Chapter 4 - The Voice in the Dark
My heart was beating so hard I felt it in my teeth.
"Put me on speaker!" I demanded, my hands shaking so violently I almost dropped the walkie-talkie. "Put me on speaker right now!"
“Hold on,” Daniel’s voice crackled through the small speaker.
Over the open line, I could hear the chaotic sounds of a storm raging—the heavy howl of wind, the rhythmic clatter of rain against sheet metal, and the distant, dark hum of idling diesel engines.
Then came the sounds of shouts.
“Drop the weapon! Russo syndicate! Drop the weapon!” “Get back! I’ll shoot! I swear to God I’ll blow your heads off!”
It was Michael’s voice.
It sounded terrifyingly young, cracked with agony, wild with the total, unhinged panic of a wounded animal backed into a corner.
"Michael!" I screamed into the radio handset, pressing the unit so hard against my mouth I could taste the cold plastic. "MICHAEL! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!"
The line went silent for a second. The background shouting stopped.
“...Rachel?” Michael’s voice came through the speaker, muffled, gasping for air. “Rach? Is that... where are you? Did they take you? Are you okay?!”
"I'm fine! I'm at the hospital!" I sobbed, tears spilling down my cheeks, dropping onto my scrub top right above Leo's sleeping head. "Michael, listen to me! Listen to my voice! The men outside that building are not Marcone's guys! They are working for Daniel Russo!"
“Russo?!” Michael screamed back, panic spiking in his throat. “Rach, Russo’s guys are the ones who sold out his wife! Sal Moretti—”
"Sal Moretti is gone!" I yelled into the radio, my voice ringing clear and authoritative through the storm on the other end of the line. "Daniel Russo knows everything, Michael! He knows about Joey Vento! He knows you didn't steal that money for yourself! He knows you were trying to protect Camille!"
Static hissed over the connection. For three seconds, the only sound was the distant howl of the wind over 95th Street.
“He... he knows?” Michael whispered, his voice cracking with sheer, exhausted disbelief.
"He's standing right outside your tower, Michael," I said, forcing my tone to stabilize, adopting the quiet, absolute cadence I used with dying patients in the ICU. "He brought sixty men to save your life. He brought doctors. He brought ambulances. Drop the gun, Mike. Please. Drop the gun and walk out."
A long pause followed.
Over the radio, I heard the faint, wet sound of a cough, followed by a heavy thud—the sound of a body sliding down a wooden wall.
“Rach...” Michael rasped out, his voice growing dangerously weak. “I’m... I’m bleeding really bad... my stomach...”
"Michael!" I shrieked.
Then came the deep, booming voice of Daniel Russo taking over the microphone.
“Breach the door!” Daniel bellowed over the radio. “MEDICS! GET IN THERE NOW! MOVE! MOVE!”
The radio filled with the deafening sound of splintering wood, heavy boots stomping across floorboards, and frantic shouts.
“We got him! Apply pressure to the left abdomen! Get the stretcher up here! He’s in hypovolemic shock!” “I need two units of O-negative on the rig right now!”
"Mr. Russo!" I cried into the handset, my nails digging into the hard plastic case. "Is he alive?! Please tell me he's alive!"
The sounds of sirens began to howl over the line—sharp, wailing tones that cut through the sound of the rain.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
Then Daniel’s voice returned to the radio. He was breathing hard, his tone thick with cold, adrenaline-laced focus.
“He’s alive, Rachel,” Daniel said. “The bullet entered his lower abdomen. It missed the main artery, but he’s lost a lot of blood. My private surgical team has him in the mobile ICU rig. We’re coming to St. Jude’s right now. We’ll be at the trauma bay in eight minutes.”
A long, shuddering sob tore through my chest. I sank back into the rocking chair, my knees completely giving out, my forehead resting lightly against the top of Leo’s soft head.
"Thank you," I wept into the radio. "Thank you... thank you..."
“Don't thank me yet,” Daniel’s voice came back, lower this time, almost lost beneath the roar of the siren behind him. “Marcone’s men know Sal failed. They know Joey talked. The entire city knows I’m cleaning house tonight.”
He paused, the heavy weight of his dark world pressing through the tiny speaker.
May you like
“St. Jude’s is about to become a warzone, Rachel. Tell Gabe to move you and Leo to the lower level vault beneath the old wing. Now.”
The line went dead.
