Chapter 3 - The Bleeding King
The alley smelled of stale rain, engine oil, and rotting garbage.
A single unmarked white paramedic vehicle glided into the dark lane with its lights completely extinguished, its engine idling in a low, muffled rumble. The side door slid open with a sharp metallic scrape.
Marcus jumped out, covered in sweat, his paramedic uniform stained dark red around the sleeves. "He's in bad shape, Val. GSW to the left lower quadrant. Through-and-through, but it nicked an artery. I clamped what I could, but he's lost a dangerous amount of blood."
Valerie stepped up to the open door and shone her flashlight into the interior.
Lying on the narrow gurney was a man built like sculpted iron. Brennan Vance was six-foot-four, dressed in a custom charcoal suit that was now ruined, soaked in thick, blackish-red blood across his abdomen. His jaw was sharp, covered in dark stubble, his face pale as marble beneath the flickering alley streetlamps.
Even unconscious and near death, his presence filled the small space with an overwhelming, lethal gravity.
"Help me move him," Marcus grunted, grabbing Brennan under the shoulders.
"We can't bring him through the front," Valerie said, grabbing Brennan's legs. He weighed at least two hundred and twenty pounds of lean muscle. "My landlord has cameras on the front gate. We go through the back utility hatch."
Together, straining under the massive weight, they dragged the chief of the Vance Syndicate out of the ambulance and into the shadows of the rear courtyard. Brennan let out a low, guttural groan, his dark eyes snapping open for a fraction of a second.
His grip surged out like a striking viper.
Before Valerie could react, a massive, blood-slicked hand clamped onto her wrist with crushing force. His dark gray eyes—clouded with fever and pain, yet sharp as shattered glass—locked onto hers.
"Who..." Brennan rasped, his voice sounding like dry gravel dragging over iron. "Who are you?"
"Someone who's currently keeping you off a slab," Valerie hissed back, refusing to pull away despite the pain in her wrist. "Let go of me or I'll leave you for the street sweepers."
Brennan stared at her face, his gaze lingering on the cold, steady fury in her eyes. A faint, dark smirk touched the corner of his bloody lips before his eyes rolled back, his grip slackening as he fell back into unconsciousness.
"Jesus," Marcus breathed, wiping his brow. "He almost snapped your arm."
"He's running on pure instinct," Valerie muttered, rubbing her bruised wrist. "Let's go. Before his enemies trace your vehicle."
They maneuvered Brennan through the narrow back entryway of her apartment, straight into the small closet. Marcus looked around the tiny, empty room in confusion. "Where are we putting him? There's no bed here."
Valerie reached down into the dark corner of the closet floor, pulled back a section of worn rug, and lifted a heavy wooden trapdoor flush with the floorboards.
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Marcus gasped, stepping back. "What the hell... Val, did you dig a cellar under your floor?"
"A bunker," she corrected flatly. "And it's the only place in Los Angeles where nobody can find him. Lower him down. Carefully."
