Chapter 36
Rico
Distractions are never the objective. They are timing, pressure, and the deliberate creation of a moment when someone looks in the wrong direction.
I’m already moving before the thought has fully formed, my attention narrowing on the only thing that matters now: finding out what they were actually trying to accomplish.
“Where?” I ask.
Olivia doesn’t hesitate. “Left corridor. The movement I heard earlier—there was more than two.”
Good. That gives us a direction, and direction is enough to start rebuilding the pattern. I turn toward Dario, already calculating the routes and the possible points of access. “Lock the entrance. No one gets in or out.”
“Already done.”
“Then we cut them off inside.”
Because if they’re still here, they’re still working toward something. The two men we just put down were never the objective. They were pressure, designed to pull our attention toward the immediate threat while someone else moved through the building. Whatever that someone is after, it isn’t us.
“Hospital records,” Olivia says suddenly.
I look at her.
Her focus has shifted completely. She isn’t looking at the bodies or the damage anymore. She’s looking beyond it, already working through the possibilities with the same analytical precision she brings to everything else.
“They didn’t just come for me,” she continues. “If they wanted me, they already had opportunities. They changed their approach.”
“To what?” Dario asks.
“Information.”
The word settles into the hallway, and for a moment no one speaks because the possibility fits too well.
I look toward the corridor again, reconstructing what happened from the beginning—the timing, the breach, the attack on the vehicle, the hospital entrance, the distraction. Each piece slides into place.
“They want access,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Patient files. Systems. Something inside this building,” Olivia adds.
“Why here?” Dario asks.
“Because it’s not yours,” she replies. “And it’s not fully secured like your estate. It’s controlled, but it isn’t impenetrable. That makes it the perfect target.”
She pauses, her expression tightening as another piece falls into place. “They used me to get in.”
“Yes.”
The answer comes without hesitation because there’s no reason to pretend otherwise. This entire operation was never about finishing the job. It was about creating an opening, getting through the door, and using the chaos around me as cover while someone else moved deeper into the hospital.
“Then we’re already behind,” Dario says.
“No,” I correct. “We’re just late.”
There’s a difference, and it matters. Being behind means they have control of the situation. Being late means they have a lead we can still close.
“Where would they go?” I ask.
Olivia is already moving toward the corridor, her mind working through the hospital layout faster than either of us. “Data access points. Administrative wing. Records. Possibly the server room if they’re working digitally.”
“Which is faster?”
“Digital,” she answers immediately. “But riskier if they aren’t familiar with the system.”
“They had inside help,” I remind her.
“Yes.” Her expression hardens. “Which means they’ll know exactly where to go.”
That changes the equation. We don’t chase them blindly through a building they already understand. We cut off the places they need to reach and force them into the spaces we control.
“Split,” I say. “Dario, take administration. I’ll take records.”
“And me?” Olivia asks.
I look at her because this is the point where the obvious answer is no longer the safest one. Telling her to stay behind might keep her out of immediate danger, but it would also leave her blind to what is happening around her. Worse, it would put her somewhere I can’t account for.
“You stay—”
“No.” She cuts me off before I can finish. “That’s not happening.”
Silence hangs between us for a moment.
She’s right.
Leaving her behind doesn’t make her safer. It simply removes her from the information she needs to make decisions, and we already agreed that she would not be treated like a variable moved around a board without knowing the reason.
“You know the layout,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re with me.”
Dario doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to. The logic is already there, and we both understand what leaving her behind would actually accomplish.
“Comms stay open,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Any movement—”
“We call it,” I finish.
That’s enough.
We move quickly, but we don’t rush. The left corridor feels different now, as though the building itself has been disturbed.
Doors stand slightly ajar where they should be closed.
The lights flicker intermittently, subtle enough that someone unfamiliar with the hospital might overlook it, but obvious enough to tell me that something has interfered with the system.
There is movement somewhere beyond the walls, faint and irregular, and none of it belongs to the normal rhythm of the building.
“They’re here,” Olivia says quietly.
I nod. I can feel it too. The pattern is broken, and that tells me more than silence ever could. This is their space now, or at least they believe it is.
“Slow,” I tell her.
We don’t rush toward the sound. We move carefully, controlling our pace and our angle, taking back the corridor one section at a time. Every doorway becomes a possibility. Every shadow has to be accounted for. We move room by room until Olivia stops.
“There.”
Her voice is low, precise.
I follow her line of sight to a door standing half-open at the end of the corridor. Light spills through the narrow opening, cutting across the floor.
It isn’t random.
It isn’t forgotten.
It has been left that way for a reason.
I raise one hand, signaling her to stop.
Dario’s voice crackles through the comm. “Administration is clear.”
“Then they’re here,” I reply.
“On my way.”
“No.” I keep my attention on the door. “Hold position. If this splits, we need coverage.”
There’s a brief pause before he answers.
“Understood.”
Good.
Because this is the moment where patience matters more than speed.
I glance at Olivia. She’s steady, her attention fixed on the doorway, her breathing controlled despite everything that has happened since we arrived. She looks ready.
“You stay behind me,” I say.
“That’s not the agreement.”
“It is for this.”
She gives me a look that makes it clear she doesn’t like the distinction, but after a moment she gives a reluctant nod.
“Fine.”
I reach for the door and push it open slowly.
The room beyond isn’t chaotic. That would have been easier. Instead, everything has been arranged with unnerving precision. Equipment has been pulled from cabinets, systems are open, screens display lines of information, and data is actively transferring across one of the terminals.
And standing in the middle of it is a single man.
His back is toward us. He isn’t rushing. He isn’t panicking. He works with the calm efficiency of someone who knows exactly what he came here to do and believes he has enough time to finish it.
Like he knew we would be delayed.
Like he expected us to follow the trail he left behind.
The door makes the smallest sound as it moves.
He hears it.
Of course he does.
He stops what he’s doing and turns slowly.
For the first time since this began, I recognize the face looking back at me.
Not a stranger.
Not an outsider.
One of ours.
“Thought it would take you longer,” he says.
Beside me, Olivia draws a quiet breath. Her entire expression changes, and I turn just enough to see recognition settle across her face.
“You,” she says.
The man smiles.
There is nothing friendly about it. Nothing warm. It is the expression of someone who has been waiting for this exact moment and is finally certain that the pieces have fallen into place.
“Yeah,” he replies.
And in that instant, the entire game changes.