Nick reacted. Grabbed Sloane’s bed and shoved it. Hard. It squeaked across the floor. Not much, the brakes fighting any kind of motion, but enough it knocked the woman off-balance as she fired a suppressed round — punched a hole in the wall.
Nick vaulted over the bed, ribs and thigh protesting as he landed on the other side, deflected the strike she aimed at his throat before knocking the pistol free. It clattered to the floor, slid under the gurney, close but unattainable.
She countered with a couple strong hooks, aimed the next at his head when Sloane rose behind her, smashed the tray over the woman’s head. She dropped, hit her temple on the rail on the way down, stilled the second she hit the floor.
Nick had some spare tubing from one of the drawers wrapped around her wrists a second later, more around her ankles. He shifted over to Sloane, praying she hadn’t pulled out her stitches, when the lights winked out.
No flickering.
No loud humming.
Just the lights gleaming overhead, then utter darkness.
Sloane grunted, holding her ribs as Nick helped her lean against the headboard. Her eyelids fluttered, her head bobbing a bit before she drew herself up — looked him in the eyes. “What the hell?”
“Hill killed the directive.”
Sloane inhaled, whimpered from apparent pain, then cursed. “But… He’d only do that if he’s sending a shadow team, instead.”
Nick nodded, grabbed a wheelchair from behind the monitors and snugged it up to the bed. “And they’re already here.”
