Chapter 2
Northwestern Memorial Hospital, 251 East Huron St.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
Just as Fisher reached for the kidney bean-shaped plastic container the nurse had left on the rolling tray beside the hospital bed, Eliza changed her mind.
“No. I think I’m going to pass out.” She pressed a hand to her chest as if doing so could stop her lungs from working like bellows.
The top of her head was covered in dried blood. Except for the spot on one side of her face where the doctor had cleaned her up to assess the lump on her temple, she looked like something straight out of a horror film. Carrie on stage after the group of rival teens dumped the bucket of pig’s blood on her.
And yet, to Fisher, she’d never looked more beautiful.
Beautiful because she’s alive.
The thought of just how close she’d come to not being alive was enough to have his stomach souring. The two beers he’d had with Britt before she’d called to give them the dreadful news of what had happened to her sloshed around in the bottom of his belly like stagnant swamp water.
He nearly reached for the kidney bean container again. This time for himself.
“Why can’t I catch my breath?” she asked desperately. The whites of her eyes stood out in harsh relief against the darkness of the blood on her forehead and cheeks. “I thought it was my head that was hurt. But maybe I breathed something into my lungs because?—”
“It’s the shock paired with the letdown of adrenaline,” he reassured her, imagining the soles of his boots were glued to the floor so he wouldn’t run to her side and pull her into his arms. Every instinct he had told him to cuddle her close, to wrap her up tight and make sure the world couldn’t reach her.
But he wasn’t sure she’d thank him for the effort. So he gave her the only thing he could. The advice of a man who’d lived through things like what she’d just lived through. Who’d seen death and destruction with his own eyes. Who knew what it was to watch someone he loved as they were taken from the world in the most brutal and barbaric of ways.
“If ya can force yourself to take slow, measured breaths,” he instructed lowly, “the need to hyperventilate will pass.”
“Right.” She nodded, her lower lip trembling even as she squared her shoulders and made herself breathe slowly.
Within a minute, her chest rose and fell in even measures. And as soon as the crisis passed, all the starch went out of her.
He watched helplessly as her face crumbled. And here comes the grief, he thought. But, somehow, she valiantly held back a sob until the noise that popped out of her sounded more like a hiccup.
“I can’t stop thinking about it.” Her voice was a bare whisper, but he would swear her words ripped through the air inside the curtained-off section of the ER’s triage room like a scream. “About him.Charlie, he?—”
This time she had about as much luck holding back a sob as he’d have had holding back the muddy waters of the Mississippi.
Eliza Meadows was a tough nut. He’d never known what it would take to make her crack. And he couldn’t say he was happy to discover that what’d finally shattered all her finishing school poise was being witness to her boyfriend’s final moments and?—
His eyes tracked down the huge diamond on her left hand. The facets of the stone caught the glaring florescent light and sparkled with so much fire he was tempted to shade his eyes.
Not boyfriend, he silently corrected himself. Fiancé.
Apparently, Eliza Meadows had agreed to become Mrs. Eliza McClean. And as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn’t deny a sense of relief at knowing that would never come to pass.
The truth was, even though she was so far out of his league as to be playing on a whole other planet, and even though a woman like her was dangerous to a man like him, he wanted Eliza for himself.
Had always wanted her for himself.
The day she’d walked through BKI’s front gates, he’d forgotten what life was like before her. And now he couldn’t imagine what life would be like after her.
Some folks might try to say that was love. That he was in love with her.
But he knew the truth. He knew himself.
“God, Charlie.” She pulled her knees to her chest and rocked atop the bed as too many tears to count trekked down her soft cheeks and dripped from her chin. They picked up blood along the way and left pink stains when they fell onto the thin hospital sheet draped over her legs.
His feet itched to inch closer. Every cell in his body strained toward her like he was made of metal and she was one big magnet. But somehow he managed to stay rooted to the spot beside her bed.
When he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, curling his fingers around the coolness of his harmonica, he waited for the comfort he usually felt in the gesture. The grounding he usually felt when the memories of the countless hours and countless lessons he’d been given drifted through his head like a puffy, pink cloud.
The familiar feeling of relief never came.
Instead, the hard metal reminded him of the cornerstone of Black Knights Inc., their rock, their pillar, their very foundation was hurting something fierce. And no matter how much he wished it weren’t so, there was absolutely nothing he could do to help her.
Britt, who’d been standing in the curtained-off corner, walked over to prop a hip on the edge of the hospital bed. He pulled Eliza into a tight hug and then proceeded to do all the things Fisher wished he could do.
Like gently pushed her hair back from her face. Like rock her and shush her. Like smooth a gentle hand up and down her back.
The venomous, prickly legged thing inside Fisher tried to raise its ugly head. He beat it back with an imaginary stick and told himself he was grateful she was getting the support she needed. Even if that support wasn’t coming from him.
Averting his eyes, he took an avid interest in the weave of the curtain material. It was light blue cotton. Faded from being washed in industrial-strength detergent. And a little ragged around the hem in one corner.
The triage room beyond was filled with the sounds of the ER. The soft moans of people in pain. The squeak of a wheel on a rolling IV stand. The pressed voices of doctors and nurses as they quickly tried to assess patients and get them either moved up to the appropriate floor of the hospital or treated and discharged.
