Chapter 6 - THE BASEMENT ESCAPE
The elevator hummed as it dropped toward the underground garage. Inside the steel box, the air was suddenly suffocating.
Grant looked down at Jolene. She was clutching her stomach, her face pale and shining with cold sweat. Seven months. It was too early. The stress, the running, the terror of the last few hours had pushed her body past its breaking point.
"Breathe," Grant said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register he used in boardrooms, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "Just breathe, Jolene. I’ve got you."
"It's too early," she panicked, gripping his sleeve. "Grant, the baby—"
"The baby will be fine. You will be fine," he lied smoothly. "We just have to get to the car."
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to the dimly lit concrete expanse of the basement garage.
Grant didn’t step out immediately. He peered around the metal frame. The garage was quiet, smelling of damp concrete and motor oil. His black SUV was parked fifty feet away, near the exit ramp.
He helped Jolene to her feet. She leaned heavily against him, biting her lip to stifle a groan as another contraction hit.
"Walk with me. Keep your head down," Grant whispered.
They moved out of the elevator, sticking to the shadows behind the concrete pillars. They were halfway to the SUV when the screech of tires echoed down the exit ramp.
Two black sedans sped down into the garage, blocking the exit. The doors flew open. Four men stepped out. They weren't wearing tactical gear like the Langford men upstairs. They wore cheap suits and held heavy, unregistered weapons.
Desmond’s men.
Grant pulled Jolene behind a massive concrete support pillar just as a bullet sparked against the wall behind them. The echo of the gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.
"Pin them down!" a voice echoed across the garage.
Grant drew his own weapon, a compact SIG Sauer he always carried. He checked the magazine. Twelve rounds. Against four heavily armed men. And he had a woman in premature labor to protect.
"Jolene," Grant said softly, crouching beside her. "I need you to stay exactly here. Do not move unless I tell you."
She nodded, tears of pain and fear streaking her cheeks.
Grant took a deep breath, leaned out from the right side of the pillar, and fired twice. A man by the lead sedan cried out and went down, clutching his thigh.
Return fire chewed up the concrete around Grant, sending sharp chips of stone stinging into his face. He ducked back.
He needed a distraction.
He reached into his pocket and his fingers brushed against his keyring. Not the silver key Jolene gave him, but the electronic fob for his SUV.
He waited for a lull in the shooting.
Press.
Fifty feet away, his black SUV roared to life with the remote start. The headlights flashed on, blindingly bright, illuminating the attackers.
"It's running! He's making a break for the car!" one of the men shouted.
Three of them turned their weapons toward the SUV, moving away from Grant's pillar to cut off the escape route.
It was the mistake Grant needed.
He stepped out from the left side of the pillar. He didn't rush. He aimed with cold precision. Two shots. Two men dropped, their weapons clattering across the concrete.
The last man panicked, firing wildly toward Grant, but the shots went wide. Grant closed the distance, firing once more. The man slumped against the hood of the sedan.
Silence rushed back into the garage, broken only by the hum of the idling SUV.
Grant ran back to Jolene. She was on her hands and knees now, breathing in harsh, ragged gasps.
"We're clear," Grant said, lifting her into his arms. She felt incredibly light.
He carried her to the SUV, laid her gently in the back seat, and slammed the door. He jumped into the driver's seat, threw the car into gear, and slammed on the gas. The heavy vehicle surged forward, smashing past the blocking sedans, scraping metal against metal, and roared up the exit ramp into the night.
"Hold on," Grant called back to her, weaving through the darkened city streets. He was breaking every speed limit, running red lights, his eyes constantly scanning the mirrors.
"Grant," Jolene moaned from the back. "It hurts. It hurts so much."
"We're three minutes from Mercy Memorial," Grant said.
"No!" Jolene cried out, panic slicing through her pain. "Not Mercy! That's Desmond's hospital. That's where he has people on the payroll. If we go there, we're dead."
Grant cursed softly under his breath. She was right. Mercy Memorial was the hospital on the fake death certificate. Desmond had reach there.
He spun the steering wheel, taking a hard left turn that made the tires scream.
"Where are we going?" Jolene gasped.
"St. Jude’s," Grant said. "It's a Catholic charity hospital on the west side. No private boards. No corporate money. Desmond has no leverage there."
He drove like a madman, finally skidding to a halt outside the brightly lit emergency room doors of St. Jude’s.
Grant jumped out, grabbed Jolene, and carried her through the automatic sliding doors.
"I need help!" Grant yelled, his voice echoing through the quiet waiting room.
Nurses rushed forward with a gurney. They transferred Jolene, immediately asking rapid-fire questions about her condition. Grant answered what he could, his hands stained with concrete dust and a smear of blood that wasn't his.
They wheeled her through the double doors into the trauma wing. Grant tried to follow, but a heavy-set nurse put her hand on his chest.
"Sir, you have to stay out here. Let us work."
Grant stood in the sterile hallway, watching the doors swing shut behind the woman carrying his child. For the first time in his life, Grant Holloway felt entirely powerless.
He walked over to a plastic waiting room chair and sank into it. He ran a trembling hand through his hair.
Then, he heard the slow, heavy thud of footsteps approaching from the main entrance.
Grant looked up.
Standing in the doorway, wearing a torn overcoat and bleeding sluggishly from a gunshot wound to his left shoulder, was Desmond Holloway.
Desmond didn't hold a weapon. He held both hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"Grant," the older man coughed, his face pale. "Don't shoot. Please."
Grant stood up, his hand dropping to his weapon. "Give me one reason."
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Desmond leaned heavily against the wall, sliding down slightly as his strength failed. He looked up at his nephew, his eyes filled with a desperate, ancient sorrow.
"Because," Desmond rasped, "I never signed that death certificate. And I didn't kill your father. I’ve been trying to find Jolene for five months... to save her from Vance."
