"How do you figure that?" she asked.
"Someone dressed him after they beat him. Then the wounds. They’re symmetric. Possibly from a flashlight. Those marks are from a baton. And this one is a steel-toed boot. Prisoners wear sneakers."
The orthopedist entered the room. "Another skel from the jail?"
Elizabeth's temper flared. "He's a man. A patient."
"Beth, c'mon, these people are a waste of resources," the orthopedist told her. "Just pack him off, drug him and let him go."
Her voice was shrill, "What do you mean, ‘these people’? Get out!"
"Hedges, it’s her head injury. She's hypersensitive. Should she even be in here?" the orthopedic surgeon appealed to Patrick.
Patrick tossed a clamp toward the wall. "Out!"
"You two are insane. I'm the only orthopedist in the building." No one said a word when he stormed from the OR.
Dr. Hoyt passed the arrogant orthopedist as he left. "He's got diffuse brain swelling. I'll put a pressure monitor in. And when he’s ready, I'll fuse the two vertebrae in his spine. Full immobilization. Warren, methylprednisolone for forty-eight hours."
Ira Thorne, the urologist, cursed. "I'm packing off his right kidney. He's going to need a significant reconstruction. I'll make a temporary connection.”
Devastated, Martin still couldn’t forget Julian’s text,Greece is burning,as he huddled with Mike and conferenced with Ian and Kieran, devising a new plan. “They will know you’re coming for them, Martin," Mike said.
"We can regroup, Farmer," Kieran said.
"There are six dead agents, and we may lose Greece. This has to be shut down," Martin insisted.
Ian's inhale rattled their ears. "Farmer, the mission is a go."
Tuesday, August 15th
Martin and Julian wore out the floor tiles pacing outside the OR while Mike stayed off to the side waiting to speak with Patrick. It was horrific enough with news about Troy, then a letter arrived from the DEA requesting Elizabeth's prescription records.
It was almost noon before the operating room doors swished open. Patrick's arm supported Elizabeth as she walked out, his jaw ticking.
Distraught, Elizabeth collapsed into Martin's arms. "The guards almost killed him. Something needs to be done."
"Sunshine, I..."
Elizabeth stopped him. "Marty?" She peered around. "He has the same word tattoo you do. Tate told me a story—I remember only bits of it. I think it was Troy...Greece. The mountain. The kidney stones."
Martin was shaking his head no, but as he met her eyes, it was clear she didn't believe him. He hoped she remembered their discussion about keeping things secret because of his job. His voice deepened, "Elizabeth, I need you to listen to me. I’m leaving for a while, and I need you to trust me. Trust in us." He tucked her head under his chin, his eyes closed. "Promise me you’ll take care of yourself and Lola. I love you. Today and always."
"Where are you going?" Tears began to fall from her eyes as Tate and Patrick's conversations filled her head. Martin never asked of others what he wouldn't do himself.
"I need to finish something, Sunshine. Julian is going to stay with you. Please listen to him and do what he says. I’ll be back soon." He took a deep breath, slanting his lips to meet hers in a soul-wrenching kiss.
Next, he did the hardest thing he ever did—again. He walked away from the woman he loved.
The late August afternoon was gray and foreboding, and dust puffed up around the car as Martin drove up to the Reed house. He stepped on the porch, his neck prickling with awareness. The front door was ajar. Martin pulled his gun. "Talbot Reed," he called.
When a crash of glass caught his attention, he went inside the home and started to check each room. Papers were strewn across the dining room table, including Elizabeth's letter. He slipped it into his pocket. As he backed out of the room, a sharp sting burned in his calf. His vision dimmed as the floor rose to catch him. His brain shut down, and everything went black.
The ground was scratchy beneath his cheek. His mouth was bone dry. Gunpowder and copper tainted the air. He pried his dry eyes open and, through blurred vision, scanned his surroundings to see blood spattering the walls. Shaking off the fog, he struggled to stand. Something in their plan had gone wrong. Sprawled in an over-sized leather chair, Hal Dufour was dead. A mug, once filled with coffee, was spilled on his leg and lay empty on the floor. A double tap—shot to the head and one to the chest were visible.
Slouched on the couch, Talbot Reed looked to be the victim of the same assassin. A portable phone lay on the floor covered with blood drops. On a coffee table sat a Ruger P-228. Martin reached for his phone.CLICK. A weapon cocked, and a cold gun barrel pressed against the back of his head.
SQUAWK,chirp chirp. The sounds of a police radio became background noise. "FREEZE," a male voice demanded.
