Chapter 6 - The Duel in the Corridor
Elena didn't let up for a fraction of a second.
She closed the distance before Drake could recover from the shock of the punctured hand. She executed a flying sweep that took his remaining good leg out from under him.
Drake slammed onto his back against the shattered linoleum, but the mercenary was an animal driven by pure survival. He reached out with his uninjured left arm, catching Elena by the collar of her scrubs, and hurled her across the floor into a row of metal storage lockers.
The metal boomed under the impact.
Pain flared through Elena’s ribs—an old fracture from her military service singing in protest. But her mind remained icy, completely detached from the physical sensation.
Drake scrambled to his feet, pulling a backup subcompact pistol from his ankle holster with his mangled, bloody right hand.
"Die, you bitch!" he screamed.
Elena rolled sideways across the floor just as two rounds blasted into the steel lockers, showering sparks across the corridor.
She came up on one knee behind a mobile dialysis machine. With a surge of adrenaline, she tipped the three-hundred-pound machine forward onto Drake’s legs.
The heavy apparatus crashed down, pinning him to the floor.
Drake screamed, struggling to aim the weapon. Elena stepped forward, raised her non-slip hospital shoe, and stamped down hard on his wrist.
The pistol clattered away across the floor.
Elena knelt on his chest, her knee driving into his sternum, cutting off his airway. She drove the blade of her combat knife into the floor, an inch from Drake’s left eye.
"Game over, Drake," Elena whispered.
Drake gasped for air, his chest trapped beneath her weight. Blood bubbled at his lips, but he managed a sick, ragged grin.
"You... you think it’s over, Sergeant?" Drake coughed. "Look at your watch. While I was playing with you... my fourth man... the demolition expert... he wasn't on this floor."
Elena’s heart skipped a beat.
*The fourth man.*
"He’s in the ICU, Ward," Drake chuckled weakly, choking on his own blood. "He took the exterior maintenance hoist straight to the fourth-floor balcony. Right now... he’s executing Vance... and your little nurse friends are watching."
Elena’s eyes widened.
Without a second thought, she slammed Drake’s head against the tile floor, knocking him cold.
She turned to Tom Hadley, who was curled in a fetal position against the wall, weeping in terror.
"Hadley," Elena barked.
Hadley flinched, looking up at her like a condemned man looking at his executioner. "Please... Elena... I was forced! They threatened my family!"
Elena grabbed him by the shirt collar, hoisting him to his feet with one arm.
"If you want to survive the night, Hadley, you take this detonator," she shoved the disarmed remote into his chest, "and you walk down to the lobby doors. You tell Sergeant Alvarez that the interior is partially cleared, and you surrender yourself to SWAT. If you run, I will find you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes! Yes, I swear!" Hadley sobbed, clutching the remote and running toward the stairwell like a terrified child.
Elena turned, scooped up the discarded Benelli shotgun, and sprinted toward the service elevator shaft.
There was no time to take the stairs. Four flights would take ninety seconds.
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In ninety seconds, Priya, Ryan, Karen, and Marcus Vance would be dead.
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