Chapter 7 - Ascent to the Roof
The private freight elevator descended into the dark underbelly of St. Andrews Hospital before rocketing straight up toward the roof.
The digital display above the door flickered through red numbers: B2... B1... G... 2... 3... 4... Roof.
Inside the cramped metal box, Elena stood with her back pressed against the cold steel wall, her hands wrapped tightly around her own arms to stop her shivering. Her scrubs were stained with coffee and nervous sweat, her hair coming loose from its ponytail.
"You didn't have to bring me along," Elena said quietly, staring at the floor indicator lights. "You could have locked me in the supply closet and gone up alone."
Roman stood near the door, his eyes fixed on the moving red digits. He didn't look at her, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "You're the only person in this building who gave a damn about a dying baby that wasn't even mine. In my world, loyalty like that doesn't get locked in closets. It gets rewarded."
"And if we die up there?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If Sloan's people are waiting with automatic weapons?"
Roman reached into his jacket, pulled out a spare compact Beretta, and thrust it forward, offering the grip toward her.
Elena stared at the weapon as if it were a venomous snake. "I... I don't know how to shoot a gun."
"It's not complicated," Roman said, his dark eyes finally meeting hers. "Point it at anything wearing a security uniform that isn't me, pull the trigger until it clicks, and don't look them in the eye afterward. Can you do that?"
Slowly, her hands reached out and closed around the cool polymer grip of the Beretta. Her fingers were shaking, but as she slid it into the deep pocket of her scrub jacket, the trembling stopped. A hard, resolute set formed around her jaw.
"I can do that," she said.
Ding.
The elevator jolted to a sudden, jarring halt. The red numbers overhead blinked: ROOF.
The heavy steel doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss.
A blast of cold, wet Chicago wind swept into the elevator shaft, carrying the heavy scent of jet fuel, ozone, and impending rain. Out on the sprawling concrete helipad, a twin-engine AgustaWestland helicopter sat idling, its rotor blades spinning in a furious, deafening blur that whipped up loose gravel and paper scraps across the tarmac.
Four armed men in tactical black gear stood near the cargo loading hatch of the chopper, carrying heavy duffel bags and secure medical transport crates.
As Roman stepped out onto the roof, the lead tactical guard turned, his hand dropping instinctively toward his holster.
"Hold on, this area is restricted—"
The man didn't get to finish his sentence.
Roman’s Sig Sauer barked twice through the howling wind. The suppressed shots sounded like heavy books slamming shut. The lead guard spun and collapsed onto the wet concrete.
Chaos erupted on the helipad.
"Ambush! Flank left!" shouted one of the remaining guards, drawing an MP5 submachine gun.
Bullets whined off the brick parapet wall as Roman ducked behind a heavy industrial ventilation unit, returning fire with lethal, terrifying precision. Two more guards dropped behind the landing gear of the helicopter, pinned down by suppressive fire.
"Elena! Stay down by the door!" Roman roared over the deafening roar of the helicopter engines.
Out of the corner of his eye, Roman saw the fourth guard sprinting toward the open cabin door of the chopper, carrying a small, thermal-regulated medical carrier box bearing the Genesis Syndicate logo.
Inside that box was Nico.
"Oh, no you don't," Elena muttered.
Breaking protocol entirely, Elena burst out from the elevator alcove, drawing the Beretta from her pocket with both hands. She didn't close her eyes. She remembered Roman's words, squared her stance, and pulled the trigger.
Crack!
The bullet skipped off the concrete two feet to the left of the running guard, but the sudden explosion of sound startled him enough to trip over a tie-down cable. He hit the tarmac hard, the thermal transport box flying from his grip and sliding across the wet concrete toward Elena's feet.
Roman didn't hesitate. He closed the remaining distance in three long strides, jammed his boot onto the guard's chest, and pressed the barrel of his pistol squarely between the man's eyes.
"Don't move," Roman whispered.
The guard threw his hands up, dropping his weapon. "Don't shoot! I'm just a courier! I don't know anything!"
Roman ignored him, turning around to where Elena was kneeling on the wet concrete, frantically popping the latches on the thermal transport box.
The lid sprang open.
Inside, wrapped in a soft flannel blanket, lay a tiny infant with a tuft of dark hair and a distinct, unmistakable splay on the second toe of his left foot.
May you like
The baby let out a healthy, indignant wail, kicking his tiny legs into the open air of the Chicago night.
Roman dropped to his knees, his hands trembling violently as he reached into the box. For the first time in nineteen days, the knot of grief and ice inside his chest cracked wide open. He lifted his son into his arms, pulling the tiny body tight against his chest, right over his beating heart.
