“Mr. Quinn, can you hear me?” His German accent was singsong and taunting. Ryder struggled to focus on the man’s aristocratic face.
He did not look the part of one of the most dangerous men in the world and yet Franz Kaiser was wanted for crimes against humanity in sixteen countries.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Quinn?”
The slap came suddenly, ruthlessly across Ryder’s face and he blinked. It was precisely what the American needed.
His focus became sharper and he took in his surroundings with acute detail, despite the grogginess overtaking his brain.
Two men. Franz Kaiser and a soldier.
A soldier. How interesting. A German soldier.
A bristle of nervousness touched the back of Ryder’s neck.
Soldiers meant military involvement.
This goes deeper than I thought.
Ryder was secured to a chair, not unlike the one he had left Morcan in, in Turkey.
Torture practices are the same universally, he thought grimly. He knew he had to muster his strength.
Ryder’s eyes flittered over toward the table and he inhaled sharply. There was a tool belt open, shining instruments ready to be used to pluck, pick and stab him into submission.
This man just made the biggest mistake of his life, Ryder thought but he knew he would have to clear the fog from his mind before he could efficiently overtake Kaiser and his soldier.
“Herr Kaiser,” Ryder said in Kaiser’s native tongue, his voice hoarse with dryness. “I have also heard much about you.”
Kaiser’s green eyes widened with pleasure.
“You speak German!” he announced, clapping his hands as if he had found a fellow countryman abroad. “How wonderful! And I had always been taught to believe that Americans are barbaric cretins without an ounce of culture. I am humbly impressed.”
Ryder offered him a wry smile.
“I imagine you would know a barbaric cretin when you saw one, wouldn’t you?” Ryder replied.
Franz lost his genial smile, his face suddenly inches from his captive’s face.
“You know nothing about me!” he hissed, spit spraying from his mouth. His eyes seemed to emit emerald sparks of rage.
“You know nothing and yet you continue to hunt me like a dog!” he continued to rant.
Ryder shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
“I know nothing about that,” he replied. “I am simply here to take in the sights of this lovely country.”
Franz turned his back and reached for a scalpel, holding it up to the dim light of the single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“Ah I wish that was true, Mr. Quinn but you must know that there is a reason I know you are here. How else would I know where to find you?”
Ryder did not respond but he knew that there was only one-way Kaiser could have known.
Riverville sold me out? But why? Why would he do it now? And with Kaiser?
It didn’t make sense and yet Ryder could think of no other way that Franz could know where to find him.
Kaiser approached him, rolling the scalpel between his palms.
“Now you must not be concerned,” Franz said conversationally as he slipped off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt.
Again, Ryder was struck at how handsome the hired killer was.
“I have orders not to kill you,” Franz continued, smiling a dazzling white grin.
Ryder bit his lip to steel himself from asking the man any questions despite the fact that his brain was screaming out things inside of his head.
Orders from whom? And who the hell gives Franz Kaiser orders?
The scenario was so strange, Ryder was sure he was dreaming.
He had always known Kaiser to work alone over the years. It seemed unfathomable that the man would listen to anyone. He was unpredictable at best, a freelance assassin with ties to no one.
He had evaded capture for decades, wreaking havoc on almost every continent of the world.
“But that does not mean we can’t have some fun, right?”
The blade lashed out, slicing at Ryder’s face but the operative’s reflexes were shockingly responsive considering his state of mind. His head bobbed expertly to the side as he avoided the jab.
Franz seemed stunned that the scalpel did not contact its target and he stared at Ryder, bemused.
“Would you like to dance with me?” he teased, again reaching out to stab into Ryder’s cheek.
Franz’s eyes exploded in their sockets then, a flowing mass of blood and brain matter seeping down his cheeks as Ryder watched impassively.
Time seemed to freeze for everyone and then suddenly, Franz began to scream in high, feral shrieks.
The soldier raised his weapon uncomprehendingly and began to fire around the room, believing they were under attack by an unseen force.
Ryder tried to drop out of the line of fire as Franz fell to his knees, his hands pressed against his oozing face as if he was trying to reconnect his eyeballs.
The soldier shot out randomly, bullets flying into the sides of the walls, ceiling and floor impartially.
Ryder was struck once in the shoulder by a ricochet as he tried to steady his focus on the hysterical man with the firearm.
Concentrating, he forced the soldier’s heart to implode, causing the gun to fall from his hands, but not before the weapon discharged one more time into Ryder’s belly. Fuck! He began to lose consciousness as he bled out, musing at the cruel irony that he could not heal himself. Before him, Franz finally dropped dead to the floor, but Ryder was not there. His mind had flashed him back to a big house in New Haven, Connecticut, almost thirty years ago where men in black were swarming in to attack him, his brothers and his parents.
He was watching his mother die.
He was watching his father take bullet after bullet.
He was hearing his brothers screaming in terror.
