Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Ward
Robert didn't hesitate. He knew every back hallway, utility closet, and service elevator in Mercy Creek Medical Center. He slipped away from the alcove before the men in suits could notice him, taking a restricted access staircase that led directly into the rear of the maternity ward.
He burst into Joanna’s room, closing and locking the door softly behind him.
Joanna was holding her sleeping baby, her face pale but calm. When she saw Robert’s disheveled appearance, the sweat-soaked scrubs, and the look of sheer urgency in his eyes, she immediately sat up straight.
"What is it? Is Logan... did he make it?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Logan is alive. He's stable, but he's in a coma in the ICU," Robert said quickly, stepping over to the bed. "But we don't have time to discuss that right now. Joanna, who is looking for you? Who did Logan get involved with?"
Joanna’s eyes widened with a sudden, paralyzing terror. "Why? Did they find me?"
"There are two men out at the reception desk right now. One has a scar on his eyebrow. They’re looking for you, and they mentioned Logan owing money and taking something."
Joanna let out a sharp gasp, her face losing what little color it had left. She pulled the baby closer, her entire body shaking. "Oh god. It's Marcus. They found us."
"Who is Marcus?" Robert demanded gently, kneeling beside the bed to look her in the eyes. "Tell me everything, Joanna. I can't protect you if I'm in the dark."
"Logan... he got desperate," Joanna cried, her tears falling onto the baby's blanket. "Before he left me, he told me he had found a way to clear his debts. He was working for a man named Marcus Vance, a powerful underground loan shark and smuggler in Baltimore. Logan was supposed to transport a shipment for them, but when he found out it was illegal firearms, he refused. He tried to back out, but Marcus threatened his life. So Logan stole the shipment—and a ledger containing all of Marcus’s transaction records—and hid it. He told me he was going to use it as leverage to keep us safe. But then he panicked and ran, leaving me behind so they wouldn't target me."
"But they targeted you anyway," Robert realized, his jaw clenching with anger.
"They tracked me to my apartment, so I fled to New York, changed my name, and worked under the table," Joanna explained, her voice cracking. "I thought I was safe. I thought the hospital intake wouldn't flag my real name, but I had to use my real social security number for the medical insurance forms. They must have an inside source or a hack into the system."
"The system flags high-priority alerts across state lines if there's a police report tied to a name," Robert muttered, his analytical mind quickly piecing it together. "Marcus must have contacts in the police department or a dark web alert set up for your identity."
Suddenly, the doorknob to Joanna’s room jiggled violently from the outside.
Joanna froze, her breath catching in her throat.
"Joanna Ellis? Open the door. We just want to talk," a muffled voice called out from the hallway. It was the gravelly purr of the scarred man.
Robert stood up, his face hardening into an expression of fierce, protective rage. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on a heavy metal IV pole. He grabbed it, unscrewing the top attachment to turn it into a makeshift weapon.
"Robert, no, they have guns!" Joanna whispered in terror.
"They won't fire a gun in a crowded maternity ward unless they're suicidal," Robert said, his voice deadly calm. "The noise would bring every security guard and police officer within a five-mile radius. They want to grab you quietly."
The lock on the door groaned as heavy pressure was applied from the outside. Someone was trying to shoulder the door open.
"Get into the bathroom," Robert ordered Joanna, pointing to the small, private restroom in the corner of the room. "Lock the door from the inside. Do not come out until you hear my voice."
Joanna scrambled out of bed, holding her baby tightly against her chest. She slipped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut just as the main room door gave way with a loud CRACK.
The wood splintered, and the scarred man stepped into the room, his hand hidden inside his jacket. His partner, a larger man with a shaved head, followed closely behind.
When they saw Robert standing there, holding a metal IV pole like a staff, the scarred man laughed sneeringly. "Out of the way, old man. We're just here for the girl and the kid."
"You are in my hospital," Robert said, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying power. "And you are threatening my family. You have exactly five seconds to turn around and walk out before I ensure you leave this building in a body bag."
The scarred man’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, murderous glare. "Have it your way. Take him down."
The bald man lunged forward, his massive fists swinging toward Robert's head. But Robert was a surgeon—he understood human anatomy, leverage, and weak points better than any street thug. He stepped inside the punch, swinging the heavy metal pole upward. It connected with a sickening CRUNCH against the bald man’s jaw.
The man groaned, stumbling backward into the bedside table, shattering a plastic water pitcher.
Before the scarred man could pull his weapon from his jacket, Robert lunged forward, thrusting the end of the IV pole directly into the man’s solar plexus. The air rushed out of the thug’s lungs in a violent gasp, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.
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Robert didn't stop. He kicked the scarred man's hand away from his jacket, sending a compact black pistol skittering across the linoleum floor. Robert picked up the gun, checking the safety with a practiced ease—a relic of his own brief military service decades ago.
He pointed the weapon directly at the scarred man’s forehead. "Now. Let’s talk about Marcus Vance."
