The hospital floor fell into an eerie, suffocating stillness. The nurses and doctors had been ushered away. Chloe sat up in her bed, the adrenaline masking the pain in her burned hands.
Through the small glass window of her door, she saw Reaper chamber a round into an assault rifle. He looked back at her, giving her a single, resolute nod. We hold the line, his eyes seemed to say.
Then, the vibrations started again.
It wasn't the rumble of motorcycles this time. It was the sharp, rhythmic staccato of boots breaching the barricades at the far end of the hall. The cartel's hit squad had arrived, dressed in tactical gear and determined to silence the only witness to their failed assassination.
Shadows flickered across the frosted glass of the hallway. Chloe felt the deep, concussive thumps of suppressed gunfire reverberating through the floorboards, traveling up the metal frame of her bed.
The Hells Angels roared back. The walls shook as a deafening, violent firefight erupted right outside her door. Wood splintered, drywall shattered, and the flashing strobe of muzzle fire illuminated the room in violent bursts of light.