Chapter 16
Iam, without question, the most inexperienced burglar out of the three of us.
Cassian and Talon both move through the world like men who have long ago stopped distinguishing between the rules worth breaking without a second thought and the ones that still demand attention.
I, on the other hand, spent years cultivating the illusion of lawfulness so thoroughly that I almost believed it myself.
Now, standing in the shadow of a private clinic’s east wall at dusk, dressed in black instead of my usual white coat, I feel the strangeness of this divergence settle over my skin like something borrowed, ill-fitting, and definitely not mine.
I have no practical knowledge about breaking laws the way these two do.
None.
But there’s no way I’d allow myself to fall behind. So I strip myself of the need to lead, and let Cassian take the helm. Talon’s second. I watch the way they move and replicate it as best I can.
We approach Westbridge Private Clinic from the side street, as per the recon.
The sun dipped below the horizon an hour ago.
The sky is a dull bruise of purple and gray, the air cool enough that our breath ghosts faintly before fading.
It doesn’t feel like it out here, exposed and visible under the open sky, but this is the best time of day to break in.
We’ve already watched the janitor leave.
He stepped out of the front entrance at seven twenty-nine, locked it behind him, walked to his car.
His taillights vanished down the street.
Lights inside the clinic went out one by one after that—automated, surely—and by seven forty-five, the building looked dead.
“East wall,” I murmur, calling out the next step.
Cassian nods. “Let’s go.”
We slip along the side of the building, avoiding the wider pool of light cast by the streetlamp near the main entrance. The east wall looms ahead, a blank expanse of white-painted concrete interrupted only by a single metal door with a small, wire-reinforced window at shoulder height.
The service entrance.
Up close, the door looks impenetrable. There’s a badge scanner to the right and a handle with a magnetic lock mechanism, no keyhole.
No way to buzz someone on the other side.
I stare at it and wonder how the hell we’re supposed to get in.
Cassian said to leave it to him, but he didn’t disclose exactly what that meant.
He crouches in front of the badge scanner and leans in close, studying it the way I might study a scan.
“It’s a mag lock. Powered from inside. If we kill the current, it releases.”
“And the scanner?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter if there’s nothing to read.”
Right. Perhaps that was a stupid thing to ask. I press my lips together and say nothing, feeling the faint heat of embarrassment crawl up the back of my neck. This is his operating theater, not mine.
“Smile, man,” Talon whispers, nudging my arm. “In my world, this is how people bond together.”
I stare at him. Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle.
“I wonder what kind of world that is.”
“Not one you’d like. You can believe me on that.
” Talon lifts his eyebrows and shakes his head like he’s remembering something he’d rather not, and I’m left with a strange, nagging sense of unease.
How would he know what kind of world I’d like?
He knows nothing about me. About what I’ve done, what I’ve swallowed, what I’ve kept buried under the mask of a nice guy.
He knows nothing, and yet he sounds perfectly certain.
Cassian pulls a small flat-head from his back pocket—which I didn’t know he had—and pries off the plastic housing of the scanner before any alarm can sound. He isolates two wires, strips them with his thumbnail, and touches them together.
The magnetic lock gives a dull thunk.
“Huh,” I murmur.
That definitely looked easier than expected.
“After you, Doc,” Talon whispers, pulling the door open with two fingers and holding it like a doorman at a hotel. The grin is back. I’m starting to understand that it never really leaves.
I step inside.
The hallway is dark and smells exactly the way every clinic where actual procedures happen smells—of antiseptic. The floor is a dull, low-sheen vinyl. Dim emergency lights line the ceiling, casting everything in a faint sickly glow that makes the walls look bruised.
Talon slips in behind me. Cassian enters last, easing the door shut until the lock catches again with a soft click. We stand in the dark for a moment, listening.
Nothing.
“Where to?” Cassian asks, his voice barely above a breath.
I orient myself. The service entrance puts us in the east wing, ground floor. Ahead, the corridor will split: left toward the patient examination rooms and the pharmacy, right toward administration and records. Below us, accessible by a stairwell at the junction, is the basement level.
That’s where the labs are.
“Down,” I say.
