Chapter 3 - An Unwanted Escort
Blythe backed away from the dead man's bed, ripping off her bloodied gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin.
Her mind raced. Hartfield was on the hospital's board of trustees—she had seen his name printed on the donor plaque in the main lobby. That was how he had found her. He hadn't just followed the tabloids; he had checked the employee directory.
She pushed out of the trauma bay into the scrub area.
Hartfield was waiting at the end of the hall. His two companions remained positioned by the double doors, blocking the main exit toward the public lobby.
“Miss Carver,” Hartfield purred, stepping forward. The terror he had displayed the previous night was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, spiteful arrogance. “Quite a messy shift you're having.”
“You aren't allowed in this restricted area, Mr. Hartfield,” Blythe said, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage while her pulse hammered in her throat. “Security will remove you.”
Hartfield laughed, a dry, barking sound. “Security works for the board. And right now, the board is very concerned about the company its staff keeps.”
He took another step toward her. Blythe looked around. The shift was changing, the nursing station fifty feet away was obscured by a privacy partition, and Dr. Morrison had vanished into the doctors' lounge.
“I made some phone calls this morning,” Hartfield whispered, leaning closer. “Turns out, Soren Vanek doesn't keep pets. He doesn't have a girlfriend. He doesn't protect little ER nurses. You grabbed him because you were desperate, didn't you?”
Blythe said nothing. She tightened her fists in the pockets of her scrubs.
“You made a fool out of me in front of the most dangerous man in the city,” Hartfield snarled, his voice dropping into an ugly register. “And worse, you made people think you were his weakness. Do you know what people do to Vanek’s weaknesses, Miss Carver? They test them.”
He motioned with his chin toward the two men by the doors.
“My friends from the Volkov syndicate would love to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Vanek. Where he sleeps. Who guards his residences. They pay very well for that kind of information.”
“I don't know him!” Blythe said, her voice rising. “I don't know anything about him!”
“They won't care,” Hartfield sneered. “You're coming with us. Quietly. If you make a scene, I'll have your nursing license revoked before you can scream for help. You'll be a disgraced felon before midnight.”
The two men stepped forward, their coats falling open slightly to reveal the holstered weapons beneath.
Blythe’s hand deep inside her pocket brushed against the matte-black card.
*“If he approaches you again, call that number.”*
She didn't have time to make a phone call. Hartfield’s men were five paces away.
Suddenly, the heavy pneumatic doors at the far end of the corridor hissed open.
Three men entered.
They didn't look like hospital security. They wore fitted black tactical jackets over dark slacks, moving with the synchronized, silent efficiency of military operatives. The man in the lead was broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar running along his jawline and cold, calculating eyes.
Hartfield’s two enforcers instantly went rigid, their hands darting toward their coats.
“I wouldn't,” the scarred man said. His voice was completely devoid of inflection.
A split second later, the scarred man moved with blinding speed. He closed the distance in three strides, grabbed the nearest enforcer’s wrist, and twisted.
A sharp *crack* echoed through the hallway, followed by a muffled scream of agony.
The second enforcer lunged forward, but the other two tactical operatives slammed him face-first into the linoleum floor, driving a knee into the base of his neck with bone-shattering force.
Hartfield stumbled backward into a supply cart, sending metal trays and gauze rolls crashing to the floor. “What the hell is this?! This is a private hospital! You can't—”
The scarred man turned his cold gaze onto Hartfield. He didn't draw a gun. He simply pulled a thin silver badge from his pocket, flashed it for half a second, and leaned down until his lips were inches from Hartfield's ear.
“Mr. Vanek remembers your face, Everett,” the scarred man whispered. “The only reason you are still drawing breath is that he prefers not to soil medical facilities. If you are within fifty feet of this woman again, we will dismantle everything you own, piece by piece, starting with your family trust.”
Hartfield’s knees buckled. He slid down the wall, his face the color of skim milk.
The scarred man turned toward Blythe.
His demeanor instantly shifted from lethal violence to respectful formality. He gave a slight, crisp nod.
“Miss Carver. My name is Lucian. I am Mr. Vanek’s head of security.”
Blythe pressed her back against the nurses' desk, her chest heaving. “What is going on? Did he send you to kill them?”
“He sent us to extract you,” Lucian said calmly. “The photograph published this morning has compromised your safety beyond what you can comprehend. The dead man in Trauma One was a scout for the Volkov family. They already know your shift schedule.”
“I have a job,” Blythe protested, though her voice lacked conviction. “I have a life!”
“You have about forty minutes of life left if you remain here,” Lucian replied. “The lobby is already monitored by three rival factions looking to use you as leverage against Mr. Vanek. You have two choices: stay here and let them take you, or come with us.”
Blythe looked down the corridor. One of Hartfield's men was groaning on the floor, his wrist unnaturally angled. Hartfield was sobbing silently against the wall.
She had no choice. She was swimming in deep, black water, and the shore was completely gone.
“Give me two minutes to get my coat and bag,” she said.
“You have sixty seconds,” Lucian replied, checking a heavy titanium wristwatch.
Fifty seconds later, Blythe was being escorted out through the hospital's private sub-basement freight exit. Waiting in the alley was a massive, armored matte-black SUV with reinforced bulletproof glass.
Lucian held the door open for her.
Blythe climbed into the leather interior. The doors slammed shut with the heavy, vacuum-sealed thud of a bank vault.
The SUV accelerated into the Manhattan traffic, dark windows concealing her from the city she had called home her entire life.
She looked out at the blurred skyscrapers, her hands gripping her knees.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
Lucian sat in the front passenger seat, adjusting his rearview mirror.
May you like
“To the only place in New York where nobody can touch you, Miss Carver,” he said. “To Mr. Vanek.”
***
