Chapter 8 - The Drake Hotel
The convoy of six black armored SUVs cut through the pouring rain on Lake Shore Drive, arriving at the rear entrance of the Drake Hotel at precisely one o'clock on Thursday afternoon.
The atmosphere inside the lead vehicle was suffocatingly tense.
Liam sat beside me, dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit tailored specifically to fit over his leg fixator. A heavy, silver-topped cane rested between his knees. He looked every bit the dark king of Chicago—ruthless, untouchable, terrifying.
I wore a heavy black coat over my medical scrubs, a tactical kevlar vest strapped tightly beneath my clothes, carrying my trauma kit over my shoulder.
Liam reached out, taking my cold hand in his. His thumb stroked my knuckles in a slow, rhythmic pattern. “If shots are fired inside that building, you duck beneath the leather seats. Do not step out.”
“Don't get shot,” I replied, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. “I hate doing emergency re-stitches in moving vehicles.”
A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. He leaned over, pressing his lips firmly against mine—a swift, deep, possessive kiss that left my head spinning.
“Stay safe, Clara,” he whispered against my mouth.
He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, leaning heavily on his cane, flanked by ten armed guards. He walked into the hotel with a steady, commanding gait that betrayed not a single shred of the agony tearing through his leg.
I sat in the back of the SUV, watching the heavy glass doors close behind him, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs.
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Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Then, from the third-floor grand ballroom of the hotel, the sound of muffled explosions and frantic automatic gunfire shattered the afternoon quiet.
