Chapter 6 - The Surgical Suite In The Tunnels
Station 4 was buried deep beneath the industrial district of the city.
It wasn’t just an abandoned subway stop. It was a massive, subterranean concrete bunker built during the Cold War and secretly purchased by the Romano family decades ago.
We approached through a rusted drainage tunnel, wading through inches of stagnant water. The smell of decay and damp earth was suffocating.
Dante moved with lethal precision, his suppressed pistol raised. Anthony flanked him, while Michael limped heavily in the rear, relying on his oxygen tank. I stayed in the middle, my medical bag strapped tightly to my back.
“There,” Michael whispered, pointing a frail finger toward a heavy steel blast door at the end of the tunnel.
Two guards in tactical gear stood outside, holding assault rifles.
Dante didn’t hesitate.
He raised his weapon. Pfft. Pfft.
Two silenced shots. Both guards dropped before they even knew they were being targeted.
It was a terrifying reminder of exactly who Dante Romano really was.
We moved to the blast door. Michael slid the rusted iron key into a hidden manual override panel. The heavy door hissed and swung outward.
We stepped inside.
The contrast was jarring. The tunnel was filthy, but the interior of the bunker was a state-of-the-art medical facility. Bright, sterile fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The walls were lined with advanced monitoring equipment.
“The extraction room is at the end of this hall,” Michael wheezed, leaning against the white wall for support. “Dad will have his personal detail in there.”
Dante nodded. “Anthony, take the left flank. Shoot on sight.”
We crept down the pristine hallway.
Through the large glass observation window of the surgical suite, we saw her.
Elena.
She was unconscious, strapped to a stainless steel operating table. Her dark hair cascaded over the edge. Thick, clear medical tubing was connected to ports in her hips, leading to a massive, whirring centrifuge machine.
Standing over her, wearing a white surgical gown over a tailored suit, was an elderly man.
Vittorio Romano.
Dante’s father.
He looked impossibly old, yet his eyes were sharp and predatory.
Dante didn’t bother with stealth anymore.
He kicked the surgical suite doors open, raising his gun.
“Step away from my daughter,” Dante roared.
Vittorio didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look surprised.
He slowly looked up from the centrifuge, his face splitting into a cold, arrogant smile.
“Dante,” Vittorio said smoothly. “You’re late. The extraction is already at forty percent. If you unplug her now, the negative pressure will rupture her marrow cavities. She’ll bleed to death internally in three minutes.”
Dante froze. He looked at me, desperation in his eyes.
I stared at the complex array of tubes and digital pressure gauges on the machine.
“He’s not lying,” I whispered, my heart hammering. “It’s a closed-loop pressure system. You can’t just pull the lines.”
Vittorio laughed softly.
“Listen to your nurse, son. She’s a smart woman.”
Vittorio pressed a button on a small remote in his hand.
Instantly, four heavy steel security grates slammed down over the windows and doors of the surgical suite, locking us inside.
At the same moment, the door to the adjoining prep room opened, and six armed men filed in, raising their weapons at us.
We were trapped.
“Drop the guns,” Vittorio commanded. “Or my men will shoot you where you stand, and I’ll finish the extraction over your dead bodies.”
Dante’s jaw clenched. He looked at Anthony, who was calculating the odds of a shootout. They were terrible.
Slowly, Dante lowered his weapon and placed it on the floor. Anthony did the same.
Vittorio smiled triumphantly.
“You always were too emotional, Dante,” the old man sneered. “Elizabeth made you soft. She made you care about things that don’t matter. Bloodline is everything. Survival is everything. Elena’s sacrifice will ensure the Romano legacy lives for another fifty years.”
“She’s your own granddaughter!” Anthony yelled, struggling against the guard who had grabbed his arms.
“She is a vessel,” Vittorio corrected coldly.
Vittorio turned his back on us, adjusting a dial on the centrifuge to increase the extraction speed.
Elena groaned weakly in her medically induced coma. Her heart monitor began to beep faster.
“Stop it!” Dante yelled, straining against his captors. “You’re killing her!”
“A necessary cost,” Vittorio said.
I looked frantically around the room. I didn’t have a gun. I wasn’t a mafia enforcer.
But I understood medical equipment.
I noticed the main power conduit for the centrifuge running along the floor, plugged into a heavy industrial wall socket.
If I unplugged it, the machine would stop, but the negative pressure in Elena’s bones would cause the fatal rupture Vittorio had warned about.
But… if the machine didn’t stop, but instead received a massive power surge… it would trigger the emergency safety release valves, safely detaching the pressure lines to prevent a fire.
I needed to short-circuit the machine.
May you like
I quietly unzipped my medical bag and slid my hand inside.
My fingers wrapped around the cold, heavy metal of a portable defibrillator unit.
