As Roe was lowered into the chair, Shannon looked back toward Dante’s ICU bay.
“Where’s Hunt?” she demanded. “Is he being treated?”
One of the nurses flinched at her tone, mid-IV line into Roe.
“Still in the OR,” someone offered. “He’s stable, but?—”
“Stable?” she cut in. “Dr. Roe is standing here bleeding while everyone pretends he’s a trauma surgeon and not a gunshot victim. Is that true for Dr. Montgomery?”
No one answered.
“Get someone down there to check on Dr. Montgomery now,” she said. “If he collapses because no one moved, I’ll know exactly who to blame.”
She turned back in time to see a nurse adjusting Dante’s position in the bed. The ventilator hissed. A line beeped in a slow, steady rhythm. As soon as Roe was wheeled out, Shannon stepped back to Dante’s bedside.
The ICU quietedas midnight settled over the hospital. The machines kept their steady cadence, each mechanical breath from the ventilator rising and falling in a rhythm that had become the center of Shannon’s world.
She sat in a reclining chair beside Dante, her knees drawn close, a blanket around her shoulders that one of the nurses had tucked there without a word. She lifted his hand in hers. His skin was no longer heated by fever. The room was dim enough that the monitors cast a soft glow across his face, illuminating the bruises along his temple and buried in the stubble on his jaw.
Every few minutes, she looked up, watching the numbers on the screens. Every few minutes, fear rose in her chest. Every few minutes, she forced it back down.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not now. Not after everything.”
THE SECURITY WING
In a conference alcove three floors down, Ford stood with Mike and Ian with a tablet under one arm and a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked like a man holding himself together by force.
Mike leaned forward. “You looked into Krueger’s travel?”
Ford nodded. “He used a mercenary wing that operates on the West African corridor. Someone paid for the flight—someone powerful. The documents were scrubbed so fast the digital trace was almost perfect.”
“Almost?” Ian asked.
Ford lowered the coffee to the table and showed them the tablet. “Krueger could not have traveled with the third nuke without someone clearing space at Ramstein. That means military clearance. Bureaucracy. Somebody with stars or stripes or clearance-level immunity. I wish his dad hadn’t died months ago. I’d swear it was him.”
Mike rubbed his temple. “You think this is bigger than a rogue asset.”
Ford’s eyes hardened. “Someone funded Krueger, protected him, and ensured he got into Germany. And they have his mission to finish.”
Ian leaned back in the chair, absorbing every word. “We need to prepare for the possibility that someone else is coming.”
Ford nodded. “I want security tightened around the entire hospital. Dante is still vulnerable.”
Mike exhaled. “Shannon will not sleep until he’s safe.”
Ford looked down, his voice low. “Neither will I.”
ICU
Despite the repaired bullet wound, Hunt moved through the ICU with steady, disciplined resolve. His left side was bandaged, and his breath caught every few steps. He walked holding on to an IV pole that held fluid and antibiotics. He refused all pain medication other than acetaminophen.
A nurse tried to steer him toward a chair. “Dr. Montgomery, you shouldn’t be up. You just had surgery. You need to rest.”
Hunt shook his head and continued toward Dante’s room. “I will rest when my patient stabilizes.”
He stopped outside Bay 2, watching through the glass. Dante lay surrounded by a web of technology. Shannon sat beside him in absolute stillness, her hand over his.
Hunt stepped inside after checking the chart. “He’s responding to the interventions. Not quickly, but enough to keep us encouraged.”
