It’s a lie, but she doesn’t check. “He’s in the ICU, room 417. But he’s not conscious right now.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“The doctors are optimistic, but it’s still touch and go. The bullet did significant damage.”
I head toward the ICU on unsteady legs, counting room numbers until I reach 417. The door’s partially open, and his bed is surrounded by machines and tubes, the steady beeping of monitors pounding between my ears.
And Zane is in the middle of it all, unconscious in that hospital bed.
There’s a man in a suit sitting in the corner chair. He looks up when I enter.
“You’re Barnes.”
“Yeah.”
“Agent Morrison. FBI.” He stands, extends his hand. “I was hoping you’d show up.”
“Why?”
“Because he volunteered for this operation specifically to protect you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean when our original investigation got compromised, when it looked like we’d have to abandon the case, Christensen came to me with a proposal.” Morrison gestures toward the bed. “Said he’d go back to the syndicate, wear a wire, get us everything we needed for convictions.”
“Why would he do that?”
“You tell me. What would make a man risk his life to protect someone who told him they never wanted to see him again?”
I look at Zane, at the tubes and wires keeping him alive, and I know the answer.
Love. Real love. The kind that doesn’t count the cost.
“He could have died.”
“He nearly did die. The bullet missed his heart by two inches.” Morrison picks up his jacket from the chair. “But he got us everything we needed. Recorded confessions, admission of past crimes, details about their entire operation. Because of what he did tonight, Mikhail Volkov and his organization are finished.”
“What about the players they were targeting?” I force the words out, my pulse throbbing.
“Safe. All of them. The syndicate’s done, their files are evidence, their threats are meaningless.” He looks at me directly. “Whatever hold they had on you, it’s over.”
Whatever hold they had on me. He knows. He knows about the contract, about the threats, about tomorrow’s game.
“How long have you known?”
“About your situation? For some time. And after the raid on the syndicate, we found records of your meeting with Petrov, copies of the contract you signed, photos of your family.” Morrison’s voice gets softer. “Christensen didn’t know about any of that when he volunteered for this operation. He just knew the syndicate was still out there, still targeting people, including you, and he couldn’t live with them hurting you.”
“So he nearly got himself killed.”
“He nearly got himself killed because he wanted to protect you more than himself.” Morrison heads for the door and pauses before leaving. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with Zane and the bleeping machines keeping him alive.
I pull the chair closer to his bed, sit down, and take his hand in my trembling one. It’s warm, which seems impossible given how pale he looks.
“You stupid idiot,” I whisper, my throat tight. “You nearly died.”
No response except the machines.
