Chapter 7
Steam hissed from the ruptured radiator of the ambulance, mingling with the freezing rain.
Florian kicked open his door and stepped onto the wet asphalt before his vehicle had fully settled. His gun was drawn, held low against his right hip, his tailored suit instantly plastered by the driving gale.
From the cab of the crashed ambulance, the passenger door flew open. A man in tactical fatigues stumbled out, raising an assault rifle.
Florian didn't break stride. He raised his weapon and fired two rapid, disciplined shots.
The rounds punched through the guard’s chest armor, dropping him instantly to the pavement. The driver’s side door opened next, but the second man saw his partner down and raised his hands immediately, dropping his sidearm into the gutter.
"On the ground!" Florian’s driver barked, pinning the second guard against the asphalt with a boot to the neck.
Florian walked directly to the rear of the ambulance. The double doors were dented inward from the collision. He seized the handle, ripped it open with a wrench of raw adrenaline, and hauled himself inside.
The interior was lit by cold, buzzing fluorescent lights.
Sitting on a jump seat beside a medical gurney was Dr. Arthur Lindt. He was a balding man in his late fifties, wearing an expensive tweed coat over scrubs, clutching a leather medical bag to his chest like a shield.
On the gurney lay Clara.
Florian’s breath stopped in his throat.
His daughter, thirty-one years old, was strapped down with heavy leather restraints across her chest, wrists, and ankles. Her once-radiant blonde hair was matted with sweat; her skin was ghostly white, framed by dark, sunken purple hollows around her closed eyes. An intravenous line was taped to the back of her left hand, feeding clear fluid from a hanging plastic bag.
Across her jaw and neck, beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, thick streaks of golden theatrical body paint were peeling away, revealing ugly, greenish-purple bruises beneath.
"Mommy needed paint, too." Tilda’s tiny voice echoed in Florian’s memory like a thunderclap.
Florian stepped forward, his eyes burning with an incandescent, terrifying rage.
"Don't shoot!" Lindt shrieked, backing into the corner of the ambulance, holding his hands up. "I’m a physician! I was following family orders! Hadrian gave me legal power of attorney documents—"
Florian didn't shoot. He seized Lindt by his tweed collar, hauled him out of the seat, and slammed his head violently against the reinforced steel cabinet behind him.
The glass of the medicine cabinet shattered. Lindt groaned, blood pouring from his nose.
"What is in that bag?" Florian demanded, pointing at the IV line.
"Haloperidol... and lorazepam..." Lindt choked out, his eyes rolling back in terror. "Just sedatives! To keep her compliant during transit! I swear to God, she’s not permanently damaged! We were titrating the dose!"
Florian pulled the IV needle from Clara’s hand, pressing his thumb against the small puncture wound until the bleeding stopped. He checked her pulse; it was slow, thready, but steady.
"Clara," Florian whispered, leaning down. His rough, scarred hand touched her cheek with infinite tenderness. "Clara, it’s Daddy. Wake up, sweetheart."
Clara’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Her lips parted, dry and cracked, but no words came out—only a faint, rasping whimper. Her fingers twitched against the leather straps.
Florian drew his knife, slicing through the thick leather restraints in four clean, violent strokes. He lifted his daughter into his arms, gathering her limp, fragile body against his chest. She weighed almost nothing; they had been starving her.
He turned toward Lindt, who was huddled on the floor of the ambulance, sobbing.
"You took an oath to heal," Florian said, his voice dropping into a chilling whisper.
"Please... Mr. Ravensmere... I have a family..."
Florian looked down at the leather bag Lindt had dropped. Inside were several vials of concentrated sedatives and an unopened syringe.
"Give him the whole bag," Florian said to his driver over his shoulder.
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"Mr. Ravensmere, no! That’s a lethal dose! That will stop my heart!" Lindt screamed, scrambling across the floor.
Florian didn't look back. He carried his daughter out into the rain, shielding her face with his dark overcoat as he carried her to the waiting SUV. "Then you better start praying, Doctor."
