The nurse stood watching her patient, monitoring her vitals. Satisfied she was stable, she dimmed the lights and left the room.
James Rigel watched the nurse close the door and return to the central station. With visiting hours now over, she returned to her paperwork. The floor was quiet. An elderly man in a nearby room talked in his sleep with such vigor that Rigel was sure he could be heard on the opposite side of the ward. Hospitals were supposed to be places of peace and tranquility, and this man's unconscious inconsideration for those suffering around him troubled him. Perhaps after he had taken care of his target he would return the man’s room and put a permanent end to the incessant chatter. The nursing staff would applaud him for his effort. Their job was challenging enough without having to deal with such a discourteous individual.
A warning tone emanated from the central station. The nurse responded and entered a room located a few doors down the hall from Jordan.
Time to move.
Rigel walked down the corridor and glanced into each room, looking for any staff members he had not yet seen on the floor. All clear. He opened the door to Jordan’s room and slipped inside.
The target was sleeping peacefully. Rigel stood at the end of her bed. For a moment he felt a pang of regret for what he was about to do. It seemed like such a waste. Even in her incapacitated state she was unquestionably beautiful. She appeared less like a patient in need of medical attention than a posed actress, waiting for the director to say ‘Action’ and for the cameras to begin to roll.
Rigel moved closer. He wanted to pull down her blankets, explore her body, and discover the treasures that lay beneath. Instead he reeled in his emotions and harnessed his desire. Jordan lay on her back with one arm beneath the covers, the other atop. Rigel leaned over and smelled her, traveling from her wrist to her shoulder, inhaling her perfume: Indian jasmine, rosa centafolia, cardamom, carnation, and benzoin, with a light balance of citrus fruits; a custom blend, exquisite. He considered searching the room for a sharp object, something with the capacity to cut. He wanted a piece of her. Hers was the finest scent he had ever encountered on a woman, by far. Although he had never considered adding a body part to his souvenir collection the temptation to do so in this woman’s case was hard to ignore.
Jordan stirred in her sleep. The act reminded Rigel of the true purpose of his mission and the matter at hand: the completion of his contract with New York. Had the circumstances been different, had he met Jordan in a bar and seduced her with his movie-star charm, he could have taken her somewhere private, a place of his choosing, and enjoyed her for as long as he liked. But the confines of a hospital room were not conducive to satisfying both his curiosity and animal needs, and not nearly suitable enough for the romantic and mutually satisfying seductive encounter he knew so perfect a woman would expect from him. Had it been another time, another place...
Zippy would not do here. This woman was the exception to his rule. Even in death her beauty must be preserved.
Rigel lifted Jordan’s pillow, slipped it out from beneath her head, and pressed it down over her face.
Prior to the administration of the sedative, Jordan experienced an unexplainable shift in the energy of the room. It felt as if the air had become charged and now teemed with electricity. In the psychic intervention which preceded the injection she had sensed a malevolent presence. The Gift thrust her back to her earlier discussion with Chief Ballantyne and her vision of Becky Landry, the young girl whom she had witnessed locked in a losing battle for her life with the man with the three-star tattoo. Somehow, he was here now, with her. She tried to fight the effect of the sedative and call out to her nurse, to her godfather, to Special Agents Hanover or Dunn, to anyone, to warn them of the evil in their midst.
The pressure of the pillow on her face and the sudden elimination of her air supply shocked Jordan back to consciousness. She thrashed under the force of her attacker, punched and clawed at him, turned her head away, just enough to draw in a quick breath and replenish her aching lungs with a brief supply of life-giving oxygen, then grabbed his wrists.
