Chapter 10
The back of the ambulance was a blur of sterile white walls, flashing monitors, and urgent, rapid-fire medical terminology. The vehicle tore down the suburban streets, its siren screaming a frantic warning to the world outside. The bright, saturated colors of the afternoon rushed past the small, tinted windows.
Warren sat on the small metal bench beside the stretcher, still wearing his decorated dress uniform. He gripped Maeve’s hand tightly in his own. Her fair, rosy skin was entirely pale, slick with a cold, terrifying sweat. Her eyes were squeezed shut in agony.
"Heart rate is elevating," the paramedic reported, his eyes locked on the digital monitor mounted to the wall. He adjusted the IV line taped to Maeve’s arm. "Blood pressure is dropping. We need to get an ultrasound on that abdomen the second we hit the bay."
"Is there a fetal heartbeat?" Warren asked, his voice steady despite the absolute terror gripping his chest.
The paramedic grabbed a handheld Doppler device. He squeezed a dollop of cold gel onto Maeve’s bruised, swollen abdomen and pressed the wand firmly against her skin. The speaker emitted a loud, rushing static sound, the noise filling the cramped ambulance.
The paramedic moved the wand frantically, his brow furrowing as he searched the monitor. The static hissed and popped, but the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a baby's heartbeat was devastatingly absent.
"I can't find it," the paramedic muttered, his American accent tight with stress. "There is too much fluid buildup around the impact zone. We have to assume fetal distress. Driver, step on it!"
"Dad," Maeve sobbed, opening her eyes. She looked at Warren, the absolute despair in her gaze shattering his military composure. "He killed her. Rex killed my baby."
"Do not give up yet, Maeve," Warren commanded fiercely, leaning in close and kissing her damp forehead. "You are a Shaw. We do not stop fighting until the war is over. Keep breathing. Keep fighting for her."
Maeve nodded weakly, squeezing his hand with the last ounce of strength she possessed.
As the ambulance careened around a sharp corner, nearing the towering structure of the regional trauma center, Warren’s cell phone vibrated violently in his uniform pocket. He ignored it for a moment, but the vibration persisted, relentless and urgent.
Reluctantly, Warren pulled the phone out. It was a text message from Sergeant Pierce, who had remained at the house to process the evidence with the police.
Warren opened the message. His blue eyes scanned the words, the blood in his veins turning to absolute ice.
Colonel. We just pulled the full audio logs from the hidden camera. Rex and Jonas didn't just want the trust fund. They were talking to someone on the phone right before you arrived. They were instructed to make sure the baby didn't survive. They were paid to do it, sir.
May you like
Warren stared at the glowing screen. The assault in the kitchen wasn't just a sudden escalation of a greedy family argument. It was a contracted hit on an unborn child. And the people who had paid for it were still out there.
The ambulance slammed to a halt, the rear doors flying open to reveal a team of waiting trauma surgeons. Warren stepped out into the blinding hospital lights, the message burning in his mind. The battle for his daughter's life was just beginning, but the war for her family's survival had already started.
