nurse just found us,” Jeff announced as he reached Andres’s side. “The doctor’s finished the surgery and she’s coming out to talk to everyone.”
“Did she say anything else? How’d it go? Is Lena okay—”
Jeff held up his hand and stopped him. “I don’t know any more than what I just told you. Let’s go upstairs and see what the doctor says—”
Andres was heading for the door before the young attorney could even finish. Jeff caught up with him a second later, sending a quick glance at the phone in Andres’s hand. “Did you find out any more details?”
Andres nodded grimly. Normally, he wouldn’t tell a civilian anything, but Jeff was an attorney. He knew the system. “According to Lena’s right-hand man—some guy named Bradley—the shooter never made it off the field.”
“Who was he?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“And your associate?”
“Potter’s dead.”
They walked into the hospital lobby. “How’d this guy get in the airport?” Jeff asked. “With Lena in charge, I can’t imagine—”
“Bradley wasn’t sure, but he thinks the perp picked one of the baggage handlers and started a friendship. The bad guy had on the handler’s ID and uniform and when they started checking afterward, they found the handler’s body back at his apartment. Bradley thinks the guy might have hidden his weapon the day before when he visited his pal.”
Jeff raised his eyebrows. “That’s an awful lot to know so soon.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less from Lena’s team.” Andres spotted the elevators and headed toward them, still speaking. “Her sniper took out the shooter with a cold shot.” He pointed to the base of his neck.
“Lena won’t like that. She hates it when the snipers have to fire.”
Andres met Jeff’s eyes with a steady look. “I think she’ll understand this time.”
The elevator came and they both got in.
“Before you got here, Lena had said there might be trouble with some group named the Red Tide. Was he a member?”
“That’s the assumption.” Andres shook his head angrily and jabbed at the buttons as he spoke. “These pendejos—these Red Tide people—they’re idiots. That makes them even more dangerous. We can’t predict what they’re going to do. They haven’t actually done anything violent like this since—”
When Andres didn’t continue, Jeff looked at him then obviously thought better of whatever question he’d had in mind. The silent elevator rose slowly. “Why do they want you dead?” Jeff asked finally.
“Because I’m trying to stop them and have been for years. They’re behind ninety per cent of the drug shipments coming through here. They finance their political activities—their little riots and rigged elections—with drug money. They tell the people they’re fighting for freedom when what they’re really doing is taking it instead.”
“Drugs? I thought Lena said they were revolutionaries.”
“That’s what they want everyone to think. They’re nothing but a bunch of thugs, though.” Andres paused, the inevitable conclusion he’d come to while he’d been waiting forming itself into words. “They’ve gone too far this time.”
The elevator pinged softly, announcing its arrival on the surgical floor. When the doors slid open, Andres held them back, but instead of walking out, he turned and looked at Jeff. His voice was low and soft. No one overhearing them would have even bothered to listen.
“Shooting Lena was the biggest mistake they could ever make,” he said quietly. “I’ll lock up every one of the bastards…or I’ll die trying. Ya están muertos.”
Jeff stared at him, then nodded his head with a slow thoughtful movement. The Spanish needed no translation.
THE SURGEON came out moments later. She was a handsome woman, in her fifties, with graying hair and dark blue eyes that looked both kind and exhausted. She wore a set of green scrubs with her name embroidered on the left side. Laura Edward-son, M.D. Obviously recognizing Phillip as he held out his hand, she greeted him then nodded toward the rest of the group.
Her eyes stopped on Andres when she saw his bandaged hand. “You were the one who was with her?”
“That’s right.”
“She kept asking about you. Fought the anesthetic so hard I didn’t think we’d ever get her out.” Before he could reply, she continued. “She’s in stable condition right now. The bullet clipped the lower lobe of her lung. We sutured that as best we could and put in a chest tube, but we’re going to have to watch that area very closely. Infection can be a big problem in the lungs. So can pneumonia.”
“We need a specialist.”
She glanced at Phillip as he spoke. “That’s exactly what I recommend,” she said calmly. “In fact, I’ve already called in our thoracic man and our pulmonary man as well. Dr. Weingarten, the thoracic surgeon, assisted me in the operation, and he’ll be monitoring her closely.” She stood wearily. “She’ll be out of the recovery unit in an hour. After that, she’ll be in intensive care until we know we’re clear on that lung. Once she’s settled into ICU, one of you can see her then. One of you.” She paused until all eyes were on her. “It’s none of my business, but since she asked for Mr. Casimiro, I suggest it be him.”
SHE WAS COLD, colder than she’d ever been in her entire life, and nothing but a jumble of sounds and impressions made their way through the bone-chilling numbness. Lena lay perfectly still and let the sounds wash over her. Eventually one stood out—a bubbling noise. She had no idea what it was or where it came from, but strangely enough she was breathing in rhythm with it. Other than that, she felt little. It was like being suspended in midair, as if nothing were touching her, nothing holding her down, nothing holding her up. She wanted to open her eyes but she couldn’t. Her lids were too heavy and when she tried to speak, her tongue felt the same way. Someone had attached weights to it.
Out of the confusion another detail started to register. It was minor, but she concentrated on it and tried to magnify the feeling. After a moment, she put a name to it. Touch. Someone was touching her. It took another second to understand where the connection was being made and another second after that to name it. Her hand. Someone was touching her hand. She strained to respond, but her fingers wouldn’t move, the command never making it out from her brain.
“Lena…querida… Can you hear me?”
The words were soft in her ear, soft and loving. They brushed her cheek with a feathery touch and a warmth she craved. For some unexplained reason, the Spanish made her feel good, too, made her feel as though whoever had spoken cared deeply, cared passionately. Who was talking to her like this? She could hear the emotion in his voice and the coldness faded, if only for a moment. When he spoke again, she fought the cloud of confusion that surrounded her, but it was too strong. It picked her up and carried her off.
The last word she heard was querida. The last thing she felt was a kiss.
