Chapter 3 - Fourth Floor Secrets
The black Mercedes glided silently through the dense coastal fog of Brooklyn, escorted by three unmarked black Suburbans. Inside, seven-year-old Ivy sat in the back, clutching a warm cup of hot chocolate that Marco had sprinted into an all-night diner to buy under Andrew’s strict orders.
Andrew Mercer sat in the front passenger seat, staring through the windshield into the downpour. In his lap lay the wrinkled five-dollar bill and the tarnished silver key Ivy had given him. Nine years of grief, guilt, and unanswered questions burned like acid in his throat. When Daniel disappeared nearly a decade ago, the police dragged an unrecognizable body from the Hudson River wearing Daniel’s custom signet ring. Andrew had wept over that closed casket. He had blamed himself every waking day for failing to protect his younger brother.
Now, that grief turned into pure, murderous rage.
"Marco," Andrew said, not looking back. "Where is Ashwood Nursing Home located?"
"The industrial edge of South Brooklyn, Don Andrew," Marco answered, keeping his eyes on the glistening wet road. "Officially, it’s a high-end palliative care sanctuary registered under an offshore shell company. Unofficially, it operates with private security, high-voltage fencing, and zero public visiting hours for the upper levels."
"An offshore shell company registered to my cousin Cassian," Andrew added, his knuckles white against the steering wheel's leather trim. "He hid Daniel right under our noses. For nine years, he watched me carry flowers to an empty tomb while he kept my brother chemically lobotomized in an attic."
"Don Andrew," Marco hesitated, his voice tightening. "If Cassian finds out we hit the nursing home, he might move Clara Callahan immediately or expedite the execution order."
"He won't have time," Andrew replied coldly. "We hit Ashwood first. We take the facility, secure Daniel, extract their patient database, and find out where they took that girl's mother."
Twenty minutes later, the convoy pulled into a dark alley directly across from Ashwood Nursing Home. The building loomed like a fortress of dark brick and frosted glass, surrounded by a wrought-iron gate topped with razor wire. Spotlights swept lazily across the perimeter.
Andrew turned around in his seat to look at Ivy. The little girl had dried tear tracks on her cheeks, but she held her chin up, refusing to cry anymore.
"Ivy," Andrew spoke, his voice unusually gentle. "You stay here with Luc. He’s going to keep you safe. No one opens this door except me. Do you understand?"
Ivy reached out, her small fingers curling around Andrew’s index finger. "Mommy said the monsters only win if good people look away. You won't leave her, right?"
Andrew looked down at the tiny hand holding his. For the first time in fifteen years of ruling the Brooklyn underworld, the ruthless Don felt something crack open inside his chest. "I made a deal with you, Ivy. A Mercer never breaks his word. I’m bringing your mommy home."
He stepped out into the freezing rain.
Within seconds, eight heavily armed men in tactical gear assembled behind him like wraiths melting out of the shadows. Andrew didn't wait for pleasantries.
"Cut the perimeter power grid," Andrew ordered. "Zero survivors on security detail. Find the fourth floor."
With a low metallic snap, the external transformer down the street blew, plunging the entire facility into utter blackness. Before the backup generators could kick in, Marco’s sledgehammer shattered the front glass doors.
The raid was swift, violent, and surgical. Two armed guards stationed in the lobby barely raised their shotguns before Andrew’s men neutralized them with muffled, suppressed shots. Alarms began wailing as emergency red lights bathed the sterile white hallways in crimson.
Andrew bypassed the elevators and kicked open the stairwell door, sprinting up the concrete steps two at a time, his Kimber .45 leading the way. Second floor. Third floor.
At the fourth floor landing, a heavy steel blast door blocked their path, equipped with a biometric keypad and a mechanical override lock.
Andrew pulled the tarnished silver key from his pocket. He slipped it into the mechanical keyway and turned it. With a heavy, pneumatic hiss, the deadbolts retracted.
The air on the fourth floor smelled heavily of bleach, rotting flowers, and industrial-grade sedatives. Unlike the floors below, there were no nurses' stations, no wheelchairs, and no comfortable patient rooms. Just a single, endless corridor lined with steel doors and observation windows.
"Clear every room!" Andrew barked.
Marco kicked open door 401: empty. Door 402: medical supplies, rows of liquid chlorpromazine and paralytic agents.
Andrew walked straight to the final room at the end of the hall—Room 409. The door was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open with his boot, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The room was freezing. In the center stood an empty hospital bed with heavy leather restraints hanging loose over the sides. Drip bags were still swinging on their metal stands, puddles of intravenous saline dripping slowly onto the linoleum floor.
Daniel was gone.
"Don Andrew!" Marco shouted from the corner desk, pointing his tactical flashlight at a metal medical cart that had been overturned. "Look!"
Andrew walked over, his eyes narrowing. On the floor lay a shattered clipboard with Clara Callahan’s nursing badge pinned to the cover, smeared with fresh blood. Beneath it was an open medical chart stamped with an urgent red transfer order dated less than three hours ago.
Patient: John Doe #4 (Daniel Mercer) Status: Emergency Relocation Destination: St. Jude’s Private Wharf, Warehouse 14 Authorized By: Cassian Mercer Notes: Patient displaying dangerous cognitive recovery due to unauthorized dose tapering by Staff Nurse Clara Callahan. Transfer nurse to private residence for mandatory contract signing. Eliminate patient post-execution of assets.
Andrew’s breath hitched as his thumb brushed across Clara’s laminated photo on the badge. She had soft, kind hazel eyes and a determined jawline that looked strikingly like Ivy’s. She had risked her entire life, her freedom, and her safety to slowly wean a complete stranger off lethal sedatives simply because her conscience wouldn't let him die.
"They took Daniel to the docks to drown him for real this time," Andrew whispered, the veins in his neck bulging with suppressed fury. "And they're forcing Clara to marry Cassian tonight to seize the Callahan family’s remaining shipping assets so he can smuggle the family wealth offshore."
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He crushed the medical file in his fist.
"Marco, get the cars ready. Cassian thinks he’s burying my brother tonight. He’s about to find out who really runs this city."
