Silent Watch (Shadow Strike #2)

Chapter 1

GWEN

Blood pools under my gloved hands faster than suction can clear it.

"Pressure," I say, voice steady despite the chaos. "More lap pads."

The resident slaps sterile gauze into my palm.

Outside this trauma bay, Joint Expeditionary Base Tidewater's hospital hums with its usual evening rhythm, but in here time compresses to heartbeats and breath sounds.

My patient is a young Marine with a lacerated spleen from a training exercise gone sideways.

Vitals dropping. Blood pressure crashing.

Surgery, not politics. Saving lives, not navigating medical dynasties where reputation matters more than skill. This is what I'm good at.

"Clamp," I order, isolating the bleeder. Metal clicks as I work, fingers moving with precision that comes from thousands of hours in operating rooms. Dr. Preston Randolph watches from across the table but doesn't interrupt. He knows when to let a surgeon work.

Minutes pass. The spleen comes out, bleeding controlled. Vitals stabilize. My shoulders burn from tension I didn't acknowledge while focused on keeping this kid alive.

"Nice work, Dr. Abernathy," Randolph says, stripping off his gloves. "Clean, efficient. Textbook repair."

Pride flares in my chest, immediately followed by the familiar weight of needing to prove myself. Every compliment feels like validation I'm still chasing. Every surgery becomes evidence that I deserve to be here, that the malpractice suit was wrong.

"Thank you." I step back, letting the resident close while I dictate operative notes. Post-op orders, transfusion protocols, monitoring parameters. Everything documented with the attention to detail that's become second nature.

But even as I dictate, frustration simmers.

Today's case required substitutions I shouldn't have needed.

We had to use an older-generation laryngoscope because the video scopes were "backordered.

" Had to ration chest tubes because inventory showed we had plenty, but the cabinet was half-empty.

Small workarounds that didn't compromise patient care, but they're adding up.

Randolph catches me in the hallway outside the OR. "Good save in there, Abernathy."

"Thanks. Though I shouldn't have needed to improvise with substandard equipment." I pull off my surgical cap. "We're a military hospital. Critical trauma supplies shouldn't be consistently unavailable."

"Supply chain issues." He shrugs, clearly not as bothered as I am. "Happens everywhere."

Except it's been happening here for weeks. Always the same categories. Always trauma and emergency equipment—airway management, hemorrhage control, surgical tools I need when patients are dying on my table. Never routine items. Never equipment for elective procedures or outpatient care.

I've been documenting every shortage in my personal records.

Dates, procedures, specific items unavailable, workarounds required, patient care impact.

Old habits from when every decision I made was scrutinized and questioned.

CYA documentation became second nature after facing lawyers who twisted my competence into negligence.

Later, scrubs traded for civilian clothes, I pull up my tablet in the physician lounge and review the spreadsheet I've been maintaining.

The data is undeniable now. Over the past month, trauma and emergency equipment has been consistently depleted across multiple categories.

Not enough to create dangerous shortages—yet—but enough that surgical teams are noticing.

Enough that we're adapting procedures and using alternatives.

Nurses have been complaining. Beth in the OR mentioned missing laryngoscope blades. Mike in the ER complained about chest tube shortages. Equipment I count on for emergency airways, hemorrhage control, trauma response—consistently unavailable or running low.

When I asked the nurses to check what the system showed, they pulled up inventory logs that indicated adequate stock. Someone is creating a gap between what the computer says we have and what's actually in the cabinets.

I reported it to the Chief of Surgery last week. Got the standard brush-off about clerical errors and ordering delays. Was told supply chain management would "look into it." That dismissive tone—the same one I heard when I raised concerns that later became the center of a malpractice suit.

My teeth grind. Being doubted, being told I'm overreacting or seeing problems that aren't there—it's happening again. Except this time I have documentation. This time I'm building an airtight case before escalating.

Tomorrow, I'm taking this to NCIS. Base security. Whoever investigates equipment theft on military installations. This isn't clerical error. This is deliberate, targeted depletion of trauma capabilities.

Tonight, I back everything up to cloud storage and send myself copies. Evidence needs multiple safeguards.

Tablet secured in my bag, I head for the parking lot. Base security lights cast yellow pools across asphalt. My Range Rover sits near the back, where spaces are still available when I arrived for morning rounds. The walk is longer than I'd like this late, but safer than civilian parking.

