Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 142938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Don’t trust any doctor, nurse, orderly or technician. He could be a chameleon for all we know, blending in with the hospital staff,” Vittorio added, one hand on the door to Grace’s room. He spread his fingers wide, as if he could physically touch her. He wasn’t looking at Emilio, but rather he looked through the little window toward Grace. She looked to be asleep. Emmanuelle was seated beside her, and her head was on the bed as if she, too, was napping.
Instant alarm skittered down Vittorio’s spine. He slammed his palm hard on the door, swinging it open, shoving it all the way to the doorstop. Mariko was seated in a chair and she barely looked up as he burst into the room, Ricco on his heels.
“He’s venting some kind of gas into the room,” Vittorio said. “Get out of here, Enzo. Mariko. Both of you go now.”
Ricco already had his wife up on her feet and was lifting her into his arms and running out of the room. Emilio caught up Emme and carried her out. Vittorio unhooked the bag of fluids from the stand, set it on Grace’s lap and then she was cradled against him, her head lolling back against his chest as he rushed her out of the room. It was only then that he realized Drago and Demetrio Palagonia had waited for him to get his woman, in spite of the fact that they’d both been exposed to the gas, before they fell into step behind him.
He glanced behind him at them. Their faces were gray, but their hands were steady, weapons out, as they moved with Vittorio, Ricco and Emilio, all three carrying the women.
“We need oxygen,” Vittorio called to the two nurses who manned the private suite around the clock. “Hurry.”
The nurses came running.
“Little bastard,” Vittorio muttered. He set Grace down on another bed inside one of the suites. “All of you need oxygen immediately.” He glanced at the vent and then his brother.
“I’ll take care of it,” Emilio said. “Go. Get that fucking little weasel.”
Vittorio had already covered Grace’s mouth and nose with an oxygen mask. She wasn’t unconscious, but definitely woozy. She kept bringing her good hand to her face and he was afraid she’d try to remove the mask. Mariko was holding her own mask as were the bodyguards, but Emilio was helping Emme. Emmanuelle and Grace had been closest to the vent.
“Let’s go,” Ricco said.
Several nurses had responded to the call for help and Enzo, Drago and Demetrio were identifying them, not allowing any male nurses into the room. When Vittorio was certain everyone was safe, he and Ricco hurried back to Grace’s hospital suite. Tomas and Cosimo Abatangelo followed them. The two were cousins and had both been shot a few months earlier, the same time Giovanni had been shot. Both were back to work, and Vittorio didn’t like that already they would be pitting themselves against a madman.
Vittorio pulled the curtains in the room to darken it and then he snapped on lights. Immediately the shadows crawled up the wall to spill into the vent. He stepped into the nearest one and was instantly pulled apart, his body in fragments, molecules racing up the wall, pouring through the slivers of openings into the darkened maze of ducts.
The moment he was inside, still moving fast, although the light throwing shadows was lessening so his speed diminished somewhat, he saw the cylinder. Carbon monoxide. That explained why those across the large hospital room weren’t as affected as Emme and Grace had been. He was certain the others would have headaches, but they hadn’t gotten near the dose the two women sitting under the vent had. Haydon must have managed to shut down the alarm as well, or it would have been blaring.
Staying in the tube, so he wouldn’t have to crawl on his hands and knees, Vittorio examined the shaft and the cylinder with the hose. Phillips had set it several feet inside the vent, most likely so it would slowly do its work without tipping anyone off. Vittorio was certain when he looked in the vent in the hospital room Sarto had been in, he’d find a similar canister.
There was no way Phillips was still in the ducts. He would have entered Sarto’s room through the door, pretending to be a nurse or technician. The policeman had followed him in and Phillips had slit his throat. Sarto was groggy from the gas and probably hadn’t cried out or tried to ring for help. Phillips had calmly gone about his business, torturing the enforcer, and then walked out. There would have been blood. Lots of it. He could have washed up in the bathroom and changed his clothes if he’d brought more. Phillips was a planner. He’d planned for every possibility.