“Okay. I need to get working.”
“Thanks, Vee.”
As Veronique promised, an ambulance was waiting for them when they taxied to a stop.
A doctor, nurse, and two EMTs rushed on board the moment the stairs were in place. Quinn tried to stay nearby as they examined Orlando, but one of the EMTs motioned for him and the others to get off the plane. The only one who was allowed to stay was Lanier. He had O-negative blood, which made him a universal donor, and had taken over transfusion duty from Daeng mid-flight.
As the EMTs carried Orlando off the plane, Quinn caught Lanier’s eye, silently asking how the examination had gone. Grim-faced, Lanier tried to smile, but couldn’t pull it off. Once he and Orlando were in the ambulance, Quinn moved to climb on board with them.
“No room,” the doctor said, motioning for Quinn to stop.
“Make some,” Quinn growled.
After the nurse and doctor exchanged a glance, the nurse scooted over so Quinn could squeeze in next to her.
The ambulance raced from the airport, sirens blaring. Quinn figured they would probably head to Cristo de los Milagros Hospital. It was the largest on the island, and the same hospital he and Orlando had been in less than twenty-four hours before as they’d tried to track down information on Nate’s abductor. But instead of driving into the city where the hospital was, they turned onto a highway that circled around the edge.
The neighborhood they ended up in was a quieter one just south of the capital, composed mainly of what appeared to be industrial businesses and warehouses. A few streets in, they passed through the gate of a walled compound, and stopped in front of a three-story, windowless structure near a double door entrance. Within seconds, the doors swung open and several people ran out, pushing a gurney.
Since Quinn was jammed in at the very back, he opened the ambulance door and hopped out first. Lanier exited next. The EMTs had removed him from the transfusion tube during the ride.
“Háganse a un lado,” a woman next to the gurney said.
Quinn pulled Lanier to the side so they wouldn’t impede the others. Working in concert, the EMTs in the ambulance and the personnel outside carefully transferred Orlando from the vehicle onto the rolling bed. Once straps were secured across her torso, she was pushed into the building.
Quinn grabbed one of the orderlies. “He needs help, too,” he said, motioning to Lanier before taking off after Orlando.
He followed the gurney all the way to the surgical room door, but the staff would let him go no farther. Knowing it was useless to fight, he allowed himself to be escorted to a waiting room, where he pulled out his phone and called Veronique again.
“How is she?” she asked.
“They’ve just taken her into surgery.”
“Did they give you any indication on her chances?”
“No one’s saying anything.” He paused. “Who owns this place?”
“No one you would know.”
“Government run?” he asked.
“No.”
“They must know about it.”
“They probably do,” she said. “But it’s a money generator. Most of the clients are from off island. You know, they come to get procedures done they’d rather their friends back home didn’t know about. So as long as the government receives its cut, it keeps its hands off.”
“You’re sure we’re safe here?”
“You’re safe. Trust me,” she said. “But I’ve gotta say, even if the authorities do find out who you are and what you did, they’re more likely to pin a medal on your chest than throw you in jail.”
Nate, Lanier, Berkeley, and Curson were all admitted to the nameless hospital and taken to individual rooms. They’d been whipped, electroshocked, and beaten while held prisoner by Romero. Though their wounds were not life threatening, the men were in serious need of treatment and rest. So only Daeng and Liz were able to keep Quinn company while he waited for word on Orlando’s condition.
Two hours passed.
Then three.
Then four.
Every scenario that ran through Quinn’s mind ended with “I’m sorry. We did all we could.” Not knowing what was happening was driving him crazy. More than once, Daeng and Liz had to stop him from leaving the room in search of answers.
“They’ll let us know as soon as they can,” Liz told him. “You’ll only get in the way otherwise.”
When Orlando’s surgeon finally did walk into the waiting room, Quinn braced himself.
“I’m Dr. Montero,” the man said, speaking in nearly unaccented English. “Your friend is very lucky. There is no question she would have died without the transfusion you gave her.”
Quinn stared at him. “She’s alive?” he finally managed to whisper.
The doctor nodded. “At the moment.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying she’s not going to make it?”
The doctor held up a hand, palm out. “It is far too early to know. Your friend was shot three times. One of her kidneys is destroyed, and her left lung was punctured. The third bullet hit her knee. There’s a lot of damage there, but we haven’t had time to fully assess it. We concentrated more on the life-threatening injuries. And even with the transfusions, her blood loss was significant.” He paused. “We believe we’ve removed all the bullet fragments, and she’s stable for now. If she stays that way and is strong enough, she’ll have to go back into surgery in a few days. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
She’s alive. She’s alive. Quinn grabbed on to that thought and held it tight. “I want to see her.”
The doctor looked as if he was about to say no.
“Please,” Quinn pleaded.
The man hesitated for several seconds, and finally said, “Follow me.”
“We’re coming with you,” Liz said.
The doctor held up his hand again. “Better only one.”
“It’s not open for discussion,” Liz told him.
Apparently realizing it would be useless to argue, the doctor led them to a room on the second floor. Quinn was allowed to enter first. The hospital bed was all but hidden from view by four nurses, some monitoring equipment, and a couple IV stands.
One of the nurses turned as he approached. “No deberia estar aqui,” she said.
“It’s all right,” the doctor told her, also speaking Spanish. “Let him see her.”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed in disapproval as if some sacred law had been broken, but she stepped to the side.
Quinn moved all the way to the bed and looked down at Orlando.
She looks so small, he thought.
She wasn’t big to begin with — five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds on her heaviest days, but now she looked…diminished, like she would float away if a breeze blew through the room.
“Hey,” he whispered as he touched the hair above her ear. “You’re going to make it, but you need to fight, and be strong like you always are.” He skimmed her cheek with the back of his finger, her skin so pale and soft, and then leaned down and kissed her on the lips. “I love you. You better damn well come back to me. Understand?”
CHAPTER 4
Misty Blake stared out the window of her apartment. She’d been there since a little before five a.m., when she’d given up trying to sleep. In front of her sat yet another untouched cup of coffee, cold and forgotten. She was dressed in the same T-shirt and gym shorts she’d gone to bed in, the same clothes she’d worn the day before. The same clothes she’d worn since the day Quinn had called her and told her Peter was dead.
Misty had been Peter’s last assistant at the Office, working with him right up to the end of the organization as they’d closed everything down and were then transferred in different directions. Their relationship had continued even after she started her mindless job at the Labor Board. To Misty he was still her boss, and anytime he needed help, she was there.