Chapter 7 - Storm Over Cleveland
The private Gulfstream touched down on the tarmac of Cleveland Hopkins International Airport under a torrential downpour that whipped sheets of water across the runway. Lightning fractured the midnight sky, casting strobing flashes of silver across the cabin.
We didn’t wait for local ground transport. Two armored black suburbans bearing diplomatic plates met the jet directly at the private hangar, their engines idling aggressively in the rain.
Enzo rode in the front passenger seat, barking coordinates into a secure satellite phone, while Dominic sat beside me in the back, his hand resting casually over the grip of a suppressed Sig Sauer pistol tucked into his holster.
“We’re ten minutes out from the clinic,” Enzo announced, turning around in his seat. “Costa’s advance team landed forty minutes ahead of us via a commercial flight from Chicago. They’ve already scouted the perimeter of the facility.”
“How many?” Dominic asked.
“At least six operatives. Professional clean-up crew. They’re carrying suppressed submachine guns and thermal breaching gear.”
My hands shook slightly as I clasped them in my lap. I looked out the rain-streaked window at the blurring neon lights of the city where I had grown up—the city where my mother was currently fighting for her breath in a room completely unaware that a war was converging on her doorstep.
“Dominic,” I said quietly, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “If anything happens to her…”
Dominic reached over, taking my trembling hands in his large, steady grip. His fingers were warm, anchoring me against the rising tide of panic.
“Nothing will happen to her,” Dominic said, his voice carrying an absolute, unshakeable conviction. “I told you—anyone who comes for your family comes through me first.”
The SUVs screamed off the highway, taking a sharp turn onto a quiet, tree-lined side street in a secluded suburb of Cleveland. St. Jude Medical Research Center loomed ahead—a modest, red-brick facility surrounded by iron fencing and towering oak trees.
To the casual observer, it looked like a peaceful recovery center. But through our tactical lenses, it was a battleground.
Two unmarked black vans were parked illegally across the street from the emergency entrance. Thermal imaging on Enzo’s tactical tablet showed six distinct heat signatures moving systematically toward the rear service elevators.
“They’re making their move,” Enzo hissed.
“Move in,” Dominic ordered, his voice cutting through the vehicle like a razor.
The doors of the suburbans flew open simultaneously. Dominic’s men poured out into the pouring rain, moving with terrifying, silent efficiency. Black-clad operatives fuzed with the shadows, sealing off every exit before Costa’s men even realized they had walked into a trap.
Dominic turned to me before stepping out into the storm. He pulled a compact, matte-black Walther PPK from his coat pocket, checked the magazine with a practiced click, and pressed it firmly into my hand, wrapping my fingers around the grip.
“Stay in the vehicle. Keep the doors locked,” Dominic instructed, his eyes burning into mine. “If anyone other than Enzo or me opens this door, you shoot. Do you understand?”
May you like
I swallowed hard, feeling the cold steel of the weapon against my palm. I nodded slowly.
Dominic kissed my forehead—a brief, fierce gesture of raw possession—before stepping out into the torrential rain, disappearing into the dark maw of the hospital doors.
