Chapter 30
Thirty
T he hospital buzzed with activity—nurses hurrying from room to room, muffled conversations, and the distant beeping of monitors. Isobel sat on a hard chair in the waiting room, her hands clasped tightly together, her nerves fraying with each passing second. Dillon and Riley stood like statues near the door. Their presence was a small comfort, but the tension in the air was suffocating.
Molly was in surgery, and every minute felt like an eternity. Isobel stared blankly at the tiled floor, her mind racing with worry. She barely noticed when a man in a hospital security uniform approached the officers, clipboard in hand.
“Officers Dillon and Riley?” the man asked, his voice calm and professional.
Dillon straightened. “That’s us.”
The man nodded, adjusting his glasses. “I’m Mitchell Harris, head of security for the hospital. Dr. Blackwell notified us about the protection situation. We’ve had a minor issue with our surveillance system. I need one of you to accompany me to review the footage and ensure everything’s secure around Ms. Everhart.”
Dillon frowned, exchanging a glance with Riley. “What kind of issue?”
“A brief breach in our system. Likely nothing, but given the situation, we’re being extra cautious. It won’t take long, but I’d prefer one of you to verify while the other stays here with Ms. Everhart.”
Riley hesitated, glancing at Isobel. “I’ll go,” he said, his voice low. “Dillon, you stay with her.”
Dillon nodded reluctantly. “Fine, but call me if anything seems off.”
“Of course,” Harris said with a reassuring smile. “This way, Officer.”
As Riley followed the head of security down the corridor, Dillon moved closer to Isobel, his sharp eyes scanning the room. He wasn’t taking any chances.
Riley followed Harris into a small office tucked away from the main waiting area. The man closed the door behind them and gestured to a monitor on the desk. “We noticed a potential breach in this section here.” He pointed to a portion of the hospital floor plan displayed on the screen.
Riley leaned in, his brow furrowed as he studied the map. But before he could ask questions, a sharp, numbing pain shot through his neck. His hand flew up instinctively, grasping at the needle that had been plunged into his skin. His vision blurred as he stumbled backward. The last thing he saw was the calm, calculated expression on “Mitchell Harris’s” face.
Back in the waiting room, a nurse hurried in, her face pale. "Officer Dillon?"
Dillon turned sharply, his stance immediately alert. "Yes?"
"The surgeons need to speak with you immediately," she said, her hands wringing nervously. "It’s about the patient you brought in—Molly Everhart. They asked for you specifically."
Isobel’s head snapped up from where she was seated. "Why? What’s going on? Is Molly okay?"
"I don’t have details, ma’am," the nurse replied quickly. "They just requested the officer in charge."
Dillon’s jaw tightened, his gaze darting to Isobel. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned back to the nurse. "She’s coming with me."
The nurse hesitated. "That wasn’t what…"
Dillon cut her off, "I’m not leaving her here alone. Lead the way."
The nurse opened her mouth to argue, then nodded and gestured for them to follow. Isobel rose from her chair, her anxiety mounting as they moved quickly through the hospital corridors. Dillon’s hand hovered near his holster, his sharp gaze sweeping their surroundings as they walked.
"Why would the surgeons need you?" Isobel whispered to him.
"No idea," Dillon muttered. "But I don’t like the way this feels. Stay close, and don’t say a word unless I tell you to."
They turned a corner into a quieter hallway. The nurse led them toward a side corridor that seemed far removed from the hospital's bustling main floor. Dillon slowed. Isobel’s spine crawled. Something wasn’t right.
"Hold up," he said sharply.
The nurse turned, her expression blank for a moment before shifting into something more predatory. Too late, Isobel registered the movement behind them. A sharp blow struck the back of Dillon’s head, and he staggered forward, his vision blurring.
"Mark!" Isobel screamed as he hit the ground, groaning. She spun to face the attacker, but the man, a tall figure dressed in a hospital security uniform, was already advancing. Isobel stepped back, panic rising as she glanced down at Dillon, who was struggling to get back to his feet.
The nurse lunged for Isobel, but this time Isobel was ready. She twisted out of the way, her adrenaline spiking. "Help! Somebody!"
Her cry was cut off as the man seized her from behind, a cloth pressed over her mouth. The acrid smell of chemicals filled her nostrils, and she thrashed violently, her vision dimming. Dillon, still groggy, managed to pull his weapon but couldn’t aim before another blow to his temple sent him back to the floor.
Isobel’s vision swam as her strength gave out. The last thing she heard was the man’s cold, detached voice: "Move. Quickly."
Dillon came to, disoriented and unaware of how much time had passed. He groaned, attempting to push himself up on unsteady hands. His body screamed in protest, his head pounding as if a vise was crushing his skull. His gun—gone. And so was Isobel.
Two strong hands pressed him back onto the bed with surprising gentleness but firm authority. "Stay still," a deep voice commanded.
Dillon blinked, his focus sharpening. The familiar face of Dr. Tristan Blackwell loomed over him, concern etched into his features.
"Isobel," Dillon rasped, his voice raw. He struggled against the restraint of Blackwell’s hands. "He got her."
"We know," Tristan said. "It’s been called in. You were found about ten minutes ago. They’re already looking for her."
"Dammit," Dillon hissed, anger mixing with the gnawing edge of guilt as he tried to sit up again.
"Officer Dillon, you have a skull fracture." Tristan’s voice was sterner now as he reached for a penlight. "You’re in no shape to move. Let me do my job." He clicked on the light and shined it into Dillon’s left eye, watching for a reaction.
Dillon winced, swatting weakly at the light. Before Tristan could check the other eye, Dillon’s stomach lurched. He turned his head sharply and retched, vomiting onto the floor. He gasped for air, beads of sweat rolling down his temples.
"Doc," Dillon managed between heavy breaths, his hand gripping the side of the bed. "Where’s Riley?" He took a shuddering breath, forcing out the words through the haze of pain. "The suspect—six feet tall, dark hair, dark mustache, hospital security uniform. He had a female accomplice, blonde, scrubs, about five feet tall."
Tristan’s face darkened, but his tone remained calm as he called out to the medical staff, "Ondansetron, eight milligrams, IV push. We need a CT scan—now." His gaze flicked back to Dillon. "You’ve been through hell. Let us help you."
Dillon barely heard him. His heart raced as the adrenaline pumped through his battered body. He lay back against the pillow, trying to catch his breath, his thoughts spiraling toward Isobel and the danger she was in.
"Where’s Riley?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.
Tristan hesitated, his hand coming to rest on Dillon’s shoulder. His expression softened with reluctant sorrow, and he spoke with the practiced delicacy of someone accustomed to delivering devastating news. "I’m sorry," he said gently. "He didn’t make it."
The words hit Dillon like a physical blow. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. "What?" His voice cracked, disbelief warring with a deep, gut-wrenching grief.
"There was nothing they could do," Tristan said softly. "Riley was already gone by the time they found him. I’m so sorry."
Dillon clenched his fists, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he processed the loss. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "He—" His voice broke, and he forced himself to start again. "He didn’t deserve that."
"No, he didn’t," Tristan agreed, his voice steady but filled with compassion. "And neither do you. But you need to focus now. You can’t help anyone like this. Let me get you stable, and we’ll take it from there."
Dillon opened his eyes, his vision swimming as tears threatened to spill. "I need to find her," he murmured, his voice a mix of desperation and determination. "I can’t let her down too."
"You won’t," Tristan assured him. "But you need to trust us to do our jobs."
Dillon’s head fell back onto the pillow, the failure and loss pressing down on him. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay conscious as the medical team worked around him. Somewhere out there, Isobel was in the hands of a monster. And Riley—Riley was gone.