My blood ran cold and heart thudded louder than the monitors. Every instinct screamed.
The man’s gaze flicked up to the room numbers as he walked. 411. 413.
He slowed.
“Evan?” Blackjack’s voice pressed at my ear.
Before I could answer, another voice cut through the air. Not through the phone. From behind me.
“Get down!”
It was a woman’s voice. Sharp. Commanding. Closer than it should have been.
I spun around.
She stood in the hall like she had been carved to fit the space. No helmet now. Long pale blond hair pulled back in a low tail, a few strands loose around a jaw that could cut glass. Neck and throat inked in black, patterns disappearing under the collar of her black shirt. Black jeans molded to strong legs. Black cut with the twin vipers and skull of the Shore Vipers patch. Pistol already up in both her hands, arms steady.
Her eyes locked on mine for half a heartbeat. Iceblue. Focused. Annoyed I hadn’t already listened.
“I said get down, city boy!” she snapped.
Time did something weird.
I had heard once that when you met your soulmate, the world slowed down. I had always assumed if that were true, I would be in a bar, holding a drink, not in a hospital hallway with a woman aiming a gun past my head.
Figures.
I dropped.
The same instant my knees hit the floor, the gun at the far end of the hall came up.
The first shot cracked, loud and bright. The bullet hit the door frame where my shoulder had been a minute earlier, splintering wood and plaster.
The second shot sounded on top of it, a sharper one. Hers. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Just adjusted and fired again.
“Jersey!” Blackjack shouted in my ear. “What the fuck is going on?”
Before I could answer, something hot and fast kissed my hand. My phone jerked. There was a flash of plastic and glass and then it was just gone, ripped out of my fingers, pieces scattering across the gleaming floor.
The call cut off mid-curse.
“Shit,” I hissed.
Screams erupted from somewhere down the hall. A nurse dove behind the station desk.A metal tray clanged as someone dropped it. The heart monitor in Miami’s room sped up in protest through the half open door.
“Stay low,” the woman barked. She moved forward in a half crouch, sighting down the hall. “Don’t get cute.”
The man in the suit staggered as one of her shots found him. He pressed himself against the wall, arm jerking. His return fire went wild, chewing into the ceiling tiles, one bullet punching into a light fixture that popped and rained glass dust.
She advanced another step, controlled, teeth bared. Not a grin.
I scrambled closer to the doorway, keeping myself between the hall and Miami’s bed. The backpack seemed to burn between my shoulders. If the guy down there was here for the ledgers, I was wearing his prize and what he was after.
The loudspeakers crackled to life overhead.
“Code Silver, Code Silver,” a calm automated voice recited. “Security alert. Active shooter reported on the fourth floor. All staff, shelter in place. Lock all patient doors.”
Too late for that.
