Chapter 6 - The Crucible of Glass and Lead
The screaming of shattered glass filled the air,
shredding the quiet sanctuary of the lobby,
as high-caliber bullets slammed into the plaster walls.
Plaster dust exploded in heavy white clouds,
blinding the darkness,
while the sharp scent of burnt gunpowder flooded my nostrils.
I held Hannah down firmly against the hard linoleum floor,
covering her head with both of my hands,
using my body as a human shield against the flying metal.
She was gasping for air beneath me,
her small hands clutching tightly to the lapels of my heavy coat,
her chest trembling violently with pure panic.
"Stay down,"
I growled against her ear,
my voice gravelly and raw,
"do not move a single inch."
Outside,
the deafening roar of automatic weapons continued to echo off the brick buildings across Western Avenue.
Within three seconds,
the sharp,
disciplined gunfire of my security team answered back.
Marco was already barking orders into his radio,
his heavy tactical boots crunching on broken glass as he moved toward the shattered front entrance.
"Suppressing fire!"
Marco bellowed,
his voice cutting through the chaos like a heavy iron bell.
"Target the black SUV across the street!
Move the boss to the secondary vehicle now!"
A burst of red tracer rounds lit up the dark street outside,
illuminating the rain that was falling like sharp silver needles.
I felt a sudden,
searing pain tear across my left shoulder blade.
A hot piece of jagged glass,
or perhaps a stray bullet fragment,
had sliced through my coat and embedded itself deep into my skin.
I didn't utter a single sound.
I refused to let Hannah know I was bleeding.
"Nathan,"
she sobbed quietly into my chest,
her voice muffled by the thick wool of my jacket,
"the children...
oh God,
the children!"
"They are safe,"
I lied smoothly,
tightening my grip around her waist,
"Victor has the back exit secured.
No one gets through him."
In truth,
I knew Moretti had sent a professional hit squad.
This wasn't a warning,
nor was it a simple shakedown like Tommy's pathetic attempt earlier.
Dante Moretti had realized that Hannah Cole was my weakness,
and he was willing to turn Western Avenue into a bloodbath just to put a bullet through my skull.
Marco appeared beside us,
dropping to one knee,
his tactical sidearm raised toward the door.
"Boss,
we have a clear window!"
Marco shouted over the thunderous cracks of gunfire.
"The rear alley is clear!
We need to move before they bring heavy ordnance!"
I looked down at Hannah.
Her face was smeared with gray plaster dust,
her brown eyes wide with terror,
yet she looked up at me with an intensity that held no hatred,
only raw survival.
"Can you run?"
I asked her,
my eyes locking onto hers.
She nodded once,
biting her lower lip so hard it bled slightly.
"Yes,"
she whispered,
her voice shaking,
"yes,
I can run."
"On my mark,"
I said,
sliding my hand down to grasp her cold fingers tightly.
"One...
two...
three...
go!"
I pulled her to her feet with explosive force,
keeping my body positioned between her and the street.
We sprinted down the narrow hallway toward the back office,
stepping over fallen books,
shattered picture frames,
and torn children's drawings.
Behind us,
Marco and two of my enforcers fired steady,
suppressive bursts toward the street,
holding off Moretti's shooters long enough for us to reach the heavy steel exit door.
Victor was waiting in the alley,
holding the rear door of an armored black sedan wide open.
Rain poured down in heavy curtains,
soaking my hair and stinging my skin as I shoved Hannah into the leather backseat.
"Get in!"
I commanded,
scrambling in right behind her.
Before the door could even slam shut,
Victor slammed his foot onto the accelerator,
and the heavy armored engine roared to life.
The tires screeched violently against the wet asphalt,
sending a cascade of dirty water flying against the brick alley walls as we rocketed out into the night.
Hannah collapsed against the leather seat,
her hands covering her face as deep,
uncontrollable sobs racked her slender frame.
I pulled my phone from my pocket,
my fingers slick with my own blood.
"Marco,"
I said into the speaker,
my voice dripping with ice,
"tell me the shelter is clear."
"The shooters are retreating,
boss,"
Marco reported over the static-filled line.
"We eliminated two of them,
the rest fled south toward the highway.
The children and staff are all secure in the basement vault.
No casualties among the civilians."
I let out a long breath,
closing my eyes for a brief moment.
"Keep six men at the shelter,"
I ordered.
"Move the kids to the safe facility in Oak Park immediately.
If Dante tries to touch that building again,
I want his entire family executed by midnight."
"Understood,
Mr. Mercer,"
Marco replied before the call disconnected.
I turned my attention back to Hannah.
She had stopped sobbing,
her hands slowly lowering from her face.
She was staring at my coat,
where a dark,
glistening stain of blood had soaked through the heavy charcoal wool near my shoulder.
"You're hurt,"
she whispered,
her voice barely audible over the hum of the armored car's engine.
"It's nothing,"
I said quietly,
looking out the tinted window as the blurred lights of Chicago flashed past us.
"It's just glass."
"You took that for me,"
she said,
her voice trembling with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher.
"You stood over me and let them shoot at you."
I turned to face her,
leaning my head back against the leather headrest.
"I told you,"
I said softly,
watching a tear trace a pale line through the dust on her cheek,
"no one is ever going to hurt you while I am still breathing."
She stared at me in silence,
the dark shadows of the moving car flickering across her sharp,
beautiful features.
She didn't thank me.
She didn't yell at me.
May you like
She simply reached out with a trembling hand and gently touched the torn wool over my bleeding shoulder,
her fingers lingering there as if trying to understand the terrifying man who had just saved her life.
