The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 8 - The Weight of a Dropped Blade

The thick, heavy curtain of the Spanish night had completely fallen over the city, drowning the dilapidated outskirts in an oppressive, ink-black darkness. The scorching heat of the afternoon sun had vanished, replaced by a deceptive, bone-chilling coastal breeze that whistled through the concrete skeletons of half-abandoned industrial structures. At the far, isolated perimeter of the provincial hospital, the shadows hung particularly deep.

​A battered sedan, its bodywork scarred with the phantom dents of near-misses and its engine ticking with an exhausted, rhythmic heat, glided into a dark patch of gravel directly across the street from the medical facility. The headlights cut out in an instant, plunging the vehicle’s interior into total obscurity. For several agonizing seconds, neither man inside made a move to open their doors. The heavy smell of old upholstery, sour sweat, and the sharp, coppery tang of dried blood filled the cramped cabin like an invisible suffocating gas.

​Todd sat rigidly in the passenger seat, his right shoulder slightly hitched to protect his freshly bandaged forearm. Beneath the thick layers of clean medical gauze, his flesh burned with a pulsing, white-hot agony where the high-caliber bullets had been torn from his skin hours prior. Every shallow breath he took was an exercise in pure willpower. He stared through the bug-splattered windshield, his eyes tracking the glowing, pale green neon letters of the emergency entrance across the wide, asphalt road.

​“So... what’s the plan?” Todd asked, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that barely cut through the ticking silence of the cooling engine. He didn't turn his head to look at the driver. He kept his gaze locked on the distant security cameras sweeping the hospital parking lot, his fingers twitching rhythmically against his uninjured thigh.

​James sat beside him, his hands still loosely gripping the worn plastic of the steering wheel. The dried crimson crust from the highway ambush was still matted into his hairline, fracturing into tiny, dark flakes every time his jaw tightened. His eyes were cold, vacant, and wide—blazing with that same primal, unyielding focus that had kept him alive since the orphanage. The internal war that had raged inside him during the taxi ride had settled into a rigid, dangerous line of absolute resolve.

​“You go in,” James said flatly, his words sounding deliberate, hollowed out of any unnecessary warmth. “Navigate the corridors, find her room, and get her out through the back exit door. The loading docks are dark enough to slip away. I will be sitting right here, keeping the engine running. The moment your boots hit the pavement outside that rear door, I’ll be waiting inside the car for you both.”

​Todd let out a dry, humorless breath that caught painfully in his throat. He shifted his weight, the movement sending a violent jolt of agony straight up his bicep. He swallowed hard, trying to flush the taste of raw adrenaline from his mouth. “And if she refuses to walk? If she’s too weak to move on her own?”

​“She’ll walk,” James muttered, his voice dropping into an even darker, more dangerous register. He finally turned his head, his sharp, shadow-drenched profile cutting through the gloom. “She’s a survivor, Todd. She knows what happens if Roman’s cleanup crews find her tied to a hospital bed. But you need to watch out for the police. The doctor was terrified enough to call the precinct before I broke out of her office. They will be crawling inside that building. They won't just be sitting at the entrance; they’ll be patrolling the wards.”

​“I’ll manage,” Todd said, a cold, mechanical detachment settling over his own features. The panic that usually threatened to claw its way up his throat was systematically pushed down, locked away behind the shared armor of their childhood survival instincts. “I’ve evaded worse than local precinct cops.”

​With a slow, calculated movement, Todd reached into the back seat and pulled out a heavy, braided wicker basket. It was a mundane, almost pathetic object—filled to the brim with vibrant, sweet-smelling seasonal flowers and a heavy assortment of fresh fruit. To any casual observer, it was the universal token of a grieving, worried relative. To Todd, it was a shield to mask the trembling of his injured arm. He reached up with his uninjured hand, pulling the brim of a dark canvas cap low over his eyes, ensuring the shadow hid the pale, gaunt hollows of his face.

​“Don't stall the engine,” Todd added quietly as his hand gripped the door latch.

​“I won't,” James replied, his thumb already resting on the ignition switch. “Move fast. Every second we waste gives the syndicate time to track the admission logs.”

