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She stops, holding my gaze while her own eyes narrow. But then she sighs and retreats with an I’ll-find-out-later expression.
Relief crashes through me as I continue into the administrative wing. At this hour, this part of the hospital is deserted except for a maintenance cart left in the middle of the hallway like its driver clocked out mid-thought and a janitor snoring like a bear by the fire exit.
The lights of the Cross Bronx Expressway bleed through the high window at the end of the hall, a river of ceaselessly flickering red and white even at two in the morning.
Tracking the Russian is easy when he has six inches and fifty pounds on every other man around here. I trail him at a careful distance, cataloguing details like I would for a patient presentation. I note that his right hand hovers low near his hip. Could he be carrying a weapon?
He gets all the way to the far end of the hall, then he stops outside the supply room. The room’s only accessed during shift changes for restocking, so at this hour, it’s dead space. When a second man opens the door from the inside, the logic of this location choice clicks.
No foot traffic. No reason for anyone to stumble upon them.
The second man is younger, with a thick neck and a buzz cut. When my former patient ducks inside, the door doesn’t fully close, so I rush forward to stick a toe in.
I press my body against the wall outside, straining to hear the voices drifting through the gap, but they’re mostly speaking in Russian. My brain scrambles through the thick, unfamiliar vocabulary until I grab my phone, pull up a translator app, and raise it toward the crack in the door.
The app identifies a few words, transforming the Russian into English on my screen. Shipment. Harvest. And then they switch to clear-as-day English that needs no translation.
“…the Romano problem.”
My last name strikes like a defibrillator to the chest. I’m already pressed sideways against the wall, one shoulder flat to the plaster, and now my knees buckle. I slide down until I’m crouching. The wall against my back is the only solid surface left in a corridor that hasn’t started to tilt.
Romano. The name could refer to Matteo and his investigation into the trafficking ring, which would mean these men are connected to my brother’s murderers.
However, the name could also refer to me. I treated their soldier in the ER and asked him stupid questions about his tattoo, a mark apparently important enough for Marco to have it in his file. Also, the Bratva men saw me treat Marco.
He said they must be watching me. So they may know that the doctor who kept asking questions about their insignia has crossed paths with one of their archenemies.
I could be the Romano problem, a loose thread they want to cut before it unravels further.
I’m not sure which possibility terrifies me more.
They’re back to speaking in rapid Russian, too fast for my app to process.
As I push off the wall to leave, my hip clips the maintenance cart. In the silence, the clanging of metal as cleaning items roll onto the floor sounds catastrophic.
The supply room door swings open, and the tattooed Russian looks straight at me with a flat calm while the younger one reaches for his hip.
I force on a smile I’ve manufactured a thousand times for difficult patients. “Hi. Sorry. I came to the supply room for gauze. We’re running low in Trauma Bay Two.”
The lie sounds reasonable enough and the delivery solid. I can only hope it works.
The tattooed Russian’s gaze drops to my badge. His eyes dart across my name once, then twice. When he glances back up, dark recognition overtakes his expression.
“You know what? Never mind.” I nod at him and start retreating, attempting to keep my shaky feet from accelerating into a run. I maintain a sharp pace toward the ER, my heart hammering as I pray they don’t follow.
The nurses’ station is close, and I rush around the long desk, grabbing Jenna by the arm violently enough to slosh her coffee. I pull her toward the corner and quickly swipe my badge to unlock the medication room.
“Call hospital security.” My voice is impressively steady. “Right now, please. We need them immediately.”
She grabs for her phone with wide eyes as I stand by the narrow window in the medication room door and monitor the corridor.
Nothing.
Security arrives two minutes later. When we step out to meet them, I explain that I spotted two strange men in a restricted area.
We rush in and find the back corridor empty, but the supply room’s endless boxes of gauze and IV bags are now lined up to perfection. A hospital is never that neat, so this tells me that the men straightened up before leaving. Aside from that, the men left behind no evidence. Whatever info they met up to exchange they took with them.
Of course.
