Chapter 11 - BLOOD ACROSS THE THRESHOLD
The downwash of helicopter rotors blew the heavy vinyl curtains into horizontal banners.
Glass showered the abandoned operating room.
A black tactical rope dropped through the ruined window frame.
A silhouette dropped through the storm.
Sloan Marchetti hit the concrete floor in a combat roll.
He rose with a suppressed .45 tactical pistol in each hand.
PHUT. PHUT.
The contractor holding the gun to the doctor’s head collapsed before the spent brass touched the floor.
The second mercenary reached for his assault rifle.
Sloan’s second round took him through the throat.
The mercenary crashed into an old IV stand, pulling the metal rack down with him in a clattering heap.
The trembling surgeon dropped the scalpel.
The blade clattered harmlessly against the linoleum.
The doctor threw himself onto his knees, hands clasped over his head.
“Don't shoot! I was forced! They threatened my family!”
Sloan didn't even look at the doctor.
He holstered his weapons in a blur of movement and was at Delphine’s side in a single stride.
He pulled a tactical combat knife from his boot.
With two swift slices, he severed the nylon straps binding her wrists.
Then her ankles.
“Del,” he breathed, his voice raw, shaking with terror he had never shown in his entire life.
Del surged up from the mattress, throwing her arms around his neck.
Her whole body was shivering violently.
“Sloan! The baby... he’s coming!”
She gasped, doubling over as another massive contraction ripped through her abdomen.
Her fingers dug through the fabric of his suit jacket, clutching his shoulders with bone-crushing strength.
Sloan caught her, supporting her weight with one arm while his other hand gently cradled her swollen belly.
He felt the rock-hard tension of the uterine wall.
He looked at the trembling surgeon on the floor.
“Get on your feet,” Sloan growled.
The doctor scrambled up, pale as chalk.
“Is she crowning?” Sloan demanded.
The doctor checked beneath the sheet.
His eyes widened.
“Yes! The head is visible! But the umbilical cord is wrapped around the baby's neck!”
Del’s medical mind cut through the agony.
“Nuchal cord,” Del gasped, sweat dripping from her eyelashes. “I need... I need sterile scissors and two clamps. If he descends with the cord tight, it will strangulate him.”
The surgeon looked around the dust-covered, abandoned room.
“There are no sterile clamps here! This ward has been closed for three years!”
Sloan looked down at Delphine.
Her lips were turning white.
Her breathing was rapid, shallow, bordering on hyperventilation.
“Bishop!” Sloan bellowed through his tactical headset. “Where is Dr. Alva?”
“On the roof, boss!” Bishop’s voice crackled through the radio. “Descending the emergency stairwell with the neonate kit right now!”
Heavy boots pounded down the hallway outside.
More contractors.
Vincent’s backup security detail.
Gunfire rattled from the corridor as Bishop and Sloan’s perimeter men engaged the enemy outside the double doors.
Splinters of wood and plaster exploded from the entrance.
Del screamed as another contraction hit her like a freight train.
“I have to push, Sloan! I can't stop it!”
Sloan dropped onto the edge of the gurney.
He peeled off his jacket, tossing it over the dusty metal tray.
He rolled his white sleeves past his elbows.
He looked at Delphine.
His steel-gray eyes held hers, steady as an anchor in a Category 5 hurricane.
“Look at me, Del,” he commanded softly.
Del looked into his eyes.
The gunfire outside faded.
The ruined windows faded.
There was only Sloan.
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“You taught me how to save Cora with a needle yesterday,” Sloan said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, unbreakable certainty. “Now tell me what to do with my hands.”
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