​Todd pushed the door open, the rusty hinges letting out a faint, metallic whine that was instantly swallowed by the distant rush of highway traffic. He stepped out into the cool night air, the gravel crunching softly beneath his heavy combat boots. Behind him, the car door clicked shut with a dull, heavy thud. Almost instantly, the low, muffled thrum of the sedan’s engine vibrated through the dark air—James had started the car, keeping it in neutral, a idling predator waiting in the weeds.

​Todd braced his injured arm against his ribs, using the weight of the wicker basket to keep the limb completely immobilized. He forced his legs into a slow, measured, completely casual stride as he crossed the empty asphalt road. The harsh, artificial light of the hospital’s main entrance grew larger, casting long, distorted shadows of his silhouette across the clean concrete walkway.

​When he slid through the automated glass sliding doors, the sudden transition from the pitch-black night to the blinding, sterile white illumination of the interior caused his eyes to narrow. The air inside hit him like a physical wall—thick with the overwhelming, chemical sting of industrial bleach, rubbing alcohol, and the faint, unmistakable smell of sickness.

​Surprisingly, the main lobby was populated. A dozen or more people were scattered across the rows of vinyl chairs—exhausted families staring blankly at the floor, a man with a blood-stained towel wrapped around his hand, a mother whispering softly to a sleeping child. Yet, despite the crowd, the entire floor was dead silent. The only sound was the low, electric hum of the fluorescent light tubes overhead and the occasional, rhythmic squeak of a janitor’s mop further down the hall. It was a suffocating, unnatural quietness that made the hairs on the back of Todd’s neck stand up.

​He didn't hesitate. He maintained his slow, gentle pace, his boots making no sound against the polished linoleum as he approached the high, curved reception desk. Behind the counter sat two women in matching light-blue scrubs, their eyes glued to the flickering glow of computer monitors as they typed away with mechanical indifference.

​Todd stopped at the center partition, lifting the wicker basket slightly so the bright red apples and yellow bananas were clearly visible under the harsh lights. He forced a soft, tired, completely unassuming smile onto his face, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

​“Good evening,” Todd said, keeping his pitch polite and slightly weary, adopting the persona of a traveling family member. “I’m here to see Ms. Acilia Mary. I was told she was admitted to the emergency wing earlier today. I’m her cousin.”

​One of the women stopped typing. She spun her chair around, her sharp, exhausted eyes sweeping over Todd’s canvas cap, his slouching posture, and the large basket of fruit. She didn't look suspicious; she just looked profoundly bored. She pulled a heavy paper logbook toward her and picked up a cheap plastic pen.

​“Emergency surgery recovery,” the woman said, her voice flat and heavily accented with a local Spanish dialect. “Okay. Before I can give you the wing clearance, please... I will need your full name and your current residential address for the visitor registry.”

​Todd’s chest tightened. A cold sweat broke out along his spine, threatening to soak through his shirt and expose the fresh bandages beneath. He couldn't give a real name, and he certainly couldn't provide an address that could be traced back to their safehouse. He had to pivot, using the vulnerability of a foreigner to mask the deception.

​“Do I really have to provide a permanent address?” Todd asked, letting a trace of frustration enter his tone as he shifted the heavy basket to his other side. “Because... well, I’m currently staying in a temporary hotel on the other side of the district. I just came to Spain last week specifically so I could see her after we heard the news. It was a sudden trip. I would greatly prefer if I could just drop my name only and go see her. She doesn't have anyone else here.”

​The receptionist didn't blink. She tapped the tip of her pen against the paper with a slow, agonizingly rhythmic click. “It is standard hospital protocol for the emergency wing, sir. Especially tonight. I need your name, and I need the specific address of the hotel you are currently staying at.”

​Todd stared at her for a long, silent moment. The silence stretched between them, heavy and dangerous. He could feel the weight of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Seriously, he thought, a flash of bitter irritation cutting through his panic. They have armed shooters running around the highways, but the reception desk is worried about a hotel address.

