Marked as Prey

Chapter One

Sailor

My feet dragging, I pulled off my surgical mask and stripped off my gown, throwing it all in the trash on the way out of the operating room.

Despite my best efforts, I had not been good enough to save Mr. Miller’s life.

It wasn't often that my skills failed my patients, but when they did, it set the mood for the rest of my week.

Old memories would threaten to resurface, and I would have to push them back down. I was too young to save my parents, and I knew that deep down. But guilt was often a cruel mistress, keeping us tied down to the past.

“Dr. Wentworth."

Turning with a scowl, I expected to see an intern pestering me about the family notification. “I just need a breather,” I snapped.

But the blonde woman in the serviceable pantsuit opened her badge to identify herself as Agent Patricia Lauder. “May we speak alone?”

I glanced at her face and back to the photo, making sure she was legit. “Out here.”

I led her to the balcony, leaning over the rail and taking a deep lungful of crisp air. Hearing her rustling behind me, I wondered when she would get to the point.

It wasn't the first time the feds had paid me a visit, and unfortunately, I knew it wouldn't be the last.

“They didn't send Berkshire this time?”

“He’s here too.” Clearing her throat, Agent Lauder said, “We have an offer.”

“I’m not interested,” I answered automatically.

“Not even if we reopen their case?”

The second sentence came from a different voice; Marshal David Berkshire, who’d been there the day I became an orphan.

And showed up every few years to pester me for a favor. They seemed to think I owed them for sticking me in shitty foster care and then forgetting about me.

“Why would you reopen it now after all the times you ignored my pleas in the past?”

Finally turning, I wished briefly that I was a smoker so I had something to do with my hands.

Instead, I stuck them in my scrub pockets and studied the two of them.

World-weary, aging faster than their private-sector peers.

Once upon a time, I saw Berkshire as a kind older gentleman, assigned to help out a poor little girl.

I’d found out otherwise.

Lauder said, “Because this is important.”

“You know he says that every time, right?” I was starting to shiver, but I didn't want to admit it. Neither did I want to risk going inside with these two and having more gossip spread about me.

“We’ve been trying to take down the Costa family for decades. Benito has pneumonia complicated by his COPD, and will only accept a personal physician coming to his home. The hospital refused to discharge him, so he left AMA.”

I shrugged. “Then let him die, and your problems are solved."

“He has a son to pick up where he left off,” Berkshire said. “Not to mention an entire organization they use to run the city. We need information, Sara.”

I couldn't help it; I flinched. “You know better than to call me that.”

My voice was harsh, but my throat ached. I was born Sara Franco, but I hadn’t been her in nearly twenty years. Now I shivered for entirely different reasons.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding anything but. “It's a habit.”

“Then break it.”

“Listen,” Lauder interrupted. “We’re here to beg. We need this win, and in exchange, we’ll see what we can find out about your parents’ deaths.”

My gut churned. “Nobody cared to find out then, so why would they care now?”

“New agents. Fresh eyes.”

The wind picked up, and I hugged myself. “No.”

“Just think about it, Sar—Sailor.”

“Dr. Wentworth will suffice. We aren't friends, Berkshire.”

“Think about it,” he repeated more forcefully.

“Fine. Go away, will you? I don’t need drama at work.”

Long after they went back inside, I stood out on the balcony, staring off into space. My thoughts swirled in my head, knowing I wouldn't be able to turn them down this time.

Finally, the bitter cold sent me back inside, where I reluctantly made the notification to the Miller family. I’m sorry I failed, and now you have to live without your loved one. At least, that’s what was in my head. I would never say that out loud and burden them further.

I was never more grateful to go home, letting myself into my apartment and setting my bag and keys on the hall table.

Silence greeted me, and I shrugged out of my long coat to move into the warmth of the kitchen.

Standing in front of the freezer, I picked the least offensive meal and popped it into the microwave.

Watching it revolve, my eyes glazed over as I recalled the sound of the tires squealing.

Glass crunched, shattering overhead, and I screamed.

Then there was the lack of life in my mother’s eyes as I tried to wake her up.

The blood oozing from the wound in my father’s head, and the pathetic way I tried to put pressure on it.

I was ten.

The police told me it was a deer darting in front of the car. Wet roads, late at night, tight curves.

My first foster home was overcrowded, and everyone fought for scraps of food. I shared a bed with two other little girls in a room filled with crying, smelly children. I’d never missed my parents more.

The second home was only marginally better.

I didn't have to share with so many others, but the parents didn’t care very much about us.

They gave us the bare minimum for attention, fed us adequately, and made sure we did our homework.

When I showed an interest in science, Marshal Berkshire suggested I might like to become a doctor.

I knew he was checking up on me because he had to, but at the time, I thought he also cared about me.

I saw him as the man who’d saved my life when I was left to die in that car, not as the marshal sent to ensure I changed my name and hid in a small town.

The overwhelming media coverage at the time had haunted me, and he tried to shield me from it.

That was the standard excuse, and if I tried too hard to dissect their reasoning, my mind shied away from finding the answers.

The state covered my education and housing expenses.

The world needs more talented surgeons, they’d claimed.

Little did I know they would dog me for years afterward, begging me to help them with somebody or other.

Snoop into medical records, listen in to family conversations, and anything else they thought they could coerce me into doing for them after they plugged so much money into my education. Quid pro quo and all that.

I always said no. I wasn't compromising my ethics or my oath for people who only wanted things one-sided.

With no family or friends to worry about, I spent all my time at work.

Throwing myself into my career fulfilled me; at least, that was what I told myself on nights like these when I was alone with my sour thoughts.

The microwave beeped, and I pulled out my spinach and tomato linguine.

Giving in to the temptation, I pulled down a wine glass and the bottle of Cab I kept for the hard days.

Losing a patient never got easier, no matter how much time passed or what the circumstances were.

I never forgot their names or the medical condition they presented with when they came into my OR.

What I would replay was where I’d gone wrong and what I should have done differently.

Hindsight might be 20/20, but that didn’t help the person I’d killed.

Maybe it helped prevent me from making the same mistake twice. I tried to frame a loss as learning a lesson, but I wish it didn’t have to come at such a high cost.

Not only did I drink the first glass of wine, but I poured a second. My dreams never changed much, preventing me from getting a full night’s sleep. When I left for work the next morning, I texted the familiar number that I would do what they asked.

As I put my things away in the locker room, I heard someone giggling on the other side of the wall. Their conversation didn't register at first, but then I caught my name.

“You saw those people who were here talking to Wentworth? What was that about?”

“No idea. God, she’s like a stray cat. You feed it once out of pity, and then it never goes away.”

The other one laughed. “Even though no one wants it because it’s so ugly and beaten to hell.”

Slamming my locker door to make no mistake about my presence, I walked out the door with my head held high.

Even though I was fighting back tears.

It was no secret that my coworkers didn’t like me. I’d never tried to make friends there, knowing it wasn't my purpose. I changed lives, saved lives, and fixed what was broken on the inside. That didn't require idle gossiping with people who also happened to be employed by the same hospital.

By the time I checked my phone again, I had a reply.

The agent in charge of the Costa case would be there at noon to meet with me.

In the meantime, I did my best not to let anyone die on my table.

Thankfully, I had nothing but minor surgeries all morning, and I was able to meet the new guy a little after the agreed time.

Agent Steven Parkes, as his badge read, held a conference room for me and Lauder.

I’d rather hoped I wouldn't have to see her again. There was something uncomfortable about the look in her eyes. I recognized the hunger to do her job well, but I saw something else, too. Her determination would push past all boundaries of decency and humanity until her goal was met.

Parkes introduced himself and then dove right in. “We’ve arranged with Grandview General for you to take a leave of absence. You’ll need to drop in on the Costa mansion every day, and once you’re back home, you’ll write up your notes on a secure server we’ll provide for you.”

My mouth felt dry, but I asked, “What am I reporting, exactly?”

“Listen in on everything he and his son, Nero, discuss. If household staff is chatty, be casual about what the family does for a living. According to them, they operate a shipping company aboveboard.”

“Do you need shipment times or product specifications?”

He shook his head. “We have access to that information. It’s about as useless as one would expect.”

“Because it’s all a ruse,” I said.

“Yes,” Lauder interjected. “We don’t expect them to be comfortable enough around you the first few days to let anything slip. Don't get discouraged.”

“And in exchange . . .” I let the words trail off.

“I’ve already brought the file boxes up from storage,” Lauder responded. “I have a brand new agent, top of their class, going over the evidence for anything missed the first time.”

For ten years, that box had been gathering dust. In the beginning, they pretended they wanted answers as badly as I did. Little by little, they focused on more pressing cases until my parents were nothing more than faded ghosts.

As soon as we wrapped it up, I took a deep breath and typed the address of the Georgian-style mansion into my phone’s map. The Costas sure did live large, but I suppose that was true for anyone involved in organized crime.

Showing off what they claimed they didn’t do.

There was a man at the gate who took my credentials and did some sort of check. The hospital had recommended me, and they knew I was coming. My heart beat too hard, my throat constricting a bit too much as I pulled through the gates.

A uniformed staff member opened the double doors as I pulled up, waiting for me to approach before stepping aside and pointing to the closest room. “Mr. Costa is in the den.”

“Thank you,” I replied, my voice thin.

The man in question rested in a hospital bed set up in a downstairs room holding shelf after shelf of books, leather club chairs, and a massive desk pushed to one wall to accommodate the new occupant.

“You’re the doctor?” he wheezed, wiping at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.

“Dr. Wentworth,” I answered him.

“Let me get a look at you.”

I moved closer, pulling out my stethoscope and sphygmomanometer. “I assure you, Mr. Costa, how I look holds no bearing on how I do my job. May I take your vitals?”

Staring silently up at me, the man who must have once been robust and intimidating coughed into the handkerchief. “Call me Benito.”

“If you wish.” Taking his pulse and blood pressure, I checked them against the vital signs written on a nearby chart. “You’ve previously had rotating nurses checking in on you?”

“That’s right.”

His lungs sounded awful, as was expected. Glancing around, I spotted the incentive spirometer on his side table. “Do you use that regularly?”

He averted his eyes. “Sometimes.”

“Three times a day, Mr. Costa,” I said sternly. “It strengthens your lungs, among other things, and it’s imperative that you use it. Assuming you want to get better.”

“Of course I do.”

“Good, then you’ll follow all the instructions you've been given.”

He grumbled something, but I saw the edges of his mouth tilt up.

“Why didn't you tell me the doctor was here?” I heard a deep voice say from behind me.

Instead of answering, Benito had a coughing fit. I helped him sit upright and held his hand as he fought to catch his breath. The man who strongly resembled Mr. Costa watched me with a narrowed gaze the entire time.

“Coughing is good,” I assured the patient, ignoring his son. “It helps release excess mucus.”

“You’d be so much better off in the hospital, Dad.”

“Despite my agreement with that statement,” I said to him, “your father has rights, too.”

“I like her,” Benito said. “Let it go, Noah.”

Noah? I thought Parkes said his name was Nero.

The son glared at me, crossing his arms in a stance surely meant to look daunting. “I won’t change my opinion on this matter, despite what either of you says.”

“Seeing as you’re not my patient, your opinion doesn’t affect me in the slightest.”

For a brief second, I regretted my words as the younger Mr. Costa took a step toward me.

But his father’s voice lashed out, stronger than it had surely sounded in weeks. “Drop it.”