I capitalize on his distraction, hook his arm, and spin him. We hit the mat hard, me on top this time, pinning him with my forearm across the base of his throat. He taps twice, sharply, against my elbow. I release and roll off, sprawledon my back, staring at the lights. Sweat drips into my eyes. I blink it away.
“See?” I jest, winded. “You’re loosening up to the idea already. We’d be an adorable couple.”
He sits up beside me, breathing steady like the infuriatingly composed bastard he is. “After a shower, I’m going to tell Abby she needs to send your ass somewhere. Fuckinganywhere.”
I rise slowly, rolling my shoulder until it gives a dull, angry pop. Pain flares across my upper back and down my arm, then quickly settles. Gunnar is already standing, draping a towel around his neck. He looks annoyingly put together for someone who just spent the better part of an hour trying to grind me into the gym’s flooring.
“You know,” he grouses, dragging the towel over his face to mop up the remnants of sweat, “normal people do yoga or run half-marathons when they’re stressed.”
“Normal people don’t work here.”
Aegis has a way of filtering out the well-adjusted. Hawk calls itselective recruitment. I call it a magnet for beautiful disasters with skill sets that don’t translate well to civilian life.How exactly does a knack for covert surveillance and sharp-shooting convert to a ‘real’ job?
“I meant what I said,” Gunnar adds. “Anywhere. You’re going to tear yourself—and my old ass—apart if you don’t get out of this building.”
The steady, rhythmic beep of the monitor becomes a countdown. Each note is sharp and cruel, measuring the seconds Maryam has left. Her pulse is faint, a whisper beneath the chaos surrounding us. The air is heavy with the smell of blood—hot, metallic, and inescapable. It permeates the sheets, the floor, and my gloves.
I watch helplessly as her stats continue to drop—heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation—her life slipping like sand through my fingers. “Come on, Maryam,” I whisper, pressing my fingers against her wrist. “Stay with me.”
Maryam’s eyelids flutter in response. Her lips are pale, and her skin is clammy. She moans softly, her left hand momentarily rubbing over her swollen belly before falling weakly to her side.
“I’ve got him!” A voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and hopeful. I look up. One of the nurses is leaning over the front desk, flailing the phone clutched in her hand. “I’ve got her husband.”
My breath catches as I push from Maryam’s bedside. “Rafi!” I bark, tearing off my gloves. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
We reach the nurses’ station, and Rafi’s hand trembles as he takes the handset to the old landline. I punch the button to put the call on speaker, and a deep, static-laced voice crackles through the phone.
Rafi’s throat bobs as he switches between languages.
Nudging his arm, I urgently—but steadily—insist, “Tell him that his wife is losing a lot of blood. She needs surgeryimmediatelyto save both her and the baby.”
His voice tight, Rafi translates. When the man on the other end responds, Rafi’s lips curl downward as his brows furrow.
“What did he say?”
“No… He said… no.”
My chest is so tight that the thin fabric of my scrubs feels like a rubber band wrapped around my lungs, restricting my breath.This can’t be happening.“Explain it again.”Maybe he didn’t comprehend the severity.“Make him understand how serious this is.”
Rafi does. His tone changes, and even though I don’t understand, I can tell that he is pleading this time. The phone falls silent, save for the faint staticky crackle, before we receive another answer. His shoulders slump in defeat. “He still says no.”
“What the hell do you mean, no?” I shout, my voicereverberating off the chipped plaster walls. “She’s going to die if we don’t do something.”
“I understand,” Maryam’s husband responds flatly. His accent is thick, but his English is perfect. “And it is God’s will.”
Is he fucking serious right now?
“God’s will?” My voice cracks as I choke on my disdain for the complete lack of empathy from the man on the other end. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re just going to let your wife and baby die?”
“I have other wives.” Each word is so cold and precise that a chill runs down my spine. “Ones who give me sons.”
“Please. You do?—”
Click.
I stare at the speaker in complete disbelief, unable to hear anything but the rush of rage-fueled blood pulsing in my ears.
BEEEEEEEEP.
