Chapter 13 - The Phoenix Rises from the Gurney
The central hinge of the heavy steel door gave way with a deafening screech of ripping metal.
The door caved inward,
and a tall Romanov mercenary kicked his way through the frame,
his dark tactical visor reflecting the bright halogen surgical lights.
He raised his suppressed submachine gun,
sweeping the room,
his gaze locking onto Gabriel’s unconscious,
face-down body on the operating table.
"Target acquired,"
the gunman grunted into his radio headset.
Before he could pull the trigger,
I stepped out from behind the door frame and sprayed the fire extinguisher straight into his face.
A massive cloud of blinding,
choking white chemical powder erupted into the room,
coating his visor and filling his lungs.
The gunman stumbled backward,
coughing violently,
firing a wild burst of bullets into the ceiling tiles.
I swung the heavy iron cylinder with all the weight in my body,
striking him square across his helmeted temple.
The iron clanged loud,
and the man reeled backward,
slamming against the wall.
"Got it!"
Dr. Thorne yelled from the operating table over the chaos.
"The clip is off!"
"The nerve bundle is completely uncompressed!"
A sharp,
high-pitched scream torn directly from the depths of hell echoed through the surgical vault.
Gabriel’s eyes slammed open.
The general anesthetic was instantly shattered by the sheer,
unimaginable agony of six months of trapped nerve energy flooding his brain at once.
His back arched off the operating table so violently that the restraint straps groaned.
His leg muscles—dormant and silent for half a year—spasmed wildly,
his feet kicking out against the metal frame.
"Aaaagh!"
Gabriel roared,
the veins in his neck bulging like thick ropes,
his blood pouring over the sterile sheets.
The Romanov mercenary shook the chemical powder from his eyes,
wiped his visor,
and aimed his gun directly at my chest.
"Die,
you little bitch,"
he snarled.
Gabriel’s dark eyes locked onto the gunman pointing a weapon at me.
Through the blinding storm of agony,
through the fog of drugs and cut muscle,
a wave of pure,
unadulterated murderous rage swept over Gabriel Moretti.
He didn't think.
He didn't pause to ask if he could stand.
With a guttural,
animalistic roar that shook the concrete walls,
Gabriel tore the IV lines from his arm,
ripped the cardiac leads from his chest,
and swung his legs over the side of the operating table.
His bare feet hit the cold,
blood-slicked tile floor.
For half a second,
his knees wobbled under his massive weight.
And then,
he took a step.
A solid,
heavy,
shatter-the-earth step forward.
Before the gunman could even register the impossible sight of the paralyzed crime boss standing upright,
Gabriel closed the distance between them like a striking cobra.
His massive hand reached out,
snatching the barrel of the submachine gun and twisting it upward until the steel snapped.
With his other hand,
Gabriel grabbed the gunman by his throat,
lifted the two-hundred-pound mercenary completely off his feet,
and slammed his head back into the concrete wall with enough force to crack the brickwork.
The gunman went limp,
dropping like a stone to the floor.
Gabriel stood in the center of the room,
tall,
imposing,
his back bleeding,
his chest heaving with violent breaths,
standing fully on his own two feet.
He turned slowly to look at me,
his dark eyes burning through the haze of battle.
"I told you,"
he rasped,
his voice deep,
gravelly,
May you like
and laced with breathtaking power,
"nobody touches my nurse."
