Chapter 312: Confrontation
"Something's definitely wrong—this incision isn't for a liver transplant!" Jimmy said after one look at the cut.
A liver transplant incision should be high on the left side of the abdomen. But this one was on the right. That wasn't a surgical mistake—it was deliberate.
At the same time, the doctors' accomplices finally snapped out of it. Guns came out, muzzles swinging toward Terry Milkovich and Jimmy.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rat-tat-tat!
A sudden storm of gunfire erupted outside the warehouse, loud and chaotic, like a full-blown firefight.
"What the hell is going on?" The shots from outside made everyone jump.
The warehouse doors were kicked open. Several men stormed in, carrying assault rifles and submachine guns, with shotguns slung across their backs. One look at them was enough to know they were dangerous.
They were Milkovich's people—his crew. Two of his sons were among them as well. Unfortunately, Mickey wasn't there; he was still locked up in juvie.
The shotgun blast Terry had fired earlier was the prearranged signal.
Seeing his men arrive, Terry finally exhaled. He flipped open the refrigerated container holding the "organ" and took a look inside.
"Fuck!" he roared. "This isn't a liver at all—it's a fucking kidney!"
Even someone as rough and uneducated as Terry knew the difference between a liver and a kidney.
He looked up sharply toward Johnny—only to realize the man was already running. Johnny had bolted for the back door the instant things went south, with the rest of his crew scrambling after him.
But everything had happened too fast. Several of them hadn't even had time to react.
"After them!" Terry shouted, grabbing one man who hadn't managed to flee yet. "Don't let a single one of those bastards get away!"
The black-market doctors had never intended to fight back in the first place. From the moment things went south, all they did was run.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Those of them carrying guns fled the fastest, firing wildly over their shoulders as they ran. They weren't aiming at anyone—didn't even expect to hit anything. The gunfire was nothing more than a desperate attempt to slow pursuit. After all, those guns had never been meant for real combat—just intimidation.
As Terry Milkovich was grabbing someone, he suddenly felt his arm clamp tight.
He turned his head—and saw him.
The square-faced doctor who had set off his instincts from the very beginning. Dr. Zabo.
Zabo looked completely ordinary, almost harmless—but his grip was terrifyingly strong. His hand closed around Terry's arm like a steel vise. No matter how hard Terry struggled, he couldn't break free.
Zabo tightened his grip.
Pain shot up Terry's arm, and he instinctively loosened his hold. The man he'd been restraining slipped free.
Then Zabo slammed into him.
Terry Milkovich—well over two hundred pounds—was sent flying.
Boom!
He crashed through the glass partition, flew several meters, and slammed hard into the warehouse wall.
Terry hit the ground and spat out a mouthful of blood, completely winded, unable to get back up.
Jimmy, who had been hiding behind medical equipment, stared wide-eyed in disbelief.
Seeing the chaos erupt, Jimmy crouched low and hurried toward Fiona.
"Stay behind me. Don't move," he said, pulling her back and pressing them both behind a pillar. His gun hand was slick with sweat.
"Dad!" Terry's two sons shouted in unison.
They raised their rifles and opened fire on Zabo.
At that moment, Zabo grabbed the operating table—with one arm—lifting it clean off the ground.
The table alone weighed several hundred pounds. Add Frank's body on top of it, and it should have been impossible. Yet Zabo raised it effortlessly, his face calm, his breathing steady—stronger than any Olympic weightlifter.
But as the table tilted, Frank—still under full anesthesia—rolled off and slammed onto the floor.
In the chaos, no one noticed.
No one except Fiona and Sammi.
"Dad!!"
Both of them cried out and instinctively rushed forward.
"Are you trying to get yourselves killed?!" Jimmy shouted, grabbing them both hard.
This wasn't a movie. Bullets weren't harmless props. In real life, getting shot meant dying.
"But Dad—" Fiona's voice trembled.
"Fuck… fuck!" Jimmy cursed under his breath.
"You stay here. I'll get him."
He grabbed a metal tray off the floor. It was useless—completely useless—in a real firefight. Even car doors couldn't stop rifle rounds, let alone a thin tray. But holding something made him feel marginally braver.
"Fuck it."
Adrenaline surging, Jimmy crouched low and sprinted forward.
He reached Frank, dropped the tray, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him back toward Fiona and Sammi.
No one stopped him.
No one even noticed.
Because this wasn't really a firefight—it was a one-sided chase.
Johnny and his crew had realized they'd run into people far more dangerous than expected. They had no intention of fighting back. Aside from a few blind shots fired while running, they never once turned around to aim.
Most of the gunfire echoing through the warehouse came from Milkovich's men—warning shots, intimidation fire. No one was actually trying to kill anyone. Shooting someone dead would only make things spiral completely out of control.
The only real violence was Zabo slamming Terry through the glass.
That single act had enraged Terry's sons.
They sprayed Zabo with gunfire, trying to turn him into Swiss cheese.
Zabo raised the operating table as a shield, bullets slamming into it as he retreated step by step.
When he reached the warehouse wall, he swung the table like a battering ram—crash—smashing a hole straight through it.
Then he disappeared through the opening.
"Fuck!!" Terry's sons shouted, starting to give chase—
"Don't!" someone yelled, grabbing them. "Check on Terry first!"
The chaos slowly settled.
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