The third room was empty. But there were sheets on the bed and the various detritus of a long hospital stay: cards pinned to the wall, flowers sitting in the windowsill, a handmade quilt that someone had obviously brought from home. Either the patient was out having tests run or, more likely, since this was the intensive care unit, they’d died and the family had yet to come collect their things.
The fourth room was another no-go. So was the fifth. As Yang approached the middle of the hall, he avoided looking directly at the security camera mounted in the far corner. There was no way to avoid being caught on camera in the modern age—especially in a high-tech hospital. But it was possible to keep oneself from beingrecognizedby knowing how to hide identifying features.
Hence the mask. Plus, his hair was dyed a dull carroty red. And he’d donned prosthetics on his ears, nose, and brow ridge. It was probably a bit of overkill, but…
Better safe than sorry.
It was any good operative’s motto and Yang wasn’t just a good operative. He was a great one. That he’d survived twenty years in the business was a testament to that fact.
As he continued down the long hall, the glass doorways showed him people in various stages of illness, injury, and dying. Dozens of machinesshushedandbeeped.The smell of antiseptic was strong. And every once in a while, one of the patients grunted or moaned. But for the most part, there was silence.
Individuals who found themselves in the ICU were usually either sedated or had naturally entered a state of semi-consciousness. And it was strange to think that the most serious floor of the hospital was also the most peaceful one.
Ah. There you are.
The room was empty save for the patient. And even though he’d known the senator would be absent—he had waited to make his move until he had seen her crossing the lobby downstairs—there had always been the chance that a doctor or nurse would be in the room.
He would have continued on his way if there had been. But as luck would have it, the coast was clear.
All the same, he had to work quickly. Senator Chastain had been on the phone when he had seen her. But she had not looked like she was setting in to talk for long.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the tiny spray canister of cyanide and ducked into the professor’s room.
Introducing cyanide into the respiratory system resulted in death in under three minutes. The symptoms mimicked those of a heart attack. Which meant unless someone went looking for the poison, it was unlikely it’d ever be discovered.
Considering the professor was a man of a certain age who’d suffered a major head injury followed by cranial surgery, Yang figured no one would go looking.
At least not initially.
Whether people knew it or not, they tended to fall back on Occam’s razor, the simplest answer being the correct one. He had used that human inclination to his advantage in the field for nearly two decades.
How many of his kills had been attributed to bad luck or natural causes? Twenty? Thirty? Truth was, he’d lost count. Enough to make this feel like little more than a walk in the park.
He could’ve simply slit the professor’s throat, he supposed. Easy as pie and a piece of cake, as the Americans liked to say. But that route would put the FBI on high alert. And the last thing he needed was for them to whisk Senator Chastain away to a safe house.
Not that he could not get to her while she was under federal protection. He had done it before. He could most definitely do it again. But if they put her under lock and key, it would certainly make things more challenging.
If his long career had taught him anything, it was that life was far more enjoyable if he found ways to make less work for himself.
He made a cursory study of his mark. The professor was nearly unrecognizable with his head swathed in bandages and his face swollen like an over-ripe melon. But the name on the door and the mole on the man’s cheek just below his left eye assured Yang he had the correct victim.
“Through the triumph of your death, may you benefit all other beings, living or dead,” he whispered as he gently removed the oxygen mask from the man’s face.
He had left behind the teachings of Buddha, his mother’s religion, not long after government soldiers had come to his village to take him away for training. But whenever he killed, the prayer for the dead still naturally fell from his lips.
Careful not to breathe in any of the poison droplets, he sprayed the mist into the mask before quickly fixing it back over the professor’s face. Then he pocketed the empty canister and turned for the door.
He need not wait to see if the cyanide worked. It would. He’d used it many times before.
The return trip past the nurse’s station was as uneventful as his initial journey had been. The four blue-scrubbed individuals checking charts and keying in information didn’t even look up from their activities.
He was through the security door and standing in the outer hall waiting for the elevator when an alarm sounded in the ICU. The blaringmeep, meep, meeptold him Professor Chastain’s blood pressure, heart rate, and respiration had all fallen below safe levels.
You work fast, my friend.He patted the canister in his pocket and then tried not to react when the elevator doors opened and he was presented with Senator Chastain’s haggard expression.
For a moment, he considered pulling the small knife from his pocket and shoving it into her jugular. But just like the professor, that route would be too obvious. If he could, he wanted to avoid being obvious until Bishop had decided how he wanted to handle Eliza Meadows.
Nodding, he stepped back to let the elderly woman exit the elevator. Then he watched what blood remained in her pale face drain away when she heard the commotion coming from beyond the doors to the intensive care unit.
