CHAPTER 23 THE LAST CLINIC STANDING #3
They rounded a corner, the sound of engines fading slightly, and Dario finally slowed. He released her wrist, his hand hovering near the small of her back as if to steady her. Evelyn leaned against a nearby wall, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.
“We’re clear,” Dario said, his voice quiet but firm. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the empty street behind them. “For now.”
Evelyn nodded, though her hands still trembled. She wiped her palms on her jeans, trying to ground herself. “How did you know?” she asked, her voice in a low voice. “About Marsh?”
Dario’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something she couldn’t quite place. “I have people,” he said simply. “And Marsh isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.”
She wanted to press him, to demand more details, but the sound of distant sirens cut her off. Dario straightened, his posture stiffening as he listened. “We need to keep moving,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t over yet.”
Evelyn pushed off the wall, her legs still unsteady, but she forced herself to follow.
Dario led her down another side street, his steps quick but measured.
The city seemed to close in around them, the buildings looming like silent sentinels.
She could feel the weight of the night pressing down on her, the consequences of their escape already starting to take shape.
As they turned another corner, Dario paused, his hand brushing against her arm. “Stay close,” he said, his voice low. “And don’t speak unless I tell you to.”
Evelyn nodded, her throat too tight to form words. She could feel the tension radiating off him, the way his body seemed poised for action. the next move, she knew it wouldn’t be easy. But for now, they were alive, and that was enough.
They moved deeper into the city, the sound of sirens fading into the distance. Evelyn kept her eyes forward, her focus sharpening with each step. The night was far from over, and Marsh wasn’t the kind of man who gave up easily. But for now, they had escaped, and that was all that mattered.
The clinic's alarm shrieked through the night, red emergency lights painting the hallway in bloody streaks.
Evelyn Crane pressed her back against the wall, the cold vinyl floor seeping through her torn scrubs.
Four blocks south of here, the last of her safe houses burned, confirmed by the acrid smoke curling past the broken window.
Marsh's voice crackled through the police scanner clipped to her belt. "All units, converge on the Crane Network locations marked in your briefing packets. Suspect is armed and considered extremely dangerous." A pause, then the smug addition: "Burn it all."
Dario Vitale materialized beside her, smelling of gunpowder and the pine-scented cleaner he'd used to scrub blood from his sleeves. "Your medical network," he said, watching the shadows at the end of the corridor, "just became a liability."
Evelyn's fingers found the hypodermic in her pocket, its weight familiar. "Those clinics kept three neighborhoods from turning into war zones." The syringe held enough fentanyl to drop a charging bull—or a determined detective.
"Which is why Marsh torched them first." Dario didn't touch her, but his presence coiled around her like barbed wire. "You made people loyal to you instead of the system. That's a death sentence in his eyes."
Down the hall, glass shattered. Evelyn's pulse didn't spike—she'd stopped reacting to threats like a civilian months ago. Instead, she noted the pattern: left to right, deliberate. Not Marsh's SWAT team breaching.
"Your cleanup crew?" she whispered.
Dario shook his head once. "Not mine."
The new detail struck her then—the intruders moved with the synchronized precision of people who'd trained together but weren't wearing badges. Marsh had brought in outside contractors. Professionals.
Evelyn palmed the syringe. "Tell me you have a secondary extraction plan."
Dario's smile was a blade. "I have six. Pick one."
Outside, the first explosion rocked the building, swallowing Marsh's shouted orders. Evelyn's last clinic—her last foothold in legitimate medicine—collapsed into fire and screaming. The network that had protected her, that she'd built to protect others, died in real time.
Dario caught her wrist as plaster rained down. "Now you run with us."
No mourning. No hesitation. Evelyn followed him into the smoke, the hypodermic cool against her palm. Marsh wanted her desperate? Fine. She'd show him what a desperate healer could do.
A figure emerged from the smoke ahead—tactical gear, no insignia, rifle raised.
Evelyn didn't wait for the muzzle to settle.
She lunged low, driving the syringe into the meat of the contractor's thigh as he sidestepped.
Missed the artery, but the man staggered back, eyes widening at the empty injector in her hand.
"Eight seconds," Dario said, shoving her toward the emergency stairs.
They made it to the fourth step before the contractor's knees buckled.
His partner rounded the corner just as the man hit the floor, his choked gasp lost in the groan of collapsing infrastructure.
Evelyn registered the second contractor's hesitation—half a second too long assessing his fallen comrade.
Dario didn't hesitate. His knife buried itself in the man's throat before the rifle could level.
"Six plans," Evelyn panted, leaping over the twitching body, "and you lead with fentanyl and a blade?"
"Seven now." Dario wrenched the knife free, wiping it on the dead man's vest. "You're improvising."
Another explosion, closer. The stairwell trembled. Evelyn grabbed the dead contractor's radio, catching the tail end of a transmission: "—east stairwell compromised, proceed to—" Static swallowed the rest. She tossed the radio down the shaft and heard it smash three floors below.
Dario kicked open the door to the third-floor landing. "Marsh called in Hargrave's team. Private military with a side of arson."
Evelyn's stomach turned. Hargrave didn't take prisoners—just trophies. She'd seen the photos from the Kingston job: severed fingers in a Ziploc bag, delivered to the client with a bow.
The hallway ahead was clear, but the ceiling panels rattled with each concussive blast. Evelyn spotted the exit sign—twenty yards, then the delivery bay. Freedom.
Dario caught her elbow. "Too easy."
As if on cue, the ceiling vent above them clattered open. A black-clad figure dropped down, landing in a crouch between them and the exit. No rifle this time—just a serrated hunting knife and a grin that said he'd heard all about the syringe.
Evelyn exhaled. Marsh hadn't just burned her network. He'd sent Hargrave to make sure no piece of her remained.
The contractor flipped the knife into a reverse grip. "Doctor Crane. Heard you were good with your hands."
Dario shifted, but Evelyn stepped forward, empty palms raised. "Let me show you."
Behind her back, her fingers found the scalpel she'd lifted from the dead man's vest.