“Is it that bad?” Jenna asked.
Jenna and Jess sat next at the workstation lined with computers and telephones. Jess had worked overnight.
Jess’s jet-black hair contorted in a disheveled heap, and her eyes drooped. “Screw you,” her friend replied.
Jenna smiled.
Jess slid a piece of paper to Jenna with the patients’ names with corresponding room numbers and top diagnoses listed. “We need to work out a better rotation where I’m not cleaning up Dr. Pasha’s messes.”
Jenna arched an eyebrow. “What’d he do now?”
“He paralyzed a patient with no sedation. Yeah, that’s the same astonished face I made. He’s such a—you know what? Never mind. I want to go home, take a hot bath, and forget my career choice for a while.”
She rubbed her temples then launched into her checkout on the patients. “Bed one is hypoxic respiratory failure—ARDS. And now he is appropriately on sedation along with his paralytics. He’s on 80 percent oxygen and fourteen of PEEP. Bed two is a twenty-two year old with hypernatremia. Chick’s sodium was 162. How the hell did she survive that? She’s a lizard or from another planet. Or both.”
Jenna let her weary friend ramble through the list. She feared if she interrupted, Jess would launch into an even longer tirade and keep herself longer at work.
“Anyway, her sodium is down to 156. Next lab draw will be at oh-nine-hundred. Bed three is tumor lysis.”
“Lymphoma?” Jenna read off the list.
“Yep. Hydrate. Repeat labs also at nine. Bed four has alcohol withdrawal. One more day and we’re all done babysitting him for DTs. Bed five is a gram-negative rod sepsis. Getting IV fluid and weaning pressers.”
“Bladder infection?”
“Yep. Bed six is mixed pulmonary fibrosis and emphysema with pneumonia. She’s on high flow oxygen. She’s normally on six to eight liters at home.”
“Yikes.” Jenna knew patients with severe lung disease did not tolerate pneumonia well.
“I know, right? When she has one of her coughing fits, she drops her sats to 68 percent. The woman is an anaerobe. But she’s rational. She knows if she ever gets a breathing tube, it’s never coming out again. So she doesn’t want life support.”
“DNR-DNI?”
“Yep. And that’s a rap.”
Jenna frowned. Such a small patient list meant the day would be filled with getting new admissions. “Get some rest.”
“Peace out.”
As she watched Jess leave, she drained the last of her coffee and readied her mind for the day.
Later that day, Jenna cut through the chest wall and into the thoracic cavity of her patient. She parted the tissue between his ribs with sterile forceps. When she popped into the pleural space, dark red blood gushed out of the hole.
Hello hemothorax.
She slid in the hollow silicone chest tube.
This is a risk when we stick sharp objects into patients taking anticoagulation.
The patient had been on an anti-platelet drug for his heart. The hospitalist taking care of him decided to withdraw fluid off the patient’s lung. Under normal circumstances and with someone skilled, the procedure—a thoracentesis—was fairly low risk. Inadvertently nicking an artery or vein running along a rib was a danger; therefore, blood thinners were usually held for several days before such procedures were performed. This unfortunate gentleman had the procedure performed emergently on anticoagulation, and he commenced to bleed three units of blood into the space between his chest wall and his lungs.
Now, that blood gushed onto Jenna’s sterile drape, towel, and gown. The familiar copper scent diffused through the air.
After she connected the chest tube she had inserted to a drainage system, the blood flowed through the clear tubing and into a collection device.
And a red river ran through it.
“Mr. Jackson, we’re almost done. I need to suture this in.”
As she started the sutures, her hands began working independently with practiced motions. Her mind wandered to Antigua. She thought about her bar-side medical services, which led to thoughts of Ryan. Three months had passed and the bungalow kiss had started to fade like a dream. If she didn’t still have Ryan’s Rider SI business card, she might have begun to think she imagined the whole thing.
My next break. On my next stretch of days off, I will call Ryan Walsh.
She would take one day of recovery and then call him then next day. No excuses.
