by Brynn Kelly
They strode silently through the east and north wings, the circuitous route zapping his nerves. Finally, he pushed open the doors into the west wing. A curvy blonde in red scrubs looked up from the reception desk, her green eyes widening.
He nodded. “Mariya.”
“Doctor Armstr... I mean—”
“James,” he said, quickly.
“What are you doing h—?”
“Give this to Harriet, would you?” He slapped the pass on the counter. “And only Harriet. You didn’t see me.”
Mariya screwed up her face. “Does...this mean we’re square?”
“You’re returning an ID pass. As favors go, it’s not a biggie.”
“I’ll have to walk to the other side of the building.”
He pointed to a fitness monitor on her wrist. “It’ll keep up your steps. Besides, that hardly makes up for...” In his peripheral vision he caught Samira tipping her head, assessing the conversation. “Whatever. We’re square.”
“And I won’t ever have to see—?”
“No, you won’t,” he snapped.
Did she have to look so relieved?
He opened an unassuming side door onto the smoker’s porch, ignoring the ALARM WILL SOUND sign. He’d been gone only five years—it probably hadn’t been fixed. By the smell of it, the staff still weren’t respecting the smoke-free rules. Same broken brick to hold the door open while they sucked in the very poison they lectured patients about. He shoved it into position, in case their exit was compromised. Drizzle tapped on the mildewed corrugated plastic awning.
“Where next?” Samira said.
“See that wee gate in the wall, across the car park? It leads to the Thames Path. Easily the most obscure of the hospital’s exits.” Over the solid stone, the broad gray river rolled south. Across it, the houses of parliament and Big Ben were coated in a hazy gold film. Once on the Thames Path they could cross to Westminster. Or, better still, follow the current south to Lambeth Bridge, to avoid doubling back past the hospital walls.
“Do you think they’ll be watching it?”
“Anything’s possible, but they’ll prioritize the other twenty or so exits. They wouldn’t have a big resource out there, at any rate. Come here. Your hair is showing.”
He tucked a black lock under her wig and pulled down her cap. Under the sunglasses, about the only visible parts of her were her chin and nose, already pinking up in the cold air. He resisted the urge to touch.
“Perfect,” he said.
“Peerrrfect,” she repeated, to herself.
“Are you mimicking my accent, Samira?”
She bit one corner of her lip. “Sorry, it’s just...”
“Indecipherable, I know. Sometimes even I have trouble understanding myself. I wonder if we could...borrow another coat for you. The enemy will have seen you in that one. Or maybe you could take it off? What do you have on underneath?”
“A black dress. I have another coat, in my backpack. It’s thinner, but...”
A thumping noise. “Shite, the chopper.” He pushed her back inside. “Change the coat, just in case...” He raised his voice. “You have a brolly, Mariya?”
“Course I do,” she said, in an are-you-still-here voice.
“Can I borrow it?”
“Borrow, as in...?”
“As in, I probably won’t be passing back this way but I’ll think of you every time it rains.”
“I thought we were square.”
“I’m unsquaring us.” He held out a hand. “Come on. It’s just a fucking umbrella.”
“Fine.” She whacked it into his palm. “Whatever. I’ll just catch pneumonia.”
“A small price, Mariya. Lovely catching up.” He nodded sharply and turned. “Wow.” Samira was belting a bright blue coat that wrapped up her curves like a Christmas present. But not one with your name on it.
“I can change my footwear, too,” she said.
“Sure.”
She unzipped her boots and slid on a pair of heels to match the coat, over her black stockings. He imagined himself slipping the shoes off in the nearest hotel bedroom. Rolling the stockings down, slowly. Running his hands back up her legs to—
“Jamie?”
“Sorry, what?”
She’d been speaking? Mariya caught his eye, raising her eyebrows. Samira retied her purple scarf with a convoluted series of twists, then pulled on cream leather gloves.
The scarf—it was the one he’d bought her, the one that made her eyes breathtaking. “La couleur de minuit,” he murmured, clenching the umbrella in both hands so as not to reach out and touch the fabric.
