A man in a dark blue suit with a sky-blue tie stood there. “Ethan Bond?”
It took Ethan a second for his brain to shift gears. “Yes, yes… I’m Ethan Bond?”
“I’m Special Agent Raymond Anderson with The Houston FBI Field Office,” the man said as he pulled out a badge and flipped it open to show Ethan.
Ethan read the badge as he said, “FBI? How…how can I help you?”
“I’m going to need you to come with me, sir.” The FBI agent made it very clear it was not a request.
“Let me grab my phone,” Ethan said.
“You’re not going anywhere without me,” Blayne protested as he swung his legs off the side of the hospital bed.
“It’s okay,” Ethan said, picking up his phone from the nightstand. “I’ve been expecting this.”
“What?” Blayne said, a bit incredulously.
“Let’s see.” Ethan leveled his gaze at Blayne. “My lover was assassinated. A plane I was supposed to be on blew up. My best friend’s house exploded last night. And someone tried to kill me but took a shot at you instead.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Blayne said, a little of the bravado leaving him. “Will I ever see you again?”
Ethan leaned forward and kissed Blayne on the forehead. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” He then turned toward the FBI agent and asked, “Is anyone staying here to watch out for him?”
“Yes, sir,” Agent Anderson acknowledged as he opened the door and two more agents entered the hospital room. The room was getting a bit too cramped with all six people standing in there.
“Excuse me,” another voice said, entering the room. “What the hell is going on here? Visiting hours aren’t for another hour.”
Ethan turned from Blayne to see Arnold Giest-Mueler pushing both agents out of the way to get into the room. His surgical getup was gone, and he was now wearing a pair of khakis, a buttoned-down blue shirt with a yellow tie under his white lab coat with the Pennington University seal and his name embroidered on it.
“And you are?” Agent Anderson asked as he blocked the surgeon’s entry into the room.
“I’m their surgeon,” Giest-Mueler said, his expression hardening. “And you are?”
The FBI agent pulled out his badge and explained who he was. “And these other two agents are Special Agents Marianna and Brooks. One will stay inside this room, and the other will check the IDs of anyone entering until I can safely transfer Mr. Dickenson to the FBI building downtown.”
“No,” Giest-Mueler responded. “Your agents can stay outside this room, but for patient confidentiality, you have no reason to be here unless both patients allow it. And one of them is a minor, and his legal guardian is not here to agree.”
“I’m sorry, doctor, but I must insist,” Agent Anderson started.
“You can insist all you want,” Giest-Mueler said. “Unless one of these men is under arrest, you must follow hospital privacy policies. If you have a problem, I’ll gladly give you the hospital lawyers’ number.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Agent Anderson said, adrenaline dilating the blood vessels in his face.
Ethan could tell Agent Anderson was on the verge of exploding at the surgeon, so he said, “Are you ready to go, Agent Anderson?”
“Yes,” the agent said. He turned around and left the room in a huff.
“Ethan?” Blayne said.
“It’s okay,” Ethan reassured Blayne. “I’m going to be okay. Call Zach and let him know what’s going on. His number is now in your phone.” Ethan nodded toward Blayne’s phone, which was plugged into a USB port next to the hospital bed. Ethan had a million things he wanted to say to Blayne. He blinked back a tear and said, “Talk to you soon,” without turning around as he left.
Chapter Twenty
Zach
“And five, six, seven, eight,” Sally Higgins yelled as ZERO broke into their first number in the dance studio. Their backup dancers had made the trip from Seattle to New Orleans the evening before so the group could start putting everything together. For the time being, the group blocked everything, assuming Ethan would be there for the tour’s first leg.
Zach was a natural dancer. He swung and moved his hips with the best of them. It helped that he’d been in gymnastics, ballet and football growing up. He’d fought the dance stuff early on because he didn’t want to do that ‘girly shit’, as he used to call it. Then he had learned several NFL Hall-of-Famers studied ballet. Zach had figured if greats like Lynn Swann and Herschel Walker could plié at the dance bar, so could he. Of course, that was back when Zach had idolized Walker before Walker had become a crazed conservative and run for office in Georgia.