A voice in his head screamed out to him.
Don’t stop fighting! Don’t let them take you! They are Oculus and you must fight against them!
As the world went black, Ryder suddenly remembered everything.
My name is Ryder Conway and Oculus is looking for me and my brothers.
Chapter Six
Chicago, Illinois – Present Day
It was perhaps the longest day of Paige Steward’s life but there was no reprieve in sight. Hour eighteen and she was still going strong as if she hadn’t already worked two doubles earlier in the week.
“Dr. Steward, the helicopter has arrived but we don’t have clearance to meet it,” the chief told her as she rushed between floors to attend to her patients.
“What are you talking about, Hunter?” she demanded, eyeing him through her stunning but confused hazel eyes. “What helicopter? What clearance?”
Dr. Hunter returned her stare with abject dismay.
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” he replied, blinking his myopic eyes from behind his too thick glasses. “Patient X. You’ve been briefed about this.”
“Brief – chief, with all due respect, I don’t have the time nor the energy to decipher cryptographs today. I have a twelve-year-old recovering from a gunshot wound to the brain, his father suffered a heart attack as a result, four people in various stages of trauma in the ER and an Alzheimer’s patient who needs a kidney transplant which is the only reason I don’t punch him in the face for continuously grabbing my ass. Please, speak English. Clear, old school English,” Paige nearly dismissed him with a flip of her long hair, turning on her heel and continuing on her way toward the main nursing station, already focusing on her next case.
Ashe Hunter seemed dumbfounded.
“There is a top-secret patient coming to us. He suffered multiple gunshot wounds and has been flown in from Europe somewhere but we aren’t to know anything about him.”
Paige stared at him, blowing a stray strand of red hair from her face and wiping her sweating brow with the back of her hand.
“Well maybe you tuned it out at the meeting,” he replied.
She stared at him, her pager going nuts in her pocket as another catastrophe required her immediate attention but Paige found herself torn.
It had happened before; anonymous patients being flown in for treatment at one of the best hospitals in the US.
Northwestern Memorial was renowned in every field and it was no shock that their doctors were highly sought after.
Some of the clandestine patients were politicians, some celebrities but most often their identities were unknown and Paige assumed they were governmental spies or the like.
“What is his problem?”
“We can’t really discuss this in the hall, Dr. Steward,” the chief chided her, looking about worriedly. “Come along so we can prepare for his room.”
Again, Paige found herself looking at her superior strangely.
No, why wouldn’t I remember such a conversation. This is very strange.
She pushed it from her mind and hurried after Dr. Hunter.
I am exhausted. Everything is beginning to take its toll on me. I haven’t had a day off in weeks.
Paige also knew that was by design.
It was against hospital policy for her to put in as many hours as she had been doing but everyone seemed to turn the other cheek when it came to the head of general surgery.
She had fewer malpractice complaints than any other doctor in the hospital and a certain finesse with the surliest of people.
But secretly, she wondered how long her lucky streak was going to last. She was becoming unravelled and less focused on her job lately.
Her mantra had always been to respect people in pain. She often saw them on the worst days of their lives. It was understandable that they should be angry or difficult.
They took the elevator to the 22nd floor of the hospital and covertly accessed a little used stairwell to the mezzanine level between the rooftop and highest level.
The Galter Pavilion was the second largest hospital in the western hemisphere and employed hundreds of “top-of-their-class” physicians, only a handful of which knew about the highly restricted area where the doctors were making their way.
“What do we know about this man?” Paige asked, and Hunter cast her a sidelong look, using his entry card to enter the back section.
“Nothing,” he replied flatly. “The way it’s supposed to be.”
Paige rolled her eyes at him and shook her head.
“About his injuries, Dr. Hunter. What do we know about his injuries?”
“Oh. He took several bullets and had internal bleeding. “They” think they got him stable enough for transport back to the States from wherever he was, so now it is our job to ensure that he is in pristine condition before his release.”
Paige gritted her straight, white teeth in annoyance.
“They shouldn’t have moved him if they weren’t sure,” she grumbled, flipping on a light as they walked into a highly secure patient room.
It was more like a hotel suite, reserved for VIPs with all the luxuries of home.
A flat screen television was mounted on the wall, a small stereo system was on the bedside table. The bed itself was not indicative of hospital grade but beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets and fluffy pillows was a functional gurney, hidden to the naked eye.
The equipment and monitors were hidden behind a screen as to not to upset the patient. The rooms never ceased to amaze Paige.
It truly is amazing what money can buy. I wonder what this room costs per night.
She had never looked into it because it really was not any of her business. She was a healer, not an accountant.
And she was not one to worry about money. Her salary as head of department was more than comfortable, enabling her to own a condo in one of the most prestigious buildings in Chicago.
“Okay, we have clearance,” Dr. Hunter said suddenly, his eyes on his pager. “Let’s go.”