​“Right. Okay,” Todd said aloud, letting out an exasperated sigh to sell the lie. He leaned forward slightly, dropping a completely fabricated name he had memorized from an old forged document years ago, followed by the name of a mid-tier commercial hotel located three districts away, along with a completely random street number.

​The woman scribbled the fake data into the logbook with a swift, careless script. She didn't bother to verify it. She simply nodded toward the heavy double doors to the right of the desk. “Third floor. Recovery ward. You can go up, but keep your visit brief. The doctors are still monitoring her vitals.”

​“Thank you,” Todd muttered.

​He turned away from the desk, his boots moving gently, gently down the long, narrow hallway. The moment he passed through the privacy doors, the relative safety of the lobby vanished. The corridor here was narrower, illuminated by a pale, blue-tinted light that made the clean walls look sickly. He kept his head down, his eyes constantly darting left and right as he checked the silver plastic room numbers mounted beside each heavy door.

​Room 24... Room 26... His eyes swept further down the hall, searching for Room 28, the staging area he had noted on the facility maps. But as his gaze traveled twenty yards further down the lane, his blood ran cold.

​Directly in front of Room 32—the highly secured isolation room where Tidder was supposed to be recovering—stood a lone uniformed police officer. The cop was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked incredibly out of place against the sterile white background. His heavy leather utility belt clanked loudly every time he shifted his weight, his hand resting casually near the grip of his holstered sidearm. He was staring straight down the corridor, his eyes scanning every shadow.

​Todd didn't panic. He didn't alter his stride. If he turned back now, the officer's predatory instincts would scream, and the entire floor would go into lockdown. Instead, Todd adjusted his grip on the wicker basket and stepped directly into Room 28, sliding through the door just before the cop’s gaze could lock onto him.

​The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Todd froze.

​The room was small, dominated by a single medical bed where an elderly woman—Ms. Acilia—lay completely unconscious, her breathing shallow beneath a plastic oxygen mask. Standing right beside the bed was a tall male nurse in a crisp, white clinical uniform. The nurse had just finished adjusting the dials on an IV machine and was in the process of setting a stainless-steel tray down on a rolling drawer.

​The nurse snapped his head around at the sound of the door, his brow furrowing in confusion as he took in Todd’s sudden, unannounced entrance.

​“Can I help you?” the nurse asked, his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping patient. “This is a restricted recovery zone.”

​Todd forced his breathing to remain steady, his mind spinning at a thousand miles an hour. He lifted the basket of flowers, letting the bright colors distract the man’s eyes. “I’m here to check on Ms. Acilia,” Todd lied smoothly, his voice a gentle whisper. “I’m her cousin. The front desk gave me clearance to slip in for just a minute.” Then, suddenly, Todd let out a dry, hacking cough, his hand reaching up to touch his throat. “Please... I’m incredibly dry from the walk up. The air in these halls is suffocating. Can I have a glass of water? Just a small one?”

​The nurse looked at the basket, then at Todd’s weary expression. The suspicion vanished from his face, replaced by a simple, professional empathy. “Okay,” the nurse said softly. He dropped his tray onto the drawer. “There is a small freezer unit in the corner. Stay here.”

​The nurse turned his back completely to Todd, walking over to the compact silver refrigerator mounted under the counter. He bent down, throwing the door open, his focus entirely directed inside the chilled compartment as he reached for a plastic bottle.

​In that exact microsecond, the warmth drained from Todd’s eyes.

​He dropped the wicker basket to the floor without a sound, the flowers scattering across the clean linoleum. With a silent, explosive burst of speed that defied the agony tearing through his injured arm, Todd lunged forward. He caught the nurse completely by surprise, wrapping his uninjured left arm around the man's throat in a brutal, iron-tight sleeper hold, while using his body weight to pin the nurse’s torso against the refrigerator door so he couldn't thrash.

​“Mphf—!” the nurse choked out, his eyes widening in terror as his fingers clawed uselessly at Todd’s forearm.

​“Shh,” Todd whispered into his ear, his jaw set in a grim, merciless line. “Stay still. Just go to sleep. I don't want to break your neck.”