Ernesto Busta pulled a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and wiped moist drops of blood from his face. Swearing softly, he looked at the red stains on his white handkerchief. If blood had gotten on his face then it would also be on his suit. Tiny little flecks which may or may not be able to be removed.
He looked down in disgust and annoyance at Carlos lying prone on the floor. Dead. Next to his dead wife. Next to his dead children.
Sinfully Ernesto’s suit had been tainted because Carlos had gotten greedy.
Imbecil.
No one steals from Ernesto. He thought this was common knowledge. Apparently he had to reinforce the point. And since Carlos killed the first three men Ernesto had sent, Ernesto had to personally complete the job.
Incompetente.
His upper lip curled as he picked at the blood drying under his fingertips. He examined his hands, relieved to see no evidence of cuts or scratches on his skin.
Blood carried disease, and he wouldn’t have someone he’d killed laughing at him from the grave while he slowly died from a contracted illness. Like hepatitis. His father had gotten viral hepatitis in jail. The disease combined with his affinity for alcohol had culminated in cirrhosis and a slow, miserable death. Ernesto was not, nor would he ever be, like his father.
“Señor.”
Ernesto looked up at Juan. The short, stocky man had helped Ernesto manage the infestation problem Carlos had created. Together they had dealt with many obstacles over the years—from the first time they defended Juan’s little brother on the streets of Miami to taking over the Miami base of the Cuban mafia to Carlos. “Que bola?”
“The Chicago team is assembled.”
Ernesto blinked at Juan.
“Brad Masters’ wife,” Juan explained.
“Ah. Si. Si. Let’s go back to the office, and I’ll change first.” To his chagrin, his empire never functioned without turmoil. He put out one fire only to have another arise. Carlos had been dealt with, and dealing with Brad’s idiocy awaited.
Ernesto stepped carefully, avoiding stepping on splattered and congealed blood. He would not have blood soaking into his custom leather shoes.
He glanced at the bodies and turned back, “Juan—”
“The cleaners. Si, señor. It will be taken care of.”
“Bueno.”
Ryan plugged the USB into the side of the desktop computer. Reece stared out the glass window.
“Seriously, Reece. You’re supposed to be watching the door.”
“How come we don’t have offices like this?”
“Door.”
Ryan glanced around the large executive office. It was fairly posh. Who needed a couch in his office? Somebody who spent too many hours in an office.
Or somebody that claims such.
“Clock’s ticking, boys. You do know where the USB port is, right, Walsh? On the computer?” Claire said on coms.
Ryan typed in the password.
Reece shrugged. “Don’t worry. I put enough tetrahydrolozine in Eugene’s ice tea at lunch to keep him in the bathroom for an hour. Poor restaurant. He’ll probably report them to the health department thinking its food poisoning. Course he’s a lawyer, so he’ll sue. Then again, if his wife is right about billing fraud, he’ll be a little too busy to sue over the runs.”
“Gross,” Claire said. “Walsh? USB? Any day now.”
Ryan growled. Claire loved to pester him the way a younger sister pesters her brother.
“Done,” he said.
Claire couldn’t pass the company firewall so they had to physically get the information from the lawyer’s email. They would all have preferred to have Claire do this remotely.
“Great, give me a sec to download,” she said.
Two minutes ticked by.
“Okay. Got it. I’m done.”
Ryan ejected the USB drive, stuffing it in his pocket. He put the desktop back in save mode. Pulling off his black gloves, he returned them to his briefcase and then straightened his suit. No trace.
Ryan and Reece left the office together, locking the door.
Claire spoke, “Are you guys out? Did you grab the jump drive?”
Ryan sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Damn. Reece did you get the drive?”
Reece grinned. “No, man, I thought you got it.”
“Seriously?!” demanded Claire, her voice rising in high-pitched panic.
Reece snickered.
“It’s not our first rodeo, Claire,” Ryan said playfully.
“Not funny.”
