Page 8 of Serve ’N’ Protect

“Tammy Teague is filming a music video at Leonardtown Wharf Park,” Amani, the nurse, said. “Apparently, she fractured her toe on the flagpole, poor thing.” She made a tsking sound, clearly not as impressed with the music industry’s next Britney Spears as most people were. “You’d think they’d have more important news to cover than that.”

Yeah. Like two Secret Service cops getting knifed in the back. Literally. Four days ago, his face had been plastered all over the news from coast to coast. Jack Barnes’s, too. If only Jack had made it. Markus barely knew him. They’d only worked together once, but he’d liked the guy. The man’s death was a loss not only to his family but to the entire agency. Losing one of their own would not go unpunished.

“That ought to do it,” Dr. Martinez said, inspecting her work. “Try not to break these. I’m guessing you tried doing too much?” Reluctantly, he nodded. “Lesson learned, I hope. You need to take it easy for a while. You’re starting from scratch with these new stitches. Give it seven to ten days, then make an appointment with your personal doctor to have them taken out. Amani will put fresh bandages on.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Dr. Martinez left, leaving him alone with the nurse. Markus waited impatiently as she taped clean gauze to the gashes on his abdomen and back then rolled more gauze around his waist to hold everything in place.

“There you go.” She tied off the gauze. “Don’t sneeze too hard. Or let your boss bully you into more than you’re supposed to be doing,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I won’t,” he reassured her, adding just before she left, “Could you ask my, uh, girlfriend to come in? She’s about five-five, blond hair, walks with a cane.”

“I’ll tell her.” The nurse smiled then left.

Again, he wasn’t sure if Cassidy was still in the waiting room. Not that he could blame her if she wasn’t. How could he possibly know she’d nearly had her leg amputated? He couldn’t, but he’d been an insensitive jackass. Blaming it on the meds and his condition might work, but he wasn’t one to make excuses. He’d been shitty to her, and she’d helped him anyway.

While he waited for Cassidy, he listened to the message from John.

“Markus, it’s John. Thought you should know, Cassidy Morgan—my next-door neighbor—called to check on you. She thinks you’re a criminal hiding out from the FBI.” John chuckled. “I set her straight, but don’t worry, I didn’t tell her anything except that she should trust you. Cassidy’s good people. Her whole family is. Stay safe, and be well.”

Markus grinned. So Cassidy was playing amateur sleuth behind his back. That meant she hadn’t recognized him, which was a damn good thing. Then again, he probably looked like crap at the moment, nothing like the now-famous photo the media had dug up from somewhere of him and Ghost on patrol at the White House.

“Hey.”

He looked up to find Cassidy standing in the doorway. “Hey.” She appeared tired. Or in pain. Even from this distance, he couldn’t miss the tightness of her mouth. “Is your leg bothering you?” He had a feeling that he wasn’t the only one who’d overdone it today. Dragging his ass around had obviously taken its toll on her. At six-foot-three, he was no lightweight.

“A little,” she admitted, coming inside and sitting heavily on a chair. “Since the accident, I’ve gone to physical therapy, but it hasn’t gone quite as well as I’d hoped.”

“Then you should find another therapist.”

“Working on it.” She tucked a lock of wavy blond hair behind her ears. He hadn’t noticed how long it was, falling to the tops of her breasts. “You should know that I checked up on you.”

“I heard.” He held up his phone.

“John called you already?” Her brows scrunched together. “He said I should trust you. And that if you want to tell me what happened, you’ll tell me in your own time.”

“That’s true.” Although, if she couldn’t figure out who he was on her own, he wasn’t about to tell her. Again, it was safer that way. For her.

“He said you saved his life.” She cocked her head. “When I asked him about you, I called you Markus because that’s the name you gave me. When the nurse came to get me, she called you Alex Adessio. Which is it? Markus or Alex? John only knows you by the name Markus.”

So much for his undercover skills. In his drugged-out stupor, he must have told her his real name. Good thing he hadn’t applied to the CIA. He’d make a shitty spy. “Markus is my middle name,” he lied, hopefully sounding smooth enough to be convincing. “Alex is the name on all my ID, so that’s what the hospital logged me in under.”

“Alex Markus Adessio it is, then. You know that sounds like a Roman soldier’s name, right? I can already see you swinging a sword from a horse-drawn chariot as you go charging around the Colosseum.”

The image she’d conjured up had his lips twitching. Snarky and sharp-witted, something he’d do well to remember. Right now, there were more pressing matters. Like escaping from the hospital without Dr. Martinez knowing.

His next words would be difficult. Just do it. Ask. You have no choice. “I need your help getting out of here.”

“Fine,” she said. “As soon as you’re discharged, they can wheel you outside and I’ll take you—”

“That’s not what I mean.” Cautiously, he sat up, waiting for the bed to spin, but it didn’t. “Hand me my jacket.” He pointed to where a nurse had draped it on another chair.

She stood and helped him shrug into it. “Have you been discharged? Did they give you any instructions, any prescriptions?”

“I’m not waiting around to be discharged.” He eased off the gurney, wincing as a sharp pain dug into his wounds. The room began spinning again and he wobbled on his feet. Contrary to what he’d thought, those drugs were still in his system, dragging him down and threatening to blanket his vision with that same gray cloud cover.

Cassidy wrapped an arm around his waist. Yet again, her slim frame was the only thing keeping him upright. “I really don’t think this is a good idea. Why don’t you wait for a wheelchair?”