Three stars…
Years of training under the expert tutelage of her late friend and bodyguard suddenly kicked in. In her mind Jordan saw Rock standing over her, coaching her through the attack, how best the apply the martial arts defense techniques he had taught her, all the while fighting the effect of the sedative. With her free hand Jordan drove her thumb deep into the nerve collection at the base of her attacker’s wrist. She heard him scream, felt his grip weaken. As his hand fell from her neck, she repositioned her thumb behind his wrist, grabbed the man’s fingers and twisted them as hard as she could, folding them back, forcing him to straighten his arm. Jordan then thrust her knee hard into his bent elbow. The man cried out. The pillow fell away from her face. She pushed it aside, stared up at the man with the three-star tattoo cradling his injured arm, and watched him run for the door.
Still dazed from the drug and the temporary lack of oxygen to her brain, Jordan tried to give chase. She fell out of bed, held fast to a visitor’s chair, forced herself to her feet, slumped along the wall, threw open the door to the room as it fell shut behind her fleeing attacker, watched the man race past the nurse’s station, past the parting elevator doors, down the corridor and though the doors leading to the stairwell.
Special Agent Chris Hanover stepped out of the elevator. Puzzled, he saw Jordan leaning against the door to her room, out of breath. He ran to her aid. “Mrs. Quest?” he said. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Jordan fell into his arms. “He tried… to kill me,” Jordan replied. She gasped, drew a breath, and pointed to the stairwell at the end of the hall.
“Will you be all right?” Hanover asked.
Jordan nodded.
Hanover drew his weapon and yelled for the nursing staff. Two nurses came running. “Mrs. Quest has been attacked. Call security. Tell them to lock down the hospital.”
Hanover ran to the stairwell, threw open the door, and cleared the landing. Below, heavy footfalls descended the stairs. He looked over the railing and met the assailant’s stare.
“FBI!” he yelled.
Running again.
Faster now.
Pauses between the footfalls as the man took the stairs two at a time.
“Sonofabitch!” Hanover said.
He gave chase.
CHAPTER 19
THE FRIGHTENED girl grabbed the blanket from the ground, pulled it around her, tried once more to hide beneath it.
Shannon knelt beside her. “It’s okay, honey,” she said. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“What’s your name, sweetie?” Zoe asked, lowering the blanket.
The girl hesitated. “Lily,” she answered, wiping her face. She wore a pink Pokemon T-shirt and matching shorts. Her clothes were wet and clung to her tiny frame. She shivered. The bastard had doused her with water too.
“What are you doing here?” Shannon asked.
Lily chewed her lip, said nothing.
Shannon pressed. “Where are your parents, hon?”
The child stared up at the two women. “Gone,” she replied.
“What do you mean,” Zoe asked.
Lily stared at the floor. “They’re dead.”
Shannon asked, “Then who is taking care of you?”
“Me.”
“You’re telling us you’re on your own?”
“Jesus,” Zoe said, dumbfounded to hear Lily had been left to fend for herself at such a young age. “What kind of fucking place is this?”
Shannon gave her a watch your language kind of look.
“Sorry,” Zoe acknowledged. “Forgot about the kid.” She looked around the stall. A pair of jockey racing silks hung on a wooden hook. The clothing was clean and dry. “Here, Lily,” Zoe said. “Put these on.”
Lily held tight to the blanket, pulled it up to her eyes, refused to move.
“It’s okay,” Shannon said. She winked. “My sisters got quite
a potty-mouth on her, doesn’t she?”
Lily half-smiled.
Zoe appreciated the girl’s apprehension. “Hey Lily,” she said, “check this out.” She held the silks up against her and posed like a high-fashion model. “Could you imagine trying to find a decent pair of shoes to match this?” She puckered her lips and made a funny face.
Lily snickered.
Shannon partnered with her sister to gain Lily’s trust. “It would be hard.”
Zoe nodded. “What do you think, Shay? Flats or pumps?” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet for full effect.
“Pumps all the way. The only way to rock an outfit as ugly as that is in a great pair of pumps.”
“Gucci?”
Shannon shook her head. “Christian Louboutin. Goes better with silk. Lily could totally pull off a pair of Loubou’s.”
“Then again,” Zoe said, “there’s always Prada.”
