an access card Samira would have run into a dead end. Jamie grabbed Harriet’s pass from the counter and looped it around his neck.
“Get out of sight and stay down,” he ordered. “Away from windows.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Mariya called as he rounded the corner of her desk and scoped out the corridor. Long and empty. At the far end, one of the double doors into Occupational Therapy hung open. He ran silently along the wall, gun down, pulse cranking, checking the empty bays either side. At the double doors, the security panel had been shot to pieces. A crackly voice sounded over the hospital loudspeaker. “The hospital is on full lockdown. Proceed directly to a refuge, as indicated by staff. Do not enter or leave the premises. This is not a drill.”
From ahead, a man’s voice trickled in over the recording and the alarms. A one-sided conversation, though Jamie couldn’t make out the words. On the phone?
He peeped between the doors. Nobody in view. Occupational Therapy would be empty on a Sunday. He took a longer look. The admin station was in an alcove halfway down the narrow wing, opposite a deserted waiting room. The guy had to be in there. With Samira? Jamie edged through the doors.
“...no idea where the fuck I am,” the guy was saying, in an American accent. “Place is a fucking maze. There are treadmills and shit in here—some hospital gym? I’m looking out a window at a courtyard with a tree in it... Yeah, I know that’s not very fucking helpful. Can’t you track me from the GPS on the phone or some shit?”
A window blind rattled. Jamie quietly lowered the rucksack to the floor.
“Why don’t I just shoot her and then the problem’s solved?”
Jamie’s forehead prickled. As he inched closer, he heard—or imagined—Samira’s breath wheezing in time with the ebb of the siren. He ran his gaze around the ceiling. No security cameras. He couldn’t count on help being forthcoming—and even if it was, Jamie could well end up taking a bullet.
“Hang on, man. She’s having a fucking fit or something.”
A clatter. Gasping.
“Lady, this better not be some trick... Nah, serious, man, she’s going purple. She ain’t breathing. What do I do? Well, someone’s gotta make a decision here! Where’s Fitz?”
Jamie exhaled and inhaled, like he was trying to do it for Samira. She would be fine. Terrified, of course, but nobody died from a panic attack. He pictured the goon’s position from his voice—looking down at Samira on the floor, facing the window? Gun in right hand, phone in the other? Doubly distracted.
“If Fitz is gonna interrogate her he better get here quick... No, I don’t fucking know CPR. Hang on. I gotta put the phone down a sec.”
Jamie launched around the corner. The guy looked up, fumbling to adjust his grip on a pistol. Jamie leaped, shoved the gun aside, wheeled and smacked his elbow into the guy’s forehead. The goon staggered back but gathered control of his weapon, swiveled and aimed it at Jamie’s forehead. Not so smooth, caporal.
Something blue flew across the alcove and clocked the side of the goon’s head. The impact rippled through him. He tipped sideways into a desk and crumpled onto the floor. What the fuck? A hand weight rolled off the desk and thudded onto the guy’s side.
“Oh my God, is he alive?” Samira’s voice, to Jamie’s right, barely audible over the alarms. She was kneeling in a corner, gray-faced, eyes huge. Over the loudspeaker, the recorded message repeated.
Jamie kicked the guy’s weapon across the floor. “You threw that weight?”
“It was sitting right there. It looked like he was going to... I didn’t think. Is he...? Did I...?”
Jamie checked the guy’s vitals. “Little groggy but okay. What happened to your panic attack? Were you faking?”
“No. But then I saw you and then the weight, and somehow I pushed through it.”
A tinny voice sounded. Merde. Jamie held a finger to his lips, and located the goon’s phone on an office chair. Still on. He picked it up, settling his breath.
“Nah, I’m okay. I’m fine,” he shouted, in his best imitation of the guy’s accent, muffling his voice with his hand. “Just some fucking security guard. Knocked him out cold. Listen, there’s some paperwork sitting here, says I’m in the...” Jamie stared at a concrete courtyard. What was on the far side of the building? “The...gynecology outpatient clinic. Shit, someone’s coming. I gotta go. You better get here, quick.”
Jamie hung up. The goon groaned. Jamie retrieved his rucksack, and drew out a syringe and vial from his white box of goodies.
“What is that?” Samira said, grabbing her sunglasses from the floor beside her.
“A sedative. Keep him in a happy place a while longer.” The guy wouldn’t be able to give much of a description of Jamie, especially with a concussion, but the longer they kept him quiet, the better.
“Where did you get it?”
“Would you believe a prescription?”
“No.”
He laughed.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You have a contact?”
“Traditional weapons are a little harder to come by here and a few people owed me—”
“Favors. I’m beginning to see a pattern.”
Not that this favor had come cheaply. Andy had charged him top dollar. But at short notice, with limited access to real firepower, Jamie needed every advantage he could think of. And if there was one weapon he knew how to wield...
After injecting the guy, Jamie tucked him into a bed in a private room in the evacuated orthopedics ward next door. Samira relieved him of a clip of pounds in his pocket.
“I wish they’d shut off that fucking siren,” Jamie said as they left the room, closing the door. “We’d better get out of here before security arrives—or this guy’s buddies. I’m afraid we’ve lost your shoes, Cinderella. You might want to put your boots back on.”
“I have an idea how we can get away,” Samira said a minute later, as she zipped up the boots.
“All ears.”
She led him back to Occupational Therapy. “There,” she said, pointing to a display box fixed to a wall. Inside, two dozen keys hung on nails. A sign read OT Pool Cars. Sign the log BEFORE you take a key. Return with a FULL TANK. NO exceptions.
“Crumbs, Samira! Are you suggesting we steal a car?”
“Just...borrow.” She stepped back, abruptly. “You’re right. What am I thinking? It’s a terrible idea.”
He caught her shoulders. “It’s a great idea. You’re more easily corruptible than I’d thought.”
The box was locked but he found the key in a drawer. They tidied up the nurse’s station. He took the logbook and buried it in a paper recycling bin two wards north.
Now