They turned in unison to hurry to the rooftop and Paige braced herself for the inevitable intrusion on her privacy as they pushed through the fire doors.
Not to be disappointed, they were met at gunpoint, immediately throwing their hands into the air.
They did not need to be told what to do. It was standard operating procedure with the bigwigs.
Her head down, Paige waited impatiently for a man to pat her down while another scanned her with a device which she could only assume was an internal sensor.
Army issue. Military hair cuts. So, not a rock star in that chopper.
They were small details but ones which Paige had learned to detect over time. They were also irrelevant points. She didn’t care who was in the aircraft; he was a patient who needed her care. Every Patient X was a flesh and blood human, no matter what walk of life they came from and it was her sworn duty to protect them.
“What’s you full name?” The armed officer asked, staring at the tablet in his hand, the firearm still expertly pointed at her face.
“Paige Christine Steward.”
He nodded and lowered the weapon, a half smile forming on his face.
“Sorry for the dramatics,” he told her. “They are necessary in this case.”
“I have encountered worse,” she assured him. “May I see our patient?”
“This way. You may call me Cee. I am your contact in this matter.”
“Thank you.”
Dr. Hunter seemed sickly pale as the group made their way toward the slowly dying helicopter. Paige swallowed a smile.
He's not equipped to deal with this. Every time, he looks like he’s going to vomit. You would think he would be used to it by now.
A stretcher was being pulled from the interior and Paige craned her neck to get a glimpse of the man.
She heard his voice before seeing his face.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m fine. Let me walk.”
“It’s protocol, sir. You must lay still.”
Paige approached him briskly, gently pushing Cee aside to peer down at the confined patient.
For a strange second, the air seemed to thicken, haze over as the two stared at one another. Paige looked into his odd sea colored eyes as if she had been inside them before.
His mouth parted slowly as if to say something.
“Dr. Steward, this is Patient X.”
The moment was shattered as Cee stepped forward and fleetingly, Paige wondered if the older man had done it purposely to ruin the significance of what was happening.
What did just happen? She thought, shaking her head in confusion.
It didn’t matter; the moment had passed.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. X. How are you feeling?” Paige asked as they wheeled their way toward the elevators.
He scowled and glanced at Cee who seemed embarrassed.
“I feel like this is completely unnecessary,” he replied. “I feel fine and I shouldn’t be here.”
“If that’s the case, you’ll be on your way in no time,” Paige assured him. “Let’s take a look at you and see if anything was missed. If you’re as good as you sound, I’ll send you packing in no time, all right?”
She smiled warmly at him and again, their gazes locked. A fission of electricity jolted through her.
Have we met before somewhere? She wondered. Has he been here before?
But as they moved into the lift, Paige was sure she had never set eyes on the breathtaking man, at least not in this life.
I would remember that face, those eyes, she told herself. His attractiveness would not be easily forgotten
“I’m Dr. Hunter. I’m the chief of surgery here.”
Guiltily, Paige turned to her boss. She had all but forgotten he was with them.
Patient X did not seem the slightest bit interested in him.
“How long do you intend to keep me here?”
“As long as
it takes,” Paige replied smoothly. “But you don’t need to worry – I tend to grow on people as they get to know me.”
A reluctant smile formed on his full mouth and Paige was struck with the overwhelming desire to taste his lips.
Yeah, you’re exhausted. You need some time off if you want to start kissing patients.
Shame filled her and she turned her head, a hand on the stretcher as they landed on the mezzanine, heading toward the secure suite.
“I will have men stationed outside the room at all times,” Cee informed her as they entered. “No one is to come in unless they have explicit instructions from you, which must be passed through me.”
“I will give you a list of cleared staff who are allowed inside in case of emergency,” she replied, tossing Dr. Hunter a glance over her shoulder. He seemed to be silently seething as Paige took the lead.
“Of course, Dr. Hunter is truly in charge here so…” she trailed off, hearing how lame the words sounded, as if she was trying to throw her superior a bone.
It was not lost on anyone and an awkward silence filled the room as Patient X was lifted onto the wide, comfortable bed.
“You can page me if you need me, Dr. Steward,” the chief muttered, spinning to leave. “It looks like you have everything under control here.”
She nodded.
“Of course.”
“There is nothing to have under control,” the patient muttered but he did not object as Paige began to examine him.
Skilfully, her hands touched the tender flesh around the wounds on his shoulder and chest.
“What can you tell me about what happened?” she asked, furtively glancing at Cee who stood at the door, his arms crossed. He was pretending not to listen but Paige had been through enough of these covert assessments to know he was ensuring the patient didn’t disclose anything more than necessary.
“It should be in my chart,” he intoned. Paige grimaced but checked her annoyance.
“Your chart is telling me precisely what my eyes can see. Can you at least tell me what country you were in when it happened?”
He looked at her as she peered at the wound in his stomach.
Hard Instincts Page 6