He helped her sit up. Pain flared through her ribs, sharp enough to steal her breath. Blake steadied her, hands warm and gentle.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
She hated how weak she felt, how even raising her arms made her tremble. But Blake didn’t rush her. His patience was steady—anchoring.
“I can do it,” she whispered.
“I know. Let me help anyway.”
He eased the robe around her shoulders, lifted her hair free of the collar. His knuckles grazed her neck. A shiver slipped through before she could stop it.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded. Couldn’t speak.
He tied the robe, stepped beside her, hand hovering near her elbow.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But let’s go anyway.”
He handed her the recovered sidearm. “Stay close.”
“Always.”
The hallway outside was unnervingly quiet.
Hospitals hummed—machines, vents, footsteps. But this? This silence was coiled. Listening.
Blake guided her along the wall, checking corners with the natural precision of a man who had survived too much. His shirt was stained with dried blood, and each movement carried a subtle wince.
Vivian kept behind him, Glock low but ready. Her head throbbed. Her ribs burned with every breath. But she forced her pace steady.
They reached the first junction. Blake angled them into the dimmer service wing.
Halfway along, Vivian caught motion through a glass panel—two “maintenance” workers near the elevator. Too still. Too prepared. One had the outline of a holstered weapon under his coveralls.
Vivian whispered, “Blake.”
He guided her toward an alcove. Reflection in the polished elevator doors confirmed it—armed, waiting.
Not hospital staff.
Not Bureau.
His extraction team.
Blake murmured, “Basement level.”
She nodded.
They slipped back and into the stairwell.
A faint metallic click drifted up from below. Slow. Controlled. Someone checking a chamber, not a radio.
Then another pair of footsteps.
A third.