“The color of midnight,” she whispered, her mouth softening. Just the way it had that day beside the river in the moment his self-control had deserted him.
He cleared his throat. “They’ll have seen your rucksack. We’ll pack your things into mine,” he said, loosening the straps to expand his pack. “There’s plenty of room.”
A few minutes later they stepped outside. He tucked in a label jutting from her coat collar. On her nape, above the scarf, a sliver of skin goose pimpled. Don’t go doing that to me now. He opened the umbrella.
“Jesus, I’ve seen dinner plates bigger than this,” he said, looking up. “Can you hold it while I keep an eye out?” He swung her to his left, anchored his arm around her waist and pulled their hips flush, gratified by her tiny gasp. “We’ll walk to that gate, nice and smooth.”
They set off, awkwardly, given their height difference, Jamie hunching to fit under the umbrella. It always took a while for a couple to settle into a stride. Not that he remembered what it was like to be in a relationship where you strolled arm in arm. And not that he and Samira were a couple or ever would be—he’d broken enough hearts attempting a regular life, and hers was scarred enough already. Even through her coat he could feel her suppleness, his fingers moving as her hips swayed. Wasn’t often he missed relationships...
He pushed open the gate into a northwesterly blast and ushered Samira out. The bear with the paper bag lumbered past, head bent against the drizzle, breath labored, face as gray as the pavement. A jogger approached from the other direction. The path was otherwise deserted. As the gate locked behind them, Jamie coaxed Samira around to head south. They were channeled in by the wall but a canopy of trees still clinging to amber leaves provided air cover, and the shower gave them an excuse to huddle close and walk fast. A cluster of tourists in raincoats rounded a bend, some taking photos of Westminster. He clutched her tighter, skirting to one side of them. Fat drops of rain unleashed, blurring everything into gray.
A stout dark-haired man pushed through the tourists, scanning from person to person, hand inside his coat. Shit. One of the goons who’d been waiting for Samira’s train. He’d paid no heed to Jamie at the station but he’d know Samira’s face.
Jamie angled her to face him, planted a hand on each of her cheeks and drew her close, laughing as if she’d whispered something suggestive. As he sensed the enemy glancing their way, he lowered his head and did the only logical thing. He kissed her.
She went rigid.
Don’t pull away. Trust me. Between his hands and his lips, he was covering the only identifiable part of her. All the guy would see was a brunette in heels and a blue coat.
She took the hint and relaxed against him, pulling the umbrella low over their heads and sliding her free hand under his bomber jacket to the side of his waist. He bore down to stop from flinching. Oh man, he shouldn’t be getting a full-body reaction from that but there it was, as strong as a year ago—the nerves firing from his lips to his toes and back up...
The tourists passed and he released her lips, keeping his hands in place and touching his forehead to hers while taking a read from the corner of his eye—and catching his breath because...damn. The goon had moved away with the group, toward Westminster Bridge. The b
ear was lumbering the other way. Jamie dropped his hands.
“Oh my God,” Samira breathed.
“I’m sorry. There was a guy, from the station. It was the only thing I could think of.”
“Eshi. I mean, don’t apolog—” She touched her lips with two fingers. He yearned to do the same. “It’s fine.”
Fine.
Fine.
Fine wasn’t the reaction he normally shot for when he kissed a woman. Goddamn, those lips were just as smooth as he remembered. And insistent. And he’d remembered her a lot since—
Movement, to the south. The bear had tripped and was falling like a tree. No, not a trip—he was clutching his chest. He landed with a smack, his arm bouncing lifelessly on flagstones.
“Shite,” Jamie said, taking a step. The goon had turned, watching. “Samira, I can’t not...”
“Of course. Go.”
“Come with me.”
Jamie sprinted to the guy and shoved two fingers to his throat. Rain peppered his gray face. No carotid pulse. Fuck. Not breathing, either. He laid the guy flat, unzipped his coat and pulled it aside. His sternum was still.
“Has he been shot?” Samira said as she caught up.
