharp navy trench coat with a federal badge pinned to her lapel.
Special Agent Sarah Vance.
She looked down at Vincent, then at the scattered documents of Antonio Moretti littering the boardroom table, and finally at me.
“Miss Cole,” Agent Vance said calmly. “You’re a very difficult person to track down.”
I looked up, breathing heavily, still holding Vincent’s wrist. “You knew?”
“We’ve had Dr. Samuel Whitmore under surveillance for eighteen months,” Vance said, stepping over the shattered glass. “We knew Isabella Moretti was negotiating with the Marcone syndicate. But we couldn't pierce the inner circle without definitive, documentary proof of the offshore laundering accounts.”
Agent Vance gestured toward the yellowed papers scattered across the floor.
“It seems your patient just handed us the entire Marcone syndicate on a silver platter.”
Across the room, two agents hauled Isabella to her feet in handcuffs. Her designer white suit was torn, covered in soot and blood from the flashbang blast. She glared at Vincent, then turned her poisonous gaze onto me.
“You destroyed this family!” Isabella screamed, thrashing against the agents’ grip. “You’re nothing, Hannah Cole! You’re a hired hand! A nobody!”
“Take her out,” Agent Vance commanded coldly.
Isabella was dragged through the shattered glass doors, her hysterical screams fading down the corridor.
Gabriel helped me lift Vincent onto an emergency stretcher that the federal paramedics had just rolled into the room. As they buckled the safety straps across his chest, Vincent reached out and caught my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine.
He looked at Agent Vance. “My mother.”
“Safe,” Agent Vance assured him. “Our team secured Dr. Vane’s residence thirty minutes ago. She’s already at the University of Chicago Medical Center receiving proper, unadulterated medical care. Dr. Whitmore was apprehended in Room 914 at Northwestern. He’s currently confessing to three counts of attempted murder and one count of murder in the first degree.”
Vincent closed his eyes, a heavy, profound wave of relief washing over his battered frame.
As the paramedics began wheeling the stretcher toward the private elevator, Vincent tightened his grip on my hand, pulling me closer until my ear was inches from his lips.
“Don't leave,” he whispered.
May you like
“I’m right here, Vincent,” I said, walking alongside the gurney. “I’m not going anywhere.”
***
