Covert Identity (18 page)

Of course. She was with Paul in the hospital.

In his bed.

Busted.

"I'm sorry. I'll get out of your way."

The nurse grinned. "Don't worry about it, I've walked in on much stranger things than two people sleeping together. I mean, you were actually sleeping."

Sharon didn't have room to turn around, but she managed to crawl out of bed backwards without falling. Once her feet found the floor, the nurse's words came together.

"No. No way. Do people
do
that? Here?"

"Oh the stories I could tell you."

Paul opened his eyes and groaned, "What's going on?"

The nurse patted his arm. "You look much better today."

She was right. Even disregarding yesterday's great escape, he had made a big step from seeing dead relatives crowd the room to knowing she was there and talking to her about things that made sense.

Sharon looked at the clock and it was still early, just before six.

She ran her palms over her face. "I should go and let her take care of you."

He reached his hand out for her. "Can you stay a little?"

The nurse said, "It's okay. He doesn't have anything on his schedule until nine."

She smiled and left, and Paul said, "Come back up here."

This
was
the first morning he was awake and aware of her presence. That should probably be celebrated.

He drew a contented sigh when she rested down next to him again. She hadn't realized how much she missed being held until now, and feeling his arms around her made her want to shout her joy to the world and weep at the same time.

*****

W
hen Sharon got around to leaving, she was so happy she wanted to take skip-steps.

Being so cheerful seemed inappropriate for the somber setting, but for the first time she believed in her heart that everything would be alright.

She pulled out her phone and texted Mona.

"He's doing better. I'll be home soon."

Thank heavens for good friends.

As she passed the information desk—no longer manned by a possible vampire—a tall man with a black beanie caught her eyes. He had the knit hat pulled down almost to his eyes. Who would do that in Florida? It was winter again, but certainly not cold.

His eyes locked with hers.

Oh shit.

It was Doug, also known as Mr. Hate, and she almost didn't recognize him without the biker gear, and without seeing the tattoo. That would explain the beanie—only way to hide the words on his forehead.

Her brain finally kicked into gear. There was only one reason for him to be in a hospital.

Paul.

Doug clearly recognized her too. She could see his mouth form the word, "You."

This would be a good time to run, but he wouldn't do anything in this crowded environment, right?

Looking around, most of the people in the hall were large men dressed in jeans and tee shirts, she just hadn't noticed it before.

Running was appropriate.

She spun around, intending to go back the way she came, but the floor had gotten slipperier during the past second and she almost fell. Then, she found traction and dashed towards an elevator with a closing door.

She jumped in just in time, and could hear Doug yell outside the lift. Shouldn't hospital security be all over people acting like this?

Her imagination painted out a scenario where all security was already overcome, either tied up in the basement, or dead. It didn't seem likely, but it
could
happen.

An orderly stood in the elevator with an old man on a stretcher. They both stared at her.

"Sorry, this is an emergency."

She pulled out her cell phone.

"Pick up, pick up, please pick up."

The orderly said, "Can I help you with something, ma'am?"

Bishop answered, "Hey Sharon, what can I do for you this fine day?"

She pulled a breath that sounded like a whimper. "They're here. They're in the lobby, I mean, in the hospital."

His voice changed, snapped into being professional. "We're on our way. We're close. Where are you right now?"

"In an elevator."

"They can run up stairs faster than your elevator moves."

"Probably, but I doubt they're here for me."

After their failed visit to her house she had certainly made their list of annoying people, but they would have more interesting targets than her.

In the background, she heard the car engine rev, and Neil calling dispatch on the radio.

It didn't matter where they were, or where any of the other officers might be. Even if someone was already in the hospital for whatever reason, they would never get there on time.

Sharon said, "I'll call you back."

"Don't hang up."

"Okay."

She held the phone in her hand with the call still connected and looked at the orderly.

"Is there a way to the long term care thingy unit from the floor where you're going?"

He gave a blank face and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember exactly where Paul was. She knew how to get there, but that wasn't the same thing as the name. "It's on the fifth floor, like, five radial north or something like that."

The man nodded. "That's progressive intensive care."

They were already on floor eight. It would have been smart of her to stop at five, but her brain had been so focused on getting help that she hadn't thought of it.

He said, "Get out here with me, take the glass corridor to the right, and go down three stairs, you'll be right there."

"Thank you."

Her phone said, "Sharon, listen to me. You need to get out of the hospital."

She had forgotten all about Bishop. "Good advice, but no."

"Sharon, you are a brave girl, but you need to let us handle this. We've called hospital security, and they're on their way, as are we."

All this should make her feel better, but it didn't.

"How 'bout you meet me there and when nothing happened you can tell me how silly I am."

The elevator came to rest with a soft ping and the doors took an eternity to open.

She held her breath as they slid apart. There weren't any jean-clad gorillas outside, just a nurse with rosy cheeks, and Sharon huffed the stale air