“Correction,” Shannon said. “There’s always Prada.”
Lily pointed to her muddy running shoes. “I wear Nike’s.”
“Excellent choice!” Shannon said. “What do you say we see how well your Nike’s go with this flashy little number?”
Lily hesitated, then agreed. “Okay.”
“Perfect,” Zoe said. “But if we’re gonna do this right, and by that I mean fashion model right, we’ll need a change room.”
“Coming right up,” Shannon said. She lifted the blanket off the little girl, held it up. “Ta da! Instant change room.”
Zoe handed Lily the silks. “Garments fit for a supermodel.”
Lily smiled. “You two are ridiculous,” she said. “I’m no model.” She took the silks from Zoe, hid behind the raised blanket, removed her wet top and shorts, and slipped into the fresh, dry clothes. The girl stepped out from behind the blanket. The outfit, tailored for a small person, fit her well.
“Well, look at you,” Zoe said. “Positively gorgeous!”
“Can I have your autograph?” Shannon teased.
Feeling they had come a little closer to gaining the girl’s trust, wanting to know more about her, Shannon asked, “How long have you been here, sweetie?”
Lily shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Do you sleep here?”
“Most of the time.”
“So not all the time.”
Lily shook her head. “Sometimes Uncle Emmett lets me stay with him.”
Shannon and Zoe exchanged glances. “Where does Uncle Emmett live, Lily?” Zoe asked.
Lily pointed outside. “The main house.”
“Was it Uncle Emmett who put you out here?” Zoe said.
Lily nodded.
“Why?” Shannon asked.
Lily kicked the straw at her feet, stared at the ground. “Because…”
“Because why?” Zoe asked. She was afraid of what the young girl was about to say. Live or die.
“I was bad.”
“Bad… how?”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t want to say.”
Shannon leaned over. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s sister-swear on the answer. You whisper it to me and I’ll whisper it to Zoe. It’ll be our secret. No one else will ever know, not even the horses. We promise. Deal?”
Lily relented. “Okay.”
“Good,” Shannon said. “Now tell me, sweetie. Why did your Uncle Emmett lock you in here?”
Lily cupped her hand to Shannon’s ear and shared her secret.
Shannon looked at Zoe. The anger in her eyes spoke for her.
Zoe understood. She clenched her fists at her side. Live or die... Live.
“Come on, honey,” Shannon said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”
“Where are we going?” Lily asked.
“Someplace safe,” Zoe said.
Lily pulled back. “No! I can’t leave!”
Shannon tried to reason with the young girl. “You can’t stay here, Lily. It’s too dangerous.”
“I won’t leave my parents!”
Shannon knelt down. “Honey, you told me your parents were dead, remember?”
Lily nodded. “They are. But they’re here, too.”
Zoe asked, “What do you mean, your parents are here?”
The girl walked into the adjoining stall, stood in the middle of the floor, and pointed at the dirt floor. “They wouldn’t do what Uncle Emmett wanted,” she said.
“Jesus,” Zoe said. “Are your parents buried here?”
Lily nodded.
Shannon took Lily’s hand. “We’ll come back for your mom and dad, Lily. I promise.”
“Sister-swear?”
“More than that,” Zoe said. “We promise you on our lives.”
The entrance door to the stables was ajar. Zoe eased it open, looked outside. The ground was a blanket of fog, the night black, the moon eclipsed between wisps of passing clouds. In the faint din of lunar light Zoe saw the tree line of a forest several hundred yards beyond the stables.
“Woods,” she said. “Not far. We can make it, but we’ll need to move fast.” She turned to Shannon. “You ready?”
“One-hundred percent,” Shannon replied.
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
Under the dark cloak of night, Zoe, Shannon, and Lily fled the stables for the woods.