There were the familiar smells as well. Antiseptic. Heavy-duty cleaner. Iodine. And, beneath it all, the faint whiff of fresh blood.
The aromas made his stomach cramp with the memory of his mother.
How many times had he gone with her to the emergency room because she’d needed a cut stitched or a bone set?
Too many to count. Until the day came when there’d been nothing the emergency department could do for her because her injuries had been enough to send her straight to the morgue.
He felt his expression turn dull. Hard. Implacable. But he didn’t shove the old memories away. He needed them as reminders of where he’d come from—who he’d come from—and why he could never, never have Eliza even if she were suddenly to lose all sense of sanity and decide to give him a chance.
“It’s okay, sugar.” Britt’s accent turned the last word into sugah. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. But you’ll get through this. We’ll all help you get through this. The others are in the waiting room and they’re eager to wrap you up and hold you close until you feel like you can breathe again.”
The nurses had only allowed two visitors back into the treatment area. Graham, Hewitt, and Sam had all agreed to stay behind in the waiting room and let Britt and Fisher do the honors.
Well, it was probably more accurate to say they’d agreed to let Britt do the honors because Fisher hadn’t even given them an option. As soon as the nurse had come out to greet them and tell them she’d let two come back to be with Eliza, he had jumped up from the row of chairs like his seat had been on fire.
“He’s dead, Britt. Charlie’s dead.” Eliza’s voice cracked in two around her fiancé’s name. The sound was enough to crack Fisher’s heart in two and he turned back in time to see her bury her face in the crook of Britt’s shoulder. “They’re all dead.”
“Not all of them,” the ex-Ranger reassured her. “Senator Chastain and her husband made it. You made it.”
She pulled back in his embrace. Using a shaky hand, she shoved a lock of dark hair behind her ear. It crunched with dry blood.
“Thanks to Charlie.” Her eyes were as round and shiny as new pennies when she flicked her gaze from Britt to Fisher and back again. “As soon as the gunman came out onto the patio, he threw himself on top of me.”
Her trembling fingers automatically sought the large bump above her left temple. She winced when her probing revealed a particularly tender spot.
“He used his body to shield mine.” Her dark eyes swam with fresh tears. “He took all the bullets meant for me.”
Once again, she was caught up in Britt’s fierce embrace. And once again, Fisher had to fight to keep the monster inside him from growling its displeasure.
When Britt looked over at him, he had the grace to grimace.
They were both remembering what he’d said about Charles McClean not being able to defend Eliza against a rabid squirrel. And they were both thinking just how wrong he’d been in his assessment.
Glancing at the ceiling, he offered up a silent apology to Charlie’s ghost. Even though he didn’t believe in an afterlife—he reckoned once a person was dead that was it. Poof! One second you’re here, the next you’re not—he still felt an obligation to acknowledge the man’s sacrifice.
Sorry for callin’ ya Captain Dickless. Turns out ya had big, clangin’ brass balls.
While he was at it, he sent up a few words of gratitude too.
Thank you for lovin’ her enough to forfeit your own life for hers. She’s still got lots to offer this ol’ world. And ya gave her the chance to see that through.
“I don’t suppose any of those bullets were meant for you specifically,” Britt reassured her. “From what you’ve said, it sounds like it was a hit on Senator McClean and the chef was just doing away with the witnesses.”
Eliza used the backs of her hands to wipe the tears from her pale cheeks. The move smeared the wetness into the dried blood, turning it from rusty brown back into deep red.
Before she could respond, the doctor who’d been assigned her case parted the curtains and stepped into the small, enclosed space. “Knock, knock,” he said in lieu of rapping his knuckles on an actual door.
Fisher felt every one of his thirty-four years when he looked at the ER physician. If the fresh-faced man in the white coat was much more than thirty, he’d happily eat his biker boots with a knife and fork.
How had he gotten to the age where doctors were younger than him? Where had the years gone? Where had his life gone?
Oh, right. It’d gone to Uncle Sam who’d been only too happy to waste his youth in far flung locales.
“We have the results of your scans back.” In the way of all harried ER docs, the Doogie Howser lookalike wasted no time grabbing the rolling stool shoved into the corner and scooting it next to Eliza’s bed.
Upon the physician’s entry, Britt had gotten up to make room. And now the former Ranger stood next to Fisher. If the stillness of Britt’s chest was anything to go by, he too was holding his breath as they waited to hear the doctor’s assessment of Eliza’s condition.
Head injuries were a tricky business. A person could seem perfectly fine one minute. And the next they could be dead on the floor from an intercranial bleed.
“There’s no bruising or fractures.” Doogie eyed the glowing image on his tablet’s screen. “But you certainly have a concussion. Something between stage one and stage two.”
When he glanced up, it was to see Eliza’s dark eyebrows pulled into a V. He was quick to explain. “A stage one concussion has no loss of consciousness and no amnesia. Or the amnesia only lasts for less than thirty minutes. Stage two has a loss of consciousness, and/or the amnesia lasts from thirty minutes to twenty-four hours. You lost consciousness. So you’re a little more than stage one. But you reported your memory loss only lasted a couple minutes. So you’re not quite stage two.”
