Chapter 3 - The Woman in Room 317
We reached St. Catherine’s in six minutes.
It should have taken fifteen.
The black sedan jumped curbs, ignored traffic lights, and cut through a construction barrier while Enzo called ahead to three teams stationed across the North District.
Elena sat beside me in the back seat with Bruno wrapped inside my coat.
She had stopped crying.
Children should not become quiet that quickly after witnessing death. Silence like hers was learned. It came from apartments where screams traveled through thin walls and adults taught children that being noticed could be dangerous.
“Is my mommy alive?” she asked.
I looked at the access card in my hand.
“Yes.”
It was a promise, not an answer.
Promises were dangerous things.
Once, I had promised Sofia I would leave the business before our first child was born.
Three months later, a bomb tore her car apart on the Westbridge Expressway.
Since then, I had made few promises and kept all of them.
St. Catherine’s rose above the river like the skeleton of a dead animal. Half its windows were boarded. Rainwater poured through holes in the roof, and the faded red cross above the entrance flickered whenever lightning struck.
My men surrounded the building.
“No movement outside,” Enzo said. “Thermal cameras show heat on the third floor and basement.”
“Two teams below. We go up.”
“You should stay with the girl.”
Elena grabbed my sleeve.
“I know where they took her.”
That ended the argument.
We entered through a loading dock.
The corridors smelled of mold, bleach, and old smoke. Emergency signs glowed faintly along the walls, powered by a portable generator somewhere deeper inside.
Elena walked between Enzo and me.
At the first intersection, she pointed left.
“They put a bag over my mommy’s head, but I heard the elevator bell three times.”
Room numbers appeared as we climbed.
At the end of the corridor, Elena stopped.
A metal cart stood outside Room 317. On it were surgical gloves, a syringe, a roll of duct tape, and a bloodstained towel.
Her fingers tightened around mine.
I had not realized she was holding my hand.
“Stay behind me,” I said.
I kicked the door open.
A woman was tied to a hospital bed.
Her wrists were raw. One eye was swollen shut. Blood darkened the collar of her gray sweater. A clear tube ran from her arm to an empty saline bag.
Two men turned toward us.
The first raised a shotgun.
I fired before he completed the movement.
The second grabbed the woman by the hair and placed a knife to her throat.
“One more step, Moretti.”
Elena tried to run past me.
“Mommy!”
The woman’s good eye opened.
“Elena, no!”
The kidnapper’s grip tightened.
His name was Pavel Dravic, a mercenary who had worked for Serbian traffickers before disappearing from Europe. I had seen his photograph in an intelligence file two years earlier.
“You know who I am,” I said.
“I know you hesitate around women and children.”
“Then your information is old.”
I shifted my pistol toward Elena.
Pavel’s eyes followed.
It was only a fraction of a second.
Enzo fired through his shoulder.
The knife dropped.
I crossed the room and broke Pavel’s neck before he reached the floor.
Elena climbed onto the bed.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”
The woman collapsed around her daughter despite the ropes. Her face twisted with pain, but she held Elena as though the child were the only solid thing left in the world.
Bruno scrambled onto the mattress and licked her bruised hand.
I cut the bindings.
“My name is Marco Moretti.”
“I know.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“What’s your name?”
“Maeve O’Shea.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Her face did.
Beneath the swelling, exhaustion, and blood, there was something familiar in the shape of her eyes. Not enough to identify. Enough to disturb.
“We need to move,” Enzo said. “The basement team found gasoline containers wired to a timer.”
“How long?”
“Four minutes.”
Maeve tried to stand and nearly collapsed.
I caught her.
She flinched from my touch.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“That’s what Vittorio said.”
Elena looked at me.
“Was the man in the café bad?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Maeve stared at the dead mercenary.
“Vittorio was trying to help us.”
That stopped me.
“He kidnapped you.”
“No. He came to warn me.”
She grabbed the front of my shirt with surprising strength.
“The other men followed him. They took me after he tried to get Elena out.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because he didn’t know who near you could be trusted.”
An explosion shook the building.
The lights died.
Smoke rolled beneath the door.
Enzo lifted Elena while I carried Maeve into the corridor. We ran toward the stairwell as flames climbed the elevator shaft behind us.
On the second floor, the ceiling collapsed.
I turned my body, shielding Maeve from falling debris. A beam struck my shoulder and drove me to one knee.
“Marco!” Enzo shouted.
“Go!”
Maeve slid from my arms.
Instead of running, she crouched beside me and helped lift the burning timber.
Together, we pushed it aside.
We reached the loading dock seconds before the third floor erupted in flame.
Rain hit my face.
My men rushed Maeve toward the armored vehicle.
She turned before they put her inside.
“The key Elena gave you opens a safe-deposit box.”
“Where?”
“First Federal Bank. Vault 19.”
“What’s inside?”
“Proof that Sofia Moretti was murdered.”
The roar of the burning hospital filled the night.
I stepped closer.
“How did you know my wife?”
Maeve’s expression broke.
May you like
“She was my sister.”
Before I could respond, a sniper’s red laser appeared against Elena’s chest.
