My ER Shift Turned Into A Mob Surgery — Now I Am The Target

Part 1

Blood pooling on pristine white linoleum is a sound you never forget.

It was my fourteenth hour on the shift, and my migraine was a living thing behind my eyes.

Cook County Memorial was a war zone of flu symptoms, broken bones, and the tragic aftermath of the city’s unforgiving streets.

The smell of industrial bleach barely masked the underlying scent of copper and stale sweat.

Brenda, the charge nurse, muttered as she aggressively stamped a patient’s chart at the front desk.

She complained that we were out of gauze again, her voice tight with exhaustion.

I offered a tired nod and told her I would check the basement supply cache.

Stepping away from the glaring fluorescent lights of the main floor, I pushed through the heavy double doors leading to the subterranean levels.

The hospital’s basement was a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors, boiler rooms, and overflow storage.

It was quiet down here, a stark contrast to the screaming monitors above.

I navigated the familiar route towards storage room C, my rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly against the polished concrete.

I never made it to the gauze.

A cold, heavy hand clamped over my mouth, yanking me backward into the shadowy alcove of an out-of-service elevator bank.

My scream was muffled against a leather-clad palm.

The metallic click of a weapon pressed against my ribs froze the blood in my veins.

A deep voice rasped in my ear, telling me not to scream.

I nodded frantically, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The hand slowly released my mouth.

I spun around, my professional instinct warring with pure terror.

Leaning heavily against the tiled wall was a man who clearly did not belong in a public hospital basement.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit that was currently ruined by a massive, spreading stain of dark arterial blood on his right side.

His face was all sharp angles and harsh lines, framed by dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Despite the gray pallor of his skin and the obvious agony he was in, his dark eyes were predatory and lucid.

He read my badge and told me I was going to fix this off the books.

I told him he needed a trauma surgeon, or he would bleed out right here on the floor.

The barrel of the gun pressed harder against my scrubs.

Survival instinct kicked in, and I shoved my panic into a small, dark box in my mind.

I half-carried him down the hall to an abandoned treatment room, locking the door behind us.

I ordered his shirt off, the nurse in me taking over completely.

He unbuttoned his ruined dress shirt with trembling fingers, revealing a torso scarred with old violence and the fresh, jagged entry wound of a hollow-point bullet.

I raided a locked emergency cart in the corner.

I warned him it was going to hurt, drawing up the local anesthetic.

He gripped the steel edges of the examination table so hard his knuckles turned white, telling me to just dig it out.

For the next twenty minutes, I worked in agonizing silence.

I flushed the wound, my hands steady despite the circumstances.

I clamped the forceps around the deformed lead bullet and dropped it into a metal kidney basin with a sharp clink.

He let out a ragged breath as I stitched the torn muscle and skin with precision.

When I stepped back, stripping off my bloody gloves, I found him watching me with a calculating appraisal.

He reached into his ruined jacket and pulled out a thick, blood-smeared wad of hundred-dollar bills.

I stared at the money, then at him, feeling a sudden flare of anger eclipse my fear.

I told him I didn’t want his money, because taking it meant I worked for him.

A faint, humorless smile touched his lips as he slowly put the cash away.

He noted my principles, and by the time I turned back from the biohazard bin, he was gone.

Three days passed in a blur of hyper-vigilance.

I jumped at every slamming door, every wailing siren, and every shadow stretching across the pavement.

I scoured the local news stations looking for reports of a mobster bleeding out in an alley.

Nothing.

It was Tuesday evening, and I sat in my cramped apartment wrapped in an oversized sweater.

The radiator hissed and clanked against the biting autumn wind rattling my thin window panes.

Spread across my small kitchen table was a mountain of bills, specifically final notices from the medical center.

My mother had fought a brutal battle with cancer before passing away six months ago.

The experimental treatments had left me drowning in over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of medical debt.

The collection agencies called five times a day.

I rubbed my tired eyes just as three sharp, deliberate knocks echoed through my apartment.

My tea spilled over the rim of the mug, burning my knuckles.

Nobody visited me unannounced, especially since the building’s buzzer was notoriously broken.

I crept toward the door and peered through the scratched peephole.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway was the man from the basement.

He wore a flawless midnight blue suit, radiating an aura of lethal authority that made my cheap wooden door feel like wet cardboard.

He held a sleek black briefcase and a small glass box containing a rare ghost orchid.

He spoke my name through the wood, telling me to open the door.

My hands trembled as I undid the deadbolt.

He stepped inside, introducing himself as Tony Rossi.

He placed the briefcase on my cluttered coffee table.

I crossed my arms defensively, reminding him I didn’t want his money.

His dark eyes scanned the room, landing inevitably on the scattered bills on my kitchen table.

He picked up a final notice, his voice devoid of judgment as he read the crippling sum.

He gestured to the black briefcase and told me to open it.

Reluctantly, driven by a morbid curiosity, I walked over and popped the heavy latches.

Inside were the original promissory notes, the hospital lien documents, and the collection agency transfers.

Stamped across every single page in heavy red ink was the word paid in full.

He stated casually that he had bought the debt collection agency and wiped my ledger clean.

Tears pricked my eyes, a chaotic mixture of overwhelming relief and absolute terror.

Tony stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne washing over me.

He pulled a small plastic evidence bag from his pocket and tossed it onto the table.

Inside was the deformed bullet I had pulled from his abdomen.

His voice dropped an octave, turning deadly serious.

He explained that the slug didn’t come from a rival gang.

It came from the service weapon of Detective Brian Miller, a dirty cop on a rival payroll.

Brian had pulled the encrypted security feeds and saw Tony stumble into my loading dock.

He saw me step out for a break, and he knew a nurse had treated a mob boss.

Tony told me that if Brian found me, he would kill me to tie up the loose end.

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

Tony looked at me, his eyes dark and uncompromising.

If you stay in this apartment tonight, you will be dead by morning.