“No. He’s a heart patient. Went down clutching his chest, grimacing. Has to be a heart attack.”
“CPR?” Samira said, holding the umbrella over them, her voice tight.
“I can go one better.”
“What do you mean?”
“A precordial thump. Jump-start his heart. Not standard hospital procedure but the indications...” Jamie clenched his right fist and held it above the guy’s chest, mentally measuring the gap. Twenty centimeters, right? “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Go.” He smacked the side of his fist onto the guy’s lower sternum then snatched it away. The guy jumped, twitched—and lurched up, eyes wide, like a dead man coming out of the grave. Which he pretty much was. He scraped in a breath and clutched Jamie’s arm.
“Fuck,” Jamie said. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
Shite, now what? They couldn’t get him back into the hospital through a locked gate. They couldn’t leave him. They’d have to wait for a passerby they could send for help.
“Jamie, that thug,” Samira murmured. “He’s coming.”
He was coming, all right, and at a fair clip. No gun drawn but his eyes were narrowed at Samira. Crap. It’d confirm his suspicions if Jamie and Samira took off. And a shoot-out was best avoided. The priority was to get Samira out of there. Then deal with the goon. Then the bear. Triage, basically.
“Quick, Sa—s—sweetheart,” he shouted. “You’ll have to go for help. This guy needs a resus team, quick. I’ll boost you over the wall.” He lowered his voice. “Go straight to Mariya. Hide somewhere near her desk and I’ll come for you when I’ve sorted out this goon.”
Before she had time to think, he pulled her to the wall and linked his hands in front of him, ready for her foot. Rain sluiced his face. He blinked hard. Behind him, the bear groaned.
“Now, sweetheart!” he shouted. “Go!”
Samira puffed out her cheeks and put the ball of her shoe into his hand. “I don’t know how to do this—jump like this.”
“It’s easy. I’ll hoist you to the top. Just be careful jumping down—bend your knees. One, two, three.”
He heaved, and she caught the edge of the wall and pulled herself up. One of her heels fell, and Jamie caught the shoe before it took out his eye. She slipped the other shoe off and disappeared, grunting as she landed on the other side. It felt wrong to let her out of sight, even for a minute.
He swiveled, hand hovering by his holster. The goon had gone. Shit. The bear hoisted himself to a sitting position.
“What happened to that guy who was running for us?” Jamie said. “Did you see?”
“Nah, sorry. Bloody hell. What just...? Did I...? Are you a doctor?”
“Your heart stopped.” Jamie ran to the low wall separating the path from the river and looked over. Stones, rubbish, water... The goon had to have gone after Samira.
Gunfire rang out—muffled potshots from a pistol, over the wall. Then the echoing whine of an approaching helicopter.
Shit. Samira.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE HELICOPTER SWUNG out over the wall, to the north. Gunfire popped. Beside Jamie, the glass dome of a streetlamp smashed. Bullets plinked along flagstones. He sprinted for the hospital wall, sheltered from view by the spindly canopy.
“Sorry,” he yelled to the bear. “I gotta draw their fire away.”
“Might be an idea,” the guy said, shakily. He had to be wondering what alternative world he’d been resurrected into. Just keep breathing, pal.
“I’ll send help. Just...take it easy, relax.”
“Relax. Sure.”
The shooters weren’t door gunners, just guys with assault rifles. Not as precise.
More ground fire, over the wall. An alarm wailed, echoed by another, farther off.
Jamie found a foothold and launched over the wall, under tree cover. As he landed, he skidded on wet leaves. No sign of Samira or the gunman. He’d royally fucked that up. Once in a while the first idea wasn’t the best idea... The smokers’ door was banging in the breeze. Don’t latch. Don’t latch. He peered up through the branches. He’d have to cross open ground but better that than the chopper spraying the trees and taking out the bear.
He launched into a sprint, pumping his arms, dodging cars, breathing hard. Gunfire plinked into steel, punched asphalt. As he bounded up the concrete steps, a gust swept the door. It latched. Shit. He hammered on it, turned, flattened, drawing his weapon—not that a Glock would take out a helicopter. The chopper veered toward him. He released the slide. A dozen alarms and sirens clashed.
