“Good. Do not forget it.”
I exit the SUV, close the door behind me. Watch as Thomas drives away, slow, careful, unobtrusive. For the second time now, Thomas has been my deus ex machina. I do not know what to make of it, of the man. Why Thomas, so utterly unlike Len, your other henchman, continues to help me. Len is a known quantity; vicious, violent, and utterly loyal to you. Unapologetically a killer. Thomas, however, is different.
I push aside thoughts of Thomas and Len, and of you. The receptionist at this hospital—I do not know which, have once again failed to pay attention to where I have been taken—is an elderly white woman with tired, apathetic eyes.
“May I help you?”
“I’m looking for a man whom believe is a patient here. Logan Ryder?”
Tap-tap-tap-tap... taptaptap... tap.“Yes. Room five thirteen.” Slides a large green sticker toward me, tosses a ballpoint pen on top. “Print your name on the visitor’s badge and stick it somewhere visible.”
I write my name:Isabel de la Vega.Affix the sticker to my chest near my shoulder. Take the elevators up to the fifth floor. The hallways are wide and harshly lit with fluorescent bulbs. My heels click loudly on the floor. The smell of disinfectant and illness assaults my nostrils. Count the rooms, 503 on my left,504 on my right... turn a corner, 511... 512... 513. The door is closed. The ward is hushed. An orderly or nurse pushes a cart past me, one caster wobbling and squealing. A doctor, then. Tall, male, Indian, slender, stethoscope thumping at his chest, flipping through a chart and barely paying attention to where he is going.
I do not want to go in. I do not want to see Logan wounded. Perhaps dying. Unconscious. Unable to remember me. Fading away, thin and frail and pale. Wrapped up in bandages like a mummy.
Panic flutters in my throat, in my belly. I blink, and choke back a ragged panting gasp. Blink again, and I feel dizzy. Disoriented. I have to lean against the door frame, rest my head against the wood of the door. Close my eyes.
Darkness.
Warmth.
Pain.
A steady beeping. Snoring. My eyes open, flutter. Haze, blurriness. Disorientation. Open my eyes again. They will not quite open all the way. Won’t focus properly. My skull feels thick, stuffed with cotton. I can see enough to know I am in a hospital. But where? Why? What happened? I hear the snoring again. Scan the room as best as I am able. There. In the corner. A chair reclined into a makeshift bed, thin white blanket pulled over a large, muscular body. A glimpse of black hair.
A snort, squeaking plasticky leather, and the form shifts, twists. I can see the face now.
Jakob?
What is Jakob doing here?
My throat is clogged. Something is lodged down my throat. Taped to my nose. I can’t speak. I try to moan.
Jakob starts, sits up immediately.
“Isabel?” His voice is scratchy, muzzy with sleep.
“Miss?” A concerned male voice, lilting, accented. The doctor. A hand cool on my cheek. “Are you okay?”
I straighten. Nudge his hand away. “Yes. Yes. Thank you. I just... I got dizzy.”
“Are you visiting a patient on this floor, miss?” A penlight, shining in my eyes. Tracking their motion. “Look down, please. Up... left... and to the right.” I do as instructed. “Very good. When was the last time you have eaten, please?”
“Recently. An hour or two ago.”
“Do you feel ill to your stomach? Queasy, at all?” Cool thin long fingers check my pulse at my neck, kind brown eyes watching an analog watch.
I shrug off his concern. “I’m fine. Just... a long day.” I breathe and compose myself. “I’m visiting someone. Logan Ryder. He’s in here.” I reach for the door lever.
“Ah. I am Dr. Kalawat. Mr. Ryder is very, very fortunate indeed to be alive. Some would even call it miraculous. He is also very tough, I think. Extremely determined.”
I hesitate to ask, but must. “How is he? I mean... I haven’t seen him yet, since—since...” I am reluctant to speak the words.
“Since someone tried to murder him, you mean?” A hardness laces the doctor’s eyes. “As I have said, he is lucky to be alive. The bullet entered his eye socket on an angle oblique enough to pass through without damaging his brain. He lost the eye, of course, and needed rather extensive reconstructive surgery. If the angle had been even a few millimeters different, he would be dead right now, or at best, would have suffered rather more severe brain damage. It’s too soon to be totally sure, of course, but we think he will make a full recovery without any lasting brain damage.”
Lost the eye? God, Logan.
“Can I see him?”