CHAPTER 20
REACHING THE bottom of the stairwell, Hanover cleared the door, raced along the corridor, rattled door handles, and found all but one of the rooms locked. He peered through the mesh-glass windows of the MECHANICAL ROOM doors and listened. Inside, the room hissed with the sound of pipes carrying pressurized steam. He swung open the door, slipped inside, dropped low, took cover against the iron handrails on the landing, and surveilled the room.
A maintenance worker lay at the foot of the stairs, his yellow safety hat and clipboard several feet from his body.
Hanover descended the metal stairs. He held the Glock 9mm handgun tight to his chest, eyes following the red dot of the weapons laser sight as it glanced off the massive boilers, heat exchangers, generators, and ceiling pipes which filled the room. He reached the floor, checked the man’s carotid artery for a pulse.
Dead.
He drew his fingers back. They were wet and tacky to the touch. A deep laceration encircled the man’s neck. Blood seeped from the wound. His final expression in life was one of bewilderment, a vacant stare, born of surprise, cast by fear.
Hanover looked around the massive room. On his left, six gas-fired high-pressure boilers stood shoulder to shoulder, above them a network of pipes - the source of the hissing sound. Gauges on the wall indicated their respective purposes to the hospital: steam sterilization, heating, water, kitchen, laundry. Ductwork for heating and ventilation, plus a number of unmarked supply lines and piping for the hospitals fire sprinkler water distribution system, crisscrossed the ceiling. A ladder at the end of the room led to a narrow second-floor catwalk. A metal sign, normally suspended between two chains, warning of restricted access to the service way, turned lazily on a single chain. Hanover read the swinging sign: Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point. He surveyed the catwalk. The structure had been erected to create an immense second floor within the room. The facility itself was immaculate, the equipment and floor spotless. Logic dictated that in a room so well maintained there was no way a member of the mechanical staff would have crossed the yellow and black warning markings on the floor and accessed the ladder without first ensuring the warning sign had been rehung behind them. Hanover trained his weapon on the top of the ladder and slowly began his ascent. At the top of the catwalk he stopped and looked down. At the opposite end of the room, down on the ground floor, the hospital orderly stepped out from between the boilers and ran for the exit. Hanover aimed and fired but the round missed its mark. Unfazed by the gunshot, the man dropped to the ground and shoulder rolled across the polished concrete floor. Hanover tried to re-establish a line of sight, couldn’t. The orderly reached the wall and bolt
ed to his feet.
“Not very smart, firing a weapon in a room full of pressurized pipes,” the man called out. His voice echoed in the room.
Whoever this guy is, Hanover thought, he sure as hell was no amateur. Only a professional could remain this calm under fire.
“You’re right,” Hanover yelled, stalking the service way, peering down through the slits in the metal floor grates as he made his way towards the boilers in search of the man. “I guess there’s no point in getting blown up, is there?”
“Got any suggestions on how we should handle this?”
“Yeah, one,” Hanover replied. “Walk your ass into the middle of the room and get down on your knees. I’ll come down and cuff you. We’ll call it a day.”
“That doesn’t really work for me,” the orderly replied. The voice had moved to another location in the room. The man was somewhere under the catwalk to Hanover’s left, heard but unseen.
“Why kill the engineer?” Hanover said.
“I don’t know,” the man answered. “Force of habit, maybe.”
“That a question or a statement?” Hanover replied. On his right now. But where?
Around him, steam hissed and crackled in the pipes. Ducts cooled, contracted, popped. Drops of condensation from a pressure relief valve above dripped on his head. The trapped air between the ceiling and the catwalk was oppressively hot. Hanover wiped beads of perspiration from his face.
“The guy wanted to be a hero and got in my way,” the orderly said. “I don’t do heroes.”
“So you slit his throat?”
“Slit? The man laughed. “That wouldn't be very artistic now, would it?”
Keep him talking, engaged. Let him give away his location then take him out. “That how you see yourself?” Hanover asked. “Some kind of artist?”
“Come on down,” the man called out. “I’ll show you my work first-hand.”
There! Hanover saw him standing beside an electrical panel.
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