After exiting through the waiting area, where Ryan and Reece were supposed to be waiting, they took the elevator to the lobby. At the security desk, the lawyer’s secretary argued with a bike courier about a delivery.
Ryan gave a wink to the bike courier who had done a remarkable job of keeping her distracted. Money well spent.
Ryan angled around and made eye contact with the secretary. “We can’t wait any longer. Please tell him thank you for lunch. We’ll reschedule when he’s feeling better.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Before she had a chance to provide any further comments, the courier resumed the heated argument, flustering the poor assistant until she turned red.
Ryan and Reece exited the building and walked down the sidewalk. Reece took out the small communication device in his ear. Ryan withdrew his mobile phone and took it off silent.
“Did she call again?” Reece asked.
“No.”
But Jenna had called.
“You gonna call her?”
Their rental car was parked a few blocks away from the lawyer’s office building.
“Yes. We wrap up this case file, and I’m calling her.” He adjusted the briefcase in his hand and took out his earpiece.
“Still stalking her?” Reece asked.
“I’m not stalking her,” Ryan replied, his tone casual and not defensive. “When she called, I wanted to make sure she was safe. And she was.”
“Yeah,” Reece scoffed, “and you keep making sure she’s safe.”
Ryan didn’t answer. He checked her location every once in a while. He liked seeing where she was and imagining what she was doing.
She’s at the hospital ... maybe leaning over a patient with her stethoscope pressed to someone’s grandmother’s heart or running an emergency, maybe another cricothyrotomy, preferably with numbing medication and the appropriate sterile equipment.
She’s at home ... maybe curled up on the couch eating a chicken salad sandwich or laughing deliciously as she video-conferenced with Cal. He imagined her tossing her head back as she laughed, shimmering tawny hair spilling around her.
She’s at the Indian restaurant ... probably getting takeout. He didn’t like thinking of her walking in the dark from her apartment to the restaurant alone.
She’s running along the lake shore again ... with her ear buds in, maybe playing ocean sounds so she’d feel like she was running along the beach in Antigua. He remembered those slender yet muscular legs and copper-haired ponytail swaying.
With the DC job finished, he would call her. If she pushed him back again, then he would leave her be and delete her phone from his tracking program on his laptop. But she wouldn’t turn him away, not based on her body language in Antigua, not based on the fact that she had called him.
Jenna left the gym after a midday workout routine. A cheerful May sun lit the sky. The brisk wind felt good on her hot cheeks. She slung her purse over her shoulder, across her chest, and chucked her towel over the other shoulder. Squinting down at her phone, she checked to see if she had any text messages from Cal. Nothing. Perhaps he was in class.
She took a gulp from her water bottle and started walking the few short blocks back to her apartment. She felt a zing of excitement. She would call Ryan today. No excuses.
A faded baby blue van caught her attention as it came to a screeching halt at the curb near where she was walking. She looked up startled as the door slid open.
Large masculine arms wrapped around her torso from behind her. She dropped her phone and water bottle in surprise. She screamed as the man lifted her and moved her closer to the open door and a masked man waited for her inside the van.
“Time to pay your husband’s debts,” her captor growled. His hot breath on her neck smelled like stale corn chips crushed in an ashtray full of week-old cigarette butts.
Fear coursed through her like an icy wave. If she remembered one thing from her college self-defense class, it was never get into the car. Once in the car, they could take their victim anywhere and do anything.
Never let yourself be forced into the car.
Struggling against the man’s vice-like a grip felt futile, but she did it anyway. Her eyes darted around, not seeing anyone near on the street who could help her.
As the man in the van reached for her, she gave a high kick and struck his chin. It was only a glancing blow, but it slowed his approach and made him more cautious.
The man holding her in his grip leaned back to lift her up into the van. Jenna arched back with him then positioned both legs on the edge of the van door frame and pushed with every ounce of quadriceps strength she could muster.
He stumbled backward, tripped on the curve, and fell back onto the hard concrete. As he released a grunt, his hold on Jenna slackened.
She rolled off of him and kept rolling right under the van, snagging her phone off the ground as she whirled. She tumbled into the street with a silent hope that she wouldn’t get run over by a passing car in the process.
Clear of the van, she jumped to her feet and took off at a sprint.
She could hear the driver of the van open his door and shout, but she didn’t look back at him. She didn’t want to know if he was pointing a gun at her.
Brad’s debts? What kind of shitstorm had he started?
Still racing, she held her purse with one hand to keep it from flailing and looked at her phone in the other hand. The screen had cracked but it still worked.
Ryan and Reece reached their rental car. As they got inside the vehicle, Ryan’s phone rang.
Jenna. His heart skipped a beat.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Ryan!” Panic filled her voice and she was panting.
“Jenna, are you okay?”
“I think ... I need ... consultation. How much … do you charge … per hour?” She talked between gasps for air.
She’s running.
Ryan snapped his fingers at Reece and jerked a finger at his briefcase in the backseat. Reece obediently retrieved his laptop.
“What’s going on, Jenna?”
“Think ex ... had some … bad debt. Loan shark … tried to grab me. Chasing me now.”
Ryan logged in to his laptop and pulled up her location.
She was running down West 18th street.
“Okay. Jenna. I want you to go to Roosevelt station, and you’re going to take the L to O’Hare. You’ve got a mile dash ahead of you. I know you can do it.”
By his calculation, she ran five miles every other day in Antigua. A mile under duress at full speed wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, but she was fit enough to make it.
He put her on speakerphone so Reece could listen.
“Airport?” she gasped. “But my ... apartment?”
“Take your next left. No, you can’t go to your apartment. An apartment door will not stop armed gunmen. I want you layers deep in airport security.”
A lump settled in his stomach envisioning her chased by armed gunmen. “Jenna, are they armed?”
“Didn’t stop ... to ask. Kicked one ... face ... took off.”
Reece pointed at the computer screen.
“Take a right in one-hundred feet. Next intersection.”
“Sorry … circumstances,” she huffed.
She’s running for her life and apologizing for calling me?
He shook his head at his partner.
Pushing the mute button, he turned to Reece. “Get Claire on the phone. I need a full background on Brad Masters—her ex. Who does he owe money too and how bad?”
Reece pushed a speed dial button on his phone.
Ryan took Jenna off mute. “Jenna, you’re doing great. You have I.D. on you?”
“Yes. Cramping ... legs ... already ran today.” Heavy gasps of air came through the phone between her pained voice.
The sound of her exhalations over the phone stopped and the sound of cars driving and honking emitted faintly in the background. Then Ryan heard the metro—the unmistakable rumbling and muted screeching of an above ground train.
She made it.
Ryan strained to listen to every sound. She had paused, perhaps to catch her breath or relieve a cramp.
A terrible scream ripped from Jenna’s lips.
Ryan felt the blood drain from his face. “Jenna!”
He heard a few thuds and the sound of a door sliding shut, like a side door of a van. Muffled Hispanic voices talked frantically, and then the call disconnected.
“Jenna!”
Ryan felt suddenly sick and claustrophobic. He got out of the car, panting and fighting down the urge to vomit. Kidnapping! He’d been on the retrieval end of kidnappings. He hated kidnappings, mostly because few victims survived. The next twenty-four hours would be crucial.
He felt Reece’s firm hand on his shoulder. “Phone’s not disabled. We’re still tracking her. If her ex owes money then she’s worth more alive than dead.”
Until they figure out she doesn’t have any money.
She had explained to Ryan how Brad had burned through most of her monthly earnings like thermite, leaving nothing but molten iron and smoke.
Ryan sucked in a deep breath. “I need a plane to Chicago,” he growled.
“Already on it. Claire is clearing a flight plan.”
Ryan nodded. Good. Taking the private jet meant he could pick-up a gun in DC and keep it on him in Chicago.
“I need a gun.”
“We need some guns,” Reece corrected him.