Chapter 12 - The Back-Alley Clinic
The sign above the garage door flickered out, reading only *AUTO RE* through the grime, but inside, the grease-stained walls gave way to a cramped, antiseptic back room where a disgraced former trauma surgeon named Henderson kept his underground practice. Henderson didn't ask questions; he just took one look at Vance’s pale face, motioned us toward a steel examination table, and immediately went to work with a pair of surgical shears. I stood beside Vance, holding a clean towel and a bottle of sterile saline, my hands trembling slightly despite my best efforts to steady them.
"This is going to burn," Henderson muttered, pouring isopropyl alcohol directly over the ragged entry wound in Vance's shoulder.
Vance didn't make a sound, but his knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the edge of the metal table, his dark eyes locked onto mine with a fierce, unwavering intensity. Every breath he took was measured and deliberate, a masterclass in absolute control. As Henderson probed for the slug, the harsh overhead fluorescent light hummed in the quiet room, casting long, sharp shadows across the concrete floor. Outside, the low rumble of a police helicopter passed overhead, its searchlight sweeping across the corrugated iron roof of the garage before fading into the distance.
"Clean through," Henderson grunted a moment later, dropping the blood-slicked lead bullet into a stainless steel basin with a sharp *clink*. "You're lucky it missed the joint, boss. Another inch to the left and you'd have lost the arm."
Vance exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders drop an inch as Henderson began stitching the torn muscle tissue with steady, practiced hands. "How long before we can move?" Vance asked, his voice rough but clear.
"Give it an hour for the local anesthetic to wear off, but keep your arm still," Henderson warned, wrapping thick gauze around Vance's chest. "And you might want to ditch the car. The city is crawling with federal marshals looking for the men who shot up the charity gala."
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I handed Vance his black suit jacket, helping him ease his injured arm through the sleeve while he gritted his teeth against the fresh ache. We had the encrypted ledger from Marcus’s safe tucked safely inside my vest pocket, containing the entire financial blueprint of the syndicate's local operations. But as we stepped out the back exit into the damp, chill air of the railyard alley, the heavy crunch of gravel behind us made us freeze instantly. Flashlights cut through the fog, and a sharp, authoritative voice rang out from the shadows.
"Federal agents! Don't move!"
