"Where did they take Mintai? Where are they planning to perform the surgery?"
Ignoring the bickering couple, Jack focused entirely on Mintai's whereabouts. Most of what he had said earlier was half-truths, designed to trick them into slipping up.
They didn't have the luxury of time to collect evidence meticulously; they were working with a partially completed chain of evidence. In fact, the Wakefields had been brought to the station only under the guise of questioning—there hadn't even been time to file for an arrest warrant.
The conversation wasn't taking place in an interrogation room but right by Danny's desk in the precinct. Meanwhile, Erin was rushing to secure a judge's signature for the warrant.
"They hired another underground doctor—Dr. Yin. The clinic is located between Bayard Street and Mott Street," Nancy Wakefield stammered, clearly nervous.
She had been uneasy from the moment she entered the precinct. In hindsight, it was clear her husband's initial insistence on waiting for a lawyer had been the smarter move. But now, the police had what they needed.
Having extracted the critical information, Jack and Danny ordered officers to cuff the couple before turning on their heels to leave. Much of what Jack had said earlier was fabricated, but his suspicion was real: Mintai's life could very well be in imminent danger. Time was of the essence.
As night descended, Chinatown's main streets were as lively as ever. Crowds bustled, and neon signs with colorful traditional Chinese characters blinked in every direction. Among them, the thickly made-up women loitering on the sidewalks gave the streets a distinct "Night City" vibe.
"Move! Out of the way!" A blur of a beige trench coat zipped through the crowded street, followed by a panting Danny and two uniformed officers struggling to keep up.
"It's... it's just up here... on the second floor..." One of the uniformed officers, a young Asian man who patrolled the area, managed to choke out between breaths.
By now, their squad car had been left far behind, stuck in the congested streets of Chinatown. Jack and Danny had opted to abandon the vehicle and sprint the rest of the way.
"You two stay here and wait for backup. We're going in," Jack ordered at the entrance of a narrow, dimly lit stairwell. He quickly checked his Glock.
The so-called "underground clinic" was exactly what its name implied: a place where anyone willing to pay could receive treatment, catering mostly to uninsured individuals and gang members who couldn't risk visiting legitimate hospitals with gunshot wounds.
Jack wasn't sure if the world of this reality had anything like the legendary "Continental Hotel" for hitmen, but many underground clinics had partnerships with gangs and could handle everything, even body disposal.
The "Dr. Yin Clinic" was one such establishment, operating under the guise of a legitimate practice. Without the help of a patrol officer familiar with the area, it would have been nearly impossible to locate.
"Shut up! Where's the operating room?"
Faced with the dark barrels of their pistols, a middle-aged African-American cleaning lady, clearly frightened, clamped her hands over her mouth and frantically gestured toward a nearby corridor.
"Get out of here; it's not safe," Danny waved her away as they hurried down the hall. They reached the last door, labeled "Staff Rest Area," with a "No Admittance" sign.
Danny pressed his ear against the door, listening carefully. Muffled cries—a woman's—could be heard from within. He turned and nodded slightly at Jack.
"Bang!"
Jack stepped forward and delivered a powerful kick, sending the door flying open. He stormed in with his Glock raised, firing two shots in quick succession that dropped a man sitting in the corner.
The target was a familiar face: the pudgy, squinty-eyed guy with a bowl cut who had been eating with Nelson Chiu at the restaurant earlier.
"Thud, thud, thud!"
Danny rushed in like a linebacker, tackling a white-coated man holding a scalpel near the operating table. The two tumbled to the ground.
"NYPD! Don't move!"
The cramped operating room, no more than ten square meters, was dominated by a surgical bed in the center. A pregnant Asian woman lay restrained on it, her legs bound apart. She writhed desperately, muffled cries escaping through the cloth gag stuffed in her mouth.
The doctor—a 50-something Asian man in a blood-stained lab coat—was now on the ground, clutching his right hand and wailing. The scalpel was buried deep in his palm.
"Don't move!" Jack pressed his foot against the man's back, keeping him pinned. He then leaned over and removed the gag from the woman's mouth.
"We're police. You're safe now. Are you Mintai?"
"My baby! My baby!" The woman, her face soaked with a mix of sweat and tears, could only cry out incoherently.
"Don't worry, don't worry, you're safe now. Nobody's taking your baby. Relax, we're here to help." Jack reassured her as he worked to untie her restraints.
Meanwhile, Danny confirmed that the man Jack had shot was indeed dead and was now calling 911 for backup and an ambulance.
"Danny… we've got a problem," Jack said grimly as he tried to help Mintai sit up, only to realize something was wrong.
"What's wrong?" Danny turned, but Jack's next words made his stomach drop.
"She's already in labor. Her water's broken, and the baby's crowning. We can't get her to a hospital in time."
"What?!" Danny gawked in disbelief.
"We've got to deliver the baby here," Jack said, yanking the trembling doctor off the floor. "Did you give her oxytocin to induce labor?"
"They said the police were onto us! They told me to hurry! I had no choice—they had guns!" the doctor sobbed, urine staining his pants.
"What's going on?" Danny asked, still trying to process the situation.
"There's no time to explain. Go drag that corpse out of here," Jack snapped, already rolling up his sleeves and heading for the sink to wash his hands.
"You're seriously going to deliver her baby?" Danny gaped, stunned yet again. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Just get that body out of here!" Jack barked, grabbing a pair of gloves.
By now, the woman's cries had reached a fever pitch, echoing through the tiny clinic. The ambulance was stuck in traffic, and the paramedics were making their way on foot, but it was clear they wouldn't arrive in time.
Jack had some medical training from his experience as a field agent and forensic examiner, but delivering a baby was entirely new territory. Fortunately, the doctor—despite his injured hand—could still talk, guiding Jack through the process while lying face-down on the floor.
The chaotic scene was surreal: the desperate screams of the laboring woman, Danny standing guard at the door next to the body of the dead gunman, and Jack crouched at the operating table, trying his best to remain calm.
Finally, just as two paramedics burst through the door, panting from their trek, the room was filled with the unmistakable sound of a newborn's first cry.
Jack held up the slippery, squirming infant—a baby boy—by the ankles, his face a mix of exhaustion and triumph. With a sharp slap to the baby's bottom, he elicited a loud, healthy wail.
The room fell silent for a moment, save for the baby's cries. Danny, standing near the door, let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Well," Jack muttered, cradling the newborn in his arms. "That's one for the résumé."
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