Footsteps echo behind me.

Instinct prickles at the base of my spine. I glance back, casual, like I'm just checking my surroundings. A figure moves between lights, maintaining distance but matching my pace.

Years of living in cities, of walking to hospitals in the middle of the night, taught me to trust that instinct. I pick up speed, angling toward better lighting. Keys already in hand, SUV fob ready to unlock from distance.

The footsteps quicken.

My pulse kicks. Still several car lengths away from safety. I break into a jog, jabbing the unlock button. Lights flash on my vehicle.

Someone grabs my arm from behind, spinning me around. A man, features shadowed, grip bruising. "You should've minded your own business."

Training kicks in before conscious thought. I drop my weight, twist into the grab, bring my knee up hard. He grunts but doesn't let go, dragging me between parked vehicles where shadows swallow us whole.

Pepper spray. I claw for the canister on my keychain, but he catches my wrist, slamming it against a car door. Pain explodes up my arm. Keys clatter to pavement.

I scream, loud and piercing. He curses, claps a hand over my mouth. I bite down hard, tasting blood. He yanks his hand away and backhands me across the face.

Stars burst behind my eyes. Blood fills my mouth where teeth cut into my cheek. But I don't stop fighting. Can't stop. Because if I go down, I'm dead.

I ram my elbow into his ribs, stomp down hard on his instep, claw at his face. He's bigger, trained, ready for resistance. Blocks most strikes, absorbs the hits that land. Professional fighter or military trained. Someone who knows exactly how to hurt people efficiently.

"Stop fighting," he snarls, forcing me against a vehicle. "Make this easier."

Like hell. I drive my knee toward his groin. He shifts, taking the hit on his thigh, and slams me against the car hard enough that my head bounces off metal. Vision doubles. Consciousness wavers.

No. Stay awake. Keep fighting.

But my body doesn't cooperate. Arms go heavy, legs unsteady. He's reaching for something at his belt when a voice cuts through the darkness.

"Step away from her. Now."

My attacker freezes. New footsteps approaching, fast and purposeful. The pressure against me eases slightly as my assailant turns his head.

"I said step away." Male voice, calm, carrying absolute authority. "Do it now or I put you on the ground."

My attacker shoves me hard. I stumble, catching myself against a car. He bolts, running between vehicles toward the parking lot exit.

The newcomer doesn't chase him. Instead he moves to me, hands visible and non-threatening. "Are you injured?"

I try to answer, but my legs give out. Strong hands catch me before I hit pavement, lowering me carefully to sit with my back against a tire. The world tilts and spins. Blood drips from my split lip, from scrapes on my palms where I hit asphalt.

"Easy," the man says, kneeling in front of me. "You're safe."

Safe. Right. Because some stranger intervened and my assailant ran instead of fighting. Nothing about this is safe.

But I focus on breathing anyway, dragging air into lungs that don't want to cooperate. Vision clears enough to make out details. Big, built like someone who trains constantly. Military bearing, controlled movements. Wearing civilian clothes but moving with tactical precision.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asks, voice gentle despite his size.

"Gwen." The word scrapes out past a split lip. "Dr. Gwen Abernathy."

Recognition flickers in his eyes. "I'm Captain Thatcher Caine, MARSOC. I was here checking on one of my guys from a training accident when I heard you scream." He pulls out a phone, already dialing. "Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?"

"No ambulance." I touch my face gingerly, assessing damage. Split lip, scraped cheek, headache blooming where my skull met metal. Bruised ribs, wrist already swelling. "I'm okay."

"You're bleeding." His tone suggests he disagrees with my assessment.

"Superficial." I force myself to focus through the adrenaline crash trying to drag me under. "He wanted to scare me. Not kill me."

"He wanted to do more than scare you." Captain Caine's jaw tightens. "Security is on the way. So is NCIS."

NCIS. Of course. Assault on a military installation triggers federal investigation. Which means I'll have to explain why someone just tried to kill me in a parking lot.

Which means admitting I found evidence of equipment theft.

Which means whoever's stealing those supplies just confirmed they know I'm a threat.

Captain Caine is speaking into his phone, crisp military efficiency as he relays location and situation. I catch fragments: "female victim," "assailant fled," "possible connection to ongoing investigation."