Chapter 11 - A Wounded King
The concrete walls of the subterranean loading bay echoed with the deafening roar of automatic gunfire. Ricochets sparked off the metal shipping containers, filling the air with the sharp stench of cordite and pulverized stone.
"Stay down!" Emmet shouted, pulling Noel behind a heavy steel forklift. He returned fire with pinpoint accuracy, dropping two of the hostile shooters who were attempting to flank their position.
Noel pressed her back against the tire of the forklift, clutching the blue optical disc against her chest. Her heart was hammering violently, but seeing Emmet fight—calm, precise, and completely fearless—kept her from unraveling.
"We need to reach the armored van at bay four!" Marcus shouted over the din of gunfire, reloading his weapon. "They’ve got us pinned from the upper catwalk!"
A sniper on the overhead gantry fired a high-caliber round. The bullet struck the engine block of the forklift with a violent screech of metal, sending shards of shrapnel tearing through the air.
Emmet threw his entire body over Noel, shielding her with his broad frame.
A grunt of pain escaped his lips as a piece of shrapnel ripped through his jacket, slicing deep across his left shoulder.
"Emmet!" Noel cried, feeling the warm, sticky bloom of blood soaking through his shirt under her hands.
"I’m fine," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his face pale but his eyes burning with lethal intent. He leaned out from the cover of the forklift, raised his weapon with his right hand, and fired three rapid shots at the upper catwalk. The sniper collapsed over the railing, crashing onto the concrete floor below.
"Move! Now!" Emmet roared, grabbing Noel’s hand and pulling her toward the armored van.
Marcus and the remaining guards laid down a wall of covering fire as the van's side door slid open. Emmet practically lifted Noel inside, diving in after her just as heavy rounds peppered the reinforced ballistic glass.
The van roared to life, tires screeching as the driver slammed the accelerator, smashing through the loading bay's security gates and bursting out onto the rainy streets of Boston.
Inside the van, Noel immediately dropped to her knees beside Emmet. He was leaning back against the bench, his breathing ragged, blood soaking the entire left side of his charcoal suit.
"Elena, get the trauma kit!" Noel demanded, her hands moving with fierce urgency. She tore open his shirt, pressing a clean gauze pad against the deep laceration on his shoulder.
"Noel... it’s just a scratch," Emmet muttered, his voice strained.
"Shut up, Emmet," she snapped, tears spilling over her eyelashes as she applied firm pressure to the wound. "You took a hit for me. Stop pretending you’re indestructible."
Emmet looked down at her. Despite the pain, a soft, profound tenderness crossed his features. He raised his uninjured hand, cupping the side of her face with his blood-stained fingers.
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"I would take a hundred bullets for you, Noel," he whispered, his thumb catching a falling tear. "I’ve spent three years watching you survive everything this city threw at you. I wasn't going to let you bleed for my family's sins."
Noel leaned into his touch, her heart breaking open. "We’re getting you to that tribunal. And we’re going to tear your uncle’s empire to pieces."