I guide us along the corridor, counting doors. At the third intersection, we pause. A small security camera sits inert in the upper corner, its lens cracked, its housing tilted at an odd angle away from the hallway. Dead, or close to it.
“It’d be smart to check the camera logs after we’re done,” I say.
We pass underneath it and into the main axis of the clinic, find the stairwell, and head down.
Throughout it all, my heart rate stays within normal range, but there’s a heightened quality to my perception. A widening of my internal aperture, as though my mind has shifted into something sharper and more precise. I’ve felt this before. I felt it when I killed Leonard.
An alignment of sorts.
I can only hope I stay inside this mindset until the job is done. I can’t afford to dissociate the way I did at the hospital.
“Here,” I say quietly, stopping by a door marked Procedures 2.
This is the room I chose when designing tonight’s plan. According to the clinic’s internal directory, it has full monitoring capacity, a crash cart, reliable oxygen access, and a manual door lock from the inside. Everything we need.
Talon’s gaze sweeps the hall one more time. “You’re sure no one’s here?”
“As sure as we can be without x-ray eyes and mind-reading powers,” I say.
“Alright,” he murmurs.
Cassian pulls the same trick on the badge scanner as he did out front, and we step inside.
The room looks like any other high-end procedural suite: adjustable table in the center, wall-mounted monitoring systems, cabinets with neatly organized supplies, an anesthesia cart in the corner.
“Yeah, this place is not creepy at all,” Talon mutters, eyeing the table.
“It looks like any hospital,” I reply.
“Well, I’ve never been to one, so …”
Cassian closes the door behind us and engages the manual lock. “You’re about to die and come back,” he says flatly. “How’s that for a first hospital visit?”
Talon swallows. “Peachy.”
I set my bag on the counter and begin to unpack.
Syringes laid out in a row. Seals checked, vials inspected.
Everything I’d need is already in this room, most of it designed to prevent cardiac arrest, but I’ve learned it’s better to trust my own supplies than whatever’s been sitting in someone else’s drawer for god knows how long.
“Clothes off from the waist up,” I say to Talon. “Shoes as well. Lie on the table.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. His hands shake a little as he pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his boots. I’m not surprised to see scars all over him.
“Electrodes,” I murmur to myself and attach adhesive pads to Talon’s chest, his ribs, and his left flank. The monitor comes to life with a soft series of beeps. His baseline rhythm appears on the screen, and we’re good to go.
“Last chance to back out,” Cassian says, and there’s something careful in his voice that almost sounds like hope that Talon might actually take the exit.
Talon gives a weak smile that almost passes for bravado. “Pretty sure that ship sailed when we planned the crime.”
I meet his eyes. “If you wish to stop, you can. If I fail, you’ll die.”
He holds my gaze, and for a moment, the sarcasm drops away completely.
“I’ve got nothing left to lose. Just do the damn thing.”
He looks away quickly.
“I understand,” I say.
Then I draw up the sedative and Cassian comes closer to watch my movements like he’s memorizing everything.
“Deep breaths,” I instruct. “This will feel like falling asleep too quickly.”
“Alright,” Talon mutters.
The needle enters his vein. He blinks.
“Feels weird,” he mumbles.
“Let it happen.”
His lashes droop. The muscles in his face begin to slacken, smoothing him into something softer, looser, and more peaceful than anything I’ve come to associate with him.
The monitor beeps steadily beside us, displaying every electrical whisper of his heart.
I adjust the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and tighten the strap behind his head.
“Deep breaths if you can manage them,” I instruct, even though he’s already half gone. “I want as much oxygen in your system as possible before we proceed.”
Talon’s chest rises and falls shakily. The numbers on the screen shift. His heart rate drops slightly, blood pressure settles, and oxygen saturation climbs to a crisp, reassuring ninety-nine percent.
Preoxygenation buys time.
Not much.
But some.
Cassian is living proof of the window I cannot cross.
Not if I want Talon’s mind undamaged, at least. Cassian’s body took the hit at the level of his retina first. His eye became the cost of his return.
I need to time this right. Precisely right.
Close enough to replicate the result without furthering the damage.
Talon’s eyes flutter closed.