Nothing. Not even a blink.
I moved closer, careful to stay in her line of sight, not to surprise her. My shoulder was screaming, blood soaking through my shirt and jacket. The graze on my ribs had opened wider, adding to the mess. But she needed me functional, needed me to be the one who could handle this, so I ignored it all.
"They know where you work," I said, trying different words to break through. "They know Dr. Brand sent them. In about ninety seconds, this place becomes a crime scene. Your name, your face, everything goes into the system. And then Brand won't need to send killers. He'll just let the police deliver you."
That did it. Her eyes snapped into focus, intelligence flooding back as survival instinct kicked in. She looked at the bodies, the blood, the absolute devastation of her carefully maintained sanctuary, and I saw her process it all in about three seconds.
"Oh God," she whispered. Then, stronger, clinical: "We need to go."
She pushed off the wall and moved with sudden purpose. Go-bag from beside the destroyed door—black backpack, already packed. Medical bag from the floor where it had fallen, checking its contents with quick, efficient movements. She grabbed one more thing—a small flash drive from a hidden spot behind what was left of the shelving unit. It went into her pocket, not the bags. I’d need to check that.
"That's it?" I asked.
"Everything else is just things." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "I can replace things."
She stepped over the lead gunman without looking down, but I saw her hands shake as she did it. She was running on autopilot, but autopilot would get us out of here.
“What’s your name? Your first name?”
“Maya,” she said, shaking.
“Maya,” I confirmed. “Come on, we’ve got this.”
The alley was empty, thank God. The homeless man who usually slept by the dumpster had vanished—smart enough to recognize the sound of gunfire and clear out. I kept Maya close, my hand on her back, guiding her toward where I'd left the Escalade. Every shadow could hide another shooter. Every window could have eyes. But nothing moved except us and the rats scattering from our footsteps.
Sirens screaming now, close enough to hear the engines. We turned the corner as the first patrol car screamed past, heading for the clinic. Blue and red lights painted the buildings, but we were already ghosts, invisible in the shadows between streetlights.
The Escalade sat where I'd left it two blocks away, front tire still properly on the curb this time. I opened the passenger door, and Maya climbed in without prompting, moving like a robot programmed for survival. Her bags went in the back. I slid behind the wheel, biting back a groan as every injury made itself known.
"Seatbelt," I said, starting the engine.
She clicked it into place with mechanical precision. In the dome light, I could see her clearly for the first time since the attack. No physical injuries—I'd gotten to her in time. But her eyes had that thousand-yard stare that meant the damage went deeper than skin.
More sirens now, converging on the clinic from multiple directions. I pulled out slowly, casually, just another car on a Brooklyn night. No rush. No panic. Nothing to draw attention.
In the rearview mirror, I watched emergency lights gather where her clinic used to be. By morning, it would be wrapped in crime scene tape. The bodies would be photographed, catalogued, removed. The blood would be sampled, analyzed, entered into databases. And somewhere, Dr. Brand would get a phone call telling him his assassination attempt had failed.
Maya sat rigid beside me, staring straight ahead at nothing. She hadn't asked where I was taking her. Hadn't protested or argued or demanded answers. She just sat there, clutching her bags, breathing in careful, counted intervals like she was rationing oxygen.
"It's over," she said suddenly, so quiet I almost missed it. "Everything I built. My practice. My safety. My anonymity. It's all over."
I wanted to tell her it wasn't over, that it was just beginning. That my family could protect her, that we had resources, that she didn't have to run anymore. But right now, she didn't need promises. She needed distance from those bodies and blood and the knowledge that someone wanted her dead badly enough to send a tactical team.
So I just drove, weaving through Brooklyn's late-night traffic, taking her somewhere safe.
Chapter 6
Maya
Wrongsheets.Thatwasthe first thing that registered. Thread count too high, detergent smell too expensive.
I was upright before my brain fully engaged, bare feet hitting carpet that was thick enough to muffle sound. My heart slammed against my ribs hard enough to hurt as I cataloged everything in rapid medical assessment—the way I'd been trained to evaluate trauma patients, except now I was evaluating my own survival odds.
Antique dresser against the far wall, dark wood with brass handles that had been polished recently. Upholstered armchair in the corner, cream fabric without a single stain. Crown molding that belonged in a museum, not a bedroom. Everything screamed money—old money, the kind that got passed down through generations along with the bodies buried to obtain it.
The door had no visible lock on my side. Just a handle, brass like everything else.
My medical bag sat on the nightstand. I grabbed it before I'd even finished processing the room, clutching the worn leather against my chest like armor. The weight of it, familiar and solid, helped slow my breathing from hyperventilation to merely panicked. Inside were my tools, my identity, money, first aid equipment—all the things I needed to survive. They could have taken it while I was unconscious, gone through everything, but they'd left it right where I'd see it.
