Part 9
The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour Walgreens hummed with a depressing, sterile buzz.
It was 3:30 AM.
The rain outside had slowed to a miserable drizzle, misting the empty parking lot.
Emma walked down the medicine aisle, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she was afraid the lone cashier at the front would hear it.
She carried Leo tightly against her chest, wrapped in the blanket.
His breathing was heavy, a faint rattling sound vibrating in his tiny torso.
"Infant Tylenol... infant Tylenol..." she muttered, her eyes scanning the shelves frantically.
There.
She grabbed the purple box.
She also grabbed a bulb syringe and a bottle of sterile saline drops.
As she turned to head toward the checkout, the bell above the store’s front door chimed.
Emma froze.
Two men walked into the pharmacy.
They didn't look like late-night shoppers.
They wore heavy leather jackets despite the humidity, and their eyes were sharp, scanning the aisles with practiced, predatory movements.
One of them had a distinct, tribal tattoo creeping up his neck.
And on his wrist, barely visible beneath his sleeve, was a tattoo of a red snake.
Volkov’s men.
Emma’s breath hitched.
They were scouting the local pharmacies, looking for anyone buying medical supplies or baby products.
"Hey," the taller one said to the cashier, his accent thick and Eastern European. "You see a guy come in here? Big guy? Maybe bleeding?"
The teenager behind the register shook his head, terrified by the man’s aura. "No, man. Just... just her."
The cashier pointed directly down the aisle toward Emma.
Emma’s stomach dropped into a bottomless pit of pure terror.
The two Russians turned their heads and looked down the aisle.
Emma didn't run. Running would trigger their predator instinct.
Instead, she forced her face into an expression of exhausted, annoyed motherhood.
She clutched the medicine boxes to her chest and walked directly toward them, her gaze fixed on the exit.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice dripping with artificial irritation as she tried to squeeze past them. "My baby has a fever and I need to get home."
The tall Russian stepped into her path, blocking the exit.
His eyes dropped to the bundle in her arms.
Leo chose that exact moment to let out a sharp, raspy cry.
The Russian’s eyes narrowed.
He noticed the edge of the blanket—it was high-quality, Egyptian cotton, embroidered with a subtle, silver 'R'.
The Romano crest.
"Wait a minute," the Russian whispered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "What you got there, girl?"
He reached out a large, calloused hand to pull back the blanket.
Emma didn't think.
She didn't hesitate.
She remembered Adrian’s words: Do not talk to them.
With her right hand, she reached into the deep pocket of her oversized jacket, grabbed the cold, heavy handle of the Glock 19, and pulled the trigger right through the fabric.
BANG.
The sound inside the enclosed aisle was deafening.
The bullet struck the tall Russian directly in the kneecap.
He screamed, collapsing to the floor, clutching his shattered leg.
The second Russian gasped, his hand reaching inside his jacket for his own weapon, but Emma didn't give him the chance.
She didn't know how to aim properly, but at a distance of two feet, she didn't need to.
She slammed the heavy metal barrel of the gun directly into his face.
The crunch of his nose breaking was loud and sickening.
He stumbled backward, crashing into a display of energy drinks, groaning in agony.
The cashier screamed and dove under the counter.
Emma grabbed the medicine from the floor, sprinted out the automatic doors into the pouring rain, and threw herself into the gray sedan.
She threw the car into drive and slammed on the gas, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt as she fled back into the dark.
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She had just shot a man.
She was a waitress from Chicago, and she had just started a war.