The door fell away behind him. He stumbled back.
“Fuck me.” Mariya stood, hands on hips. “Is that a gun?”
Gunfire hammered the porch, tearing through the awning. Jamie pulled the door shut and shoved Mariya farther inside.
She shook him off. “Are you a good guy here or—?”
“Where’s Sa—?” he said. “Where’s my friend?”
“She ran down the corridor.” Mariya pointed. “Some guy followed her. He fired a fucking gun. I called security but they’re not here yet.”
Shit. Without an access card Samira would have run into a dead end. Jamie grabbed Harriet’s pass from the counter and looped it around his neck.
“Get out of sight and stay down,” he ordered. “Away from windows.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Mariya called as he rounded the corner of her desk and scoped out the corridor. Long and empty. At the far end, one of the double doors into Occupational Therapy hung open. He ran silently along the wall, gun down, pulse cranking, checking the empty bays either side. At the double doors, the security panel had been shot to pieces. A crackly voice sounded over the hospital loudspeaker. “The hospital is on full lockdown. Proceed directly to a refuge, as indicated by staff. Do not enter or leave the premises. This is not a drill.”
From ahead, a man’s voice trickled in over the recording and the alarms. A one-sided conversation, though Jamie couldn’t make out the words. On the phone?
He peeped between the doors. Nobody in view. Occupational Therapy would be empty on a Sunday. He took a longer look. The admin station was in an alcove halfway down the narrow wing, opposite a deserted waiting room. The guy had to be in there. With Samira? Jamie edged through the doors.
“...no idea where the fuck I am,” the guy was saying, in an American accent. “Place is a fucking maze. There are treadmills and shit in here—some hospital gym? I’m looking out a window at a courtyard with a tree in it... Yeah, I know that’s not very fucking helpful. Can’t you track me from the GPS on the phone or some shit?”
A window blind ratt
led. Jamie quietly lowered the rucksack to the floor.
“Why don’t I just shoot her and then the problem’s solved?”
Jamie’s forehead prickled. As he inched closer, he heard—or imagined—Samira’s breath wheezing in time with the ebb of the siren. He ran his gaze around the ceiling. No security cameras. He couldn’t count on help being forthcoming—and even if it was, Jamie could well end up taking a bullet.
“Hang on, man. She’s having a fucking fit or something.”
A clatter. Gasping.
“Lady, this better not be some trick... Nah, serious, man, she’s going purple. She ain’t breathing. What do I do? Well, someone’s gotta make a decision here! Where’s Fitz?”
Jamie exhaled and inhaled, like he was trying to do it for Samira. She would be fine. Terrified, of course, but nobody died from a panic attack. He pictured the goon’s position from his voice—looking down at Samira on the floor, facing the window? Gun in right hand, phone in the other? Doubly distracted.
“If Fitz is gonna interrogate her he better get here quick... No, I don’t fucking know CPR. Hang on. I gotta put the phone down a sec.”
Jamie launched around the corner. The guy looked up, fumbling to adjust his grip on a pistol. Jamie leaped, shoved the gun aside, wheeled and smacked his elbow into the guy’s forehead. The goon staggered back but gathered control of his weapon, swiveled and aimed it at Jamie’s forehead. Not so smooth, caporal.
Something blue flew across the alcove and clocked the side of the goon’s head. The impact rippled through him. He tipped sideways into a desk and crumpled onto the floor. What the fuck? A hand weight rolled off the desk and thudded onto the guy’s side.
“Oh my God, is he alive?” Samira’s voice, to Jamie’s right, barely audible over the alarms. She was kneeling in a corner, gray-faced, eyes huge. Over the loudspeaker, the recorded message repeated.
Jamie kicked the guy’s weapon across the floor. “You threw that weight?”
“It was sitting right there. It looked like he was going to... I didn’t think. Is he...? Did I...?”
Jamie checked the guy’s vitals. “Little groggy but okay. What happened to your panic attack? Were you faking?”