Chapter 6 - THE SCALPEL AND THE VEIN
“What are you doing?” Isabella hissed, struggling against the thick zip-ties binding her wrists to the pew. “If Whitmore looks through the window and sees you aren't doing it, he’ll blow the building!”
“Keep your voice down,” I commanded, my hands moving fast.
I walked over to the altar where Leo was huddled. The boy shrank back, terrified.
“Hi, Leo,” I said, keeping my voice as gentle as I could despite my racing heart. “My name is Hannah. Your dad sent me.”
At the word dad, the boy’s eyes widened. “My dad is dead. The bad doctor said he died.”
“The bad doctor lied,” I whispered, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “Your dad is outside. He loves you very much. And we’re going to get you out of here.”
I quickly examined him. His pupils were dilated, his skin clammy. He wasn't having seizures from a medical condition; he was going through withdrawal from whatever sedatives Whitmore had been using to keep him compliant.
I turned back to Eleanor. The elderly woman was barely breathing, her pulse thready and weak.
I grabbed the silver rosary. I snapped one of the glass beads open. I smelled the milky liquid. It had a sharp, chemical odor. It wasn't a stabilizing agent. It was a concentrated paralytic. If I injected this into Eleanor, her respiratory system would shut down in less than three minutes.
I took a clean syringe from my bag, pulled back the plunger, and drew up a dose of plain sterile saline I carried for flushing IV lines.
“Isabella,” I whispered, stepping behind the pew. “When Whitmore looks in, you need to scream. You need to act like you’re watching your mother die.”
Isabella nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Cut me loose first.”
“No,” I said, taking out my scalpel. “If I cut you loose, he’ll know we’re fighting back. Just trust me.”
I walked to the front of the pew, positioning myself so my back was blocking the main window. I held up the syringe, making sure the shadow of it cast against the wall where Whitmore could see it from outside.
I plunged the needle into the wooden armrest of the pew, completely bypassing Eleanor’s arm.
“Now!” I whispered.
Isabella unleashed a blood-curdling scream. “No! Mother! Please, God, no!”
She thrashed against her bindings, sobbing hysterically. It was a flawless performance.
Outside, I heard the crunch of footsteps approaching the door. Whitmore was coming to check his work.
I quickly slipped the scalpel from my bag and crouched low by the heavy wooden doors. I looked at the explosives wired to the hinges. I didn't know anything about bombs. But I knew about wires. Red, blue, green. It looked like a cardiovascular system.
The detonator was wired to a small radio receiver. If I cut the receiver off the circuit, his remote would be useless.
But which wire?
“Hannah,” Isabella whimpered. “He’s right outside.”
I took a breath, closed my eyes, and thought of my father. I thought of his steady hands when he used to fix our old radio.
Always cut the power source first, Hannah.
I opened my eyes, found the thick black wire leading to the battery pack, and sliced it clean through with the surgical scalpel.
The tiny red light on the receiver blinked out.
The doors immediately rattled as Whitmore pushed them open.
He stepped inside, a smug smile on his face. He looked at Eleanor, who was slumped and motionless. Then he looked at Isabella, who was weeping.
Finally, he looked at me.
“Well done, Nurse Cole. You have a steady hand.”
“I’m done,” I said, keeping my hands behind my back, gripping the scalpel. “Let the boy go.”
Whitmore chuckled. He raised the remote control. “I lied. The Moretti bloodline ends tonight.”
He pressed the red button.
Nothing happened.
He frowned, pressing it again. And again.
I stepped forward. “Your detonator is dead, Doctor. Just like your practice.”
Whitmore’s eyes darted to the severed wire on the door frame. His face twisted in fury. He dropped the remote and reached into his coat, pulling out a heavy black pistol.
He aimed it squarely at Leo’s chest.
“Then I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”
A gunshot echoed through the chapel. Deafening. Terrifying.
But it wasn't Whitmore who fired.
Whitmore gasped, dropping the pistol. He looked down at his chest. A dark red stain was blooming across his pristine white shirt.
He fell to his knees, and then pitched forward onto the stone floor, dead.
Standing in the doorway, holding Gabriel’s smoking gun, was Vincent. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face completely pale, but his hand was perfectly steady.
“Dad?” Leo whispered from the altar.
Vincent dropped the gun. He fell to his knees, holding his arms out.
May you like
Leo ran. The little boy launched himself into his father’s arms. Vincent buried his face in his son’s neck, a gut-wrenching sob tearing from his chest. Five years of grief, five years of poison, breaking in an instant.
I rushed forward and used the scalpel to cut Isabella and Eleanor free. Isabella collapsed onto the floor beside her brother, wrapping her arms around Vincent and Leo, the three of them holding onto each other as the storm raged outside.
