Page 11 of The Beast's Broken Angel
Viktor
Wilson's brother spotted entering London Royal. Armed. Security footage confirms identity and weapon.
I stiffened, immediately connecting implications. Thomas younger brother James had military training and a history of volatile behaviour. He was seeking revenge, targeting a hospital as a soft entry point into Calloway interests. The foundation's recent public association with London Royal had created an opportunity for a grieving brother to strike where security would be minimally deployed.
“Change of plans,” I directed Dominic sharply. “London Royal, emergency entrance. Alert security team to converge.” The day's choreographed violence had spilled beyond acceptable containment. Wilson's brother must be neutralised before civilian casualties created unwanted police attention.
Dominic executed an immediate tactical turn, simultaneously activating our security network through his communications device. “Armed response necessary?”
“Containment and extraction only,” I clarified. “No casualties if avoidable. Hospital involvement complicates clean resolution.”
As the Bentley accelerated toward London Royal, I mentally catalogued the irritating variables now in play. The bullet wound, Vega's nephew, Wilson's vengeful brother, my grandmother's physician interviews—individual manageable issues converging to create unnecessary complexity. Control required isolation of problems, not their convergence.
Yet something in this chaotic collision of circumstances felt almost predetermined, as though invisible strings were being pulled by hands beyond my perception. The sensation of manipulation triggered deep-rooted paranoia cultivated through decades of survival in a world built on betrayal.
The hospital loomed ahead, its modernist architecture gleaming in the afternoon sun. Within its walls, a grieving brother sought vengeance for Thomas's execution, unaware that his target was now approaching from behind. Within those same walls, medical professionals worked to save lives through the same skilled hands that might soon attend my own damaged flesh.
Life and death, healing and harm, existing in such close proximity. The irony wasn't lost on me as I prepared to enter a place of healing with lethal intent. My existence had always balanced on that knife-edge between destruction and preservation, between inflicting necessary damage and maintaining crucial order.
As we pulled into the emergency bay, I adjusted my suit jacket to better conceal my weapon. “Stay with the car, engine running,” I instructed Dominic. “This won't take long.”
The automatic doors parted before me, admitting me into the controlled chaos of London's premier trauma centre. Somewhere within this labyrinth of healing, a man with a gun sought revenge for his brother's death. Somewhere within these same walls, medical expertise existed that might properly tend my own wounds.
I moved forward with purposeful calm, a predator entering unfamiliar territory with adaptable intent. Whatever outcome awaited, control would be maintained. Order would be preserved.
3
HANDS THAT HEAL
NOAH
My hands remained steady despite twenty hours on shift, suturing a laceration on a teenage cyclist while mentally tracking four other trauma patients simultaneously. The needle wove through skin with fluid movements born from thousands of similar wounds, my fingers remembering what my exhausted brain might otherwise forget. The emergency department of London Royal buzzed with controlled chaos around me, a symphony of beeping monitors, urgent voices, and squeaking trolley wheels that I found oddly comforting after all these years.
“Almost done,” I assured the terrified sixteen-year-old whose forehead I was piecing back together. “You'll have a proper war story for school, but the scar will fade nicely if you use the cream I'm prescribing.”
The boy's mother hovered anxiously nearby, her third cup of vending machine tea clutched in trembling hands. Beyond our curtained bay, a cacophony of human suffering provided the soundtrack to another day in London's busiest trauma centre. A drunk man bellowed obscenities at security, anelderly woman called weakly for a nurse, someone vomited noisily in the neighbouring cubicle.
“Multiple-vehicle collision arriving in three minutes,” Mika announced, sliding a fresh trauma packet onto my workstation. Her vibrant purple hair was pulled back in a practical bun, her scrubs bearing witness to a shift as brutal as my own. “They're routing the critical cases to us since Mercy Hospital's ED is on diversion.”
She paused, eyes flicking toward the entrance. “Oh, and heads up. Security's on high alert. Some bloke's been spotted wandering restricted areas. Management thinks he might be after drugs from the dispensary.”
I swallowed an exhausted sigh, completing the final suture with steady hands. The thread pulled skin together in a neat line that would heal with minimal scarring if properly cared for—a small victory in a day that had offered precious few. No time to dwell on fatigue or the fact that I was supposed to finish my shift an hour ago. Isabelle's medication costs wouldn't pay themselves.
“Right, you're sorted,” I told the cyclist, applying the final dressing. “Instructions for wound care are in here. Any dizziness, confusion, or fever, come straight back.”
I scribbled my signature on the discharge papers, already mentally shifting to the incoming trauma cases. My feet ached, my lower back throbbed, and hunger gnawed at my stomach, but these discomforts remained background noise to the immediate demands of the job.
“Got time for a quick cuppa?” Mika asked, falling into step beside me as I headed toward the trauma bay.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” I replied with a wry smile. “Rain check?”
She nodded, understanding without needing explanation. We'd started at the same hospital five years ago, forginga friendship in the trenches of overnight shifts and cardiac arrests. Mika knew about Isabelle, about the financial tightrope I walked each month, about the exhaustion that had become my constant companion.
“I'll grab you a sandwich at least,” she offered. “You're looking proper knackered.”
Before I could answer, I was already moving to the trauma bay, automatically checking equipment while pulling on fresh protective gear. The overhead speakers blared notifications about incoming patients as adrenaline temporarily washed away my bone-deep weariness. I checked the crash cart supplies, confirmed the ultrasound machine was charged, and verified the rapid infuser was operational.
Dr. Jonathan Hayes joined me, his usually immaculate appearance somewhat compromised after twelve hours on duty. His expensive watch caught the fluorescent lighting as he snapped on gloves. “Multiple traumas coming in. Hastings, you're with me on the first arrival. Should be here any?—”