In typical Eliza fashion, she wasn’t satisfied with only a portion of the information. “You said there are three stages. What’s the third?”
“That’s the mack daddy. Characterized by a loss of consciousness for more than five minutes and a loss of memory for more than twenty-four hours.”
“How awful.” Eliza shuddered. “The couple of minutes I spent not knowing where I was or what had happened to me were terrifying. I couldn’t imagine feeling that way for a whole day.”
“Mmm.” The doctor answered distractedly as he keyed something into his tablet. “Sometimes people are lucky to forget whatever trauma they’ve experienced.”
When Eliza’s eyes filled with tears, Fisher fought the urge to smack the medicine man on the ear. Some people’s heads were hard-boiled, and it didn’t matter how many fancy degrees they had or how many letters followed their names in the signature line of their emails.
Doogie realized the callousness of his remark when he saw the horror on Eliza’s face. The look of contriteness that entered his eyes gave Fisher hope that, with experience, his bedside manner would improve.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Meadows. That was a thoughtless remark.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded as watery as her eyes looked. “You’re right. There can be comfort in oblivion.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes. Well… I’m going to send you home with a concussion protocol.”
Apprehension had Fisher speaking up. “You’re not goin’ to keep her overnight for observation?”
“No need.” Doogie shook his head, causing his stick-straight hair to shift over his forehead. He pushed it back with impatient fingers. “She’ll be better off recovering somewhere she can rest and relax.”
“What’s the concussion protocol?” Eliza prompted.
Right down to business. That was their girl Friday.
“Watch out for a worsening headache, nausea, vomiting, one pupil larger than the other, dizziness, slurred speech, confusion. If you experience any of these things, come back in immediately.” Again, Doogie keyed something into his tablet. After he was finished, he stood and added, “No NSAIDs because they increase your risk of bleeding. If you need pain relief, stick with Tylenol. And rest. Rest is key. Rest is what your brain needs to heal.”
“Am I supposed to stay awake for the first twenty-four hours?”
The doc shook his head. “That’s old-school. New research shows sleep is beneficial. Just have someone check in on you every few hours. They need to make sure you don’t have trouble waking up or answering some simple questions.”
The physician’s eyes noted the ring on her finger—it was hard to miss given the diamond was big enough to be seen from space—and pinged over to Britt. “I’m assuming you’ll be more than happy to look after her?”
A yawning chasm opened up inside Fisher. The doctor automatically assumed Britt had been the one to give her that ring? What am I? Chopper liver? Then he reminded himself it’d been Britt hugging her tight when the sawbones had ducked into the little makeshift room. So Doogie had made a natural assumption.
Funny thing, though, even with that realization, Fisher couldn’t seem to fill the void inside him. And even funnier still—funny strange, not funny ha-ha—was how heavy that emptiness felt.
It was like he’d just been given proofthat the universe and everyone in it naturally assumed he wasn’t fit to kiss Eliza’s feet much less be the one to sweep her off them.
“We’ll make sure she’s looked after,” Britt assured the white coat. “No worries, Doc.”
Satisfied he’d done his duty by his patient, Doogie turned for the break in the curtain. But before he pushed through, he offered one final piece of information. “The nurses will come get you once they’ve processed your discharge forms. Hang tight until then.”
Britt retook his seat on the edge of Eliza’s bed and grabbed her hands. “We’ll have you home in no time and—” He cut himself off, jerked his chin down to their clasped hands, and let his jaw fall open when he spied the ring on her finger. “Holy shit!”
Fisher wasn’t sure how Britt hadn’t noticed the damn thing before. Then again, Britt wasn’t attuned to every little detail of Eliza’s existence the way he was.
“McClean asked you to marry him?” Britt held up her hand so the overhead light blazed into the diamond and refracted a dazzling prism of colors around the curtains.
Hearing the words spoken aloud made Fisher’s stomach rise and fall like it did when he hooked his parachute’s static line to the plane’s overhead steel cable before moving to the door to make a HALO jump.
No matter how many times he launched himself out of an airplane at altitudes high enough to require he suck on bottled oxygen, he never got used to it. Because even though his mind could understand the necessity for high-altitude-low-opening jumps to clandestinely arrive inside enemy territory, he could never convince his heart it was normal to hurl himself out of a perfectly good plane.
“He did.” Eliza’s voice was so small Fisher could barely hear it.
“And you said yes?”
Fisher lived through every circle of hell as he waited for her answer. When all she did was swallow convulsively and look like she was about to puke, he answered for her. “’Course she said yes. She’s wearin’ his ring, isn’t she?”
Eliza glanced at him and there was…something in her expression. Something that made his heart skip a beat. But before he could ask her about it, the curtains parted.
He expected it to the be the duty nurse. But the two people who stepped into the little enclosure weren’t medical professionals.
They were feds.
He knew them from their kicks. Because while anyone could wear a dark, non-descript suit, only FBI agents paired those dark, non-descript suits with lug-soled duty shoes.
Just when I thought this night couldn’t get worse.