“She needs to be admitted to a proper medical facility. Immediately,” he says, his voice gaining a note of urgency that feels just a little too sharp. “Her lungsare filling with fluid. She needs a ventilator, a machine to help her breathe. If we don’t get her on one in the next few hours, I can’t be responsible for the consequences.”
And there it is. The lie.
It unfolds in my mind with the cold clarity of a shattering diamond. The diagnosis might be real, the sickness is certainly real, but the prescription is a carefully crafted key. A ventilator. An admission to a hospital. It’s a perfect fucking escape route. A medical transfer would get her out of this building, away from my control and in the miles it takes to get her to hospital, I don’t doubt there would be people waiting to intercept.
No, this isn’t a random doctor, this man works for the Esau.
My worry for my investment evaporates, replaced by a cold, murderous rage. They think they can play me. They think I’m a fool who can’t see a trap laid out so blatantly?
I force my face to remain a placid mask. I turn to Mrs Vale, my movements deliberately calm.
“Mrs Vale,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Leave us. Go to the comms centre and arrange for a different medical opinion. A specialist in infectious diseases. Use my private channel. Now.”
She looks startled, then suspicious, but the absolute authority in my tone is undeniable. She gives a curt nod and slips out of the room, the door hissing shut behind her.
The doctor watches her go, then turns back to me, looking slightly nervous. “Sir, with all due respect, there’s no time for a second opinion. The patient’s condition is critical.”
“I understand,” I say, my voice smooth as silk. I gesture towards the door. “Let’s discuss the transport arrangements in the hall. I want to ensure there are no complications, given her status.”
He hesitates for a moment then nods, picking up his bag. He’s clearly anxious to get this over with, to get his part done and get paid. He follows me out into the corridor, which is empty and silent, lit by the soft glow of overhead panels.
The moment the door to Grace’s room closes, the atmosphere shifts. The sterile quiet of the hallway becomes a confessional box with only one exit.
“Who are you working for?” I ask, my back to him as I seem to examine the wall.
He stammers. “I, what? I don’t know what you mean. I’m a Brethren doctor. I’m acting in the best interests of my patient.”
I turn slowly to face him. The fear in his eyes is confirmation enough. He’s not a hardened operative; he’s a man who was offered a lot of money for a simple, unethical task. A coward.
“The best interests of your patient,” I repeat, the words tasting like ash. “Or the best interests of whoever paid you to get her out?”
His face pales. “You’re mistaken. I swear, Mr Macrae…”
I don’t bother with further conversation. There is no truth to be gained here that I haven’t already deduced. The only response to this level of betrayal, this attempt to steal what is mine, is absolute and final. My hand moves to the small of my back, fingers closing around the cool, familiar grip of my pistol. A sleek, silenced weapon. Practical.
His eyes widen as he sees the motion, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips. He raises a hand, as if to ward off a blow.
There is no drama. No grand speech. There is only the simple, mechanical action of removing a problem. I raise the pistol and, in one fluid motion, press the muzzle against his forehead and pull the trigger.
The sound is a dull, wet thud, barely louder than a book dropping on the carpet. His body slumps to the floor without another sound, and a dark, spreading stain blossoms on the pristine floor beneath his head. I look down at him for a moment, a piece of discarded trash cluttering my hallway. A mess to be cleaned up by someone else.
I step back into Grace’s room, the hiss of the door sealing me inside with her once more. The air still smells of her sickness, but now it’s mixed with the faint, coppery tang of gunpowder and death that clings to my clothes. I walk to the bed and look down at her.
Her breathing is still ragged, her fever still burns. The doctor’s lie was the escape plan, but his diagnosis was likely real. She is truly ill. The plot may be foiled, but the jeopardy remains.
I pull the chair close to her and sit, with the pistol resting on my knee. The metal is still warm. My plans are still at risk, but the immediate threat has been neutralised.
Right now, I am her sole protector and her jailer.
No one else gets in. No one takes her from me. Not a rival, not a disease, not even Death himself without going through me first.
Every time I come here, I wonder why. This woman is the past. This woman is nothing but a ghost to me, a shell of her old self. And yet there’s something about seeing what you once craved, once coveted above everything with the rose-tinted glasses off.
With the dream of them stripped away.
With nothing but the hate left.
I watch her from the doorway, see how she’s bathed in the weak, sickly light of these damned artificial suns they passed for illumination down here. Her back is to me, her golden hair catching the light like a halo, but I know that halo is just dust motes trapped in a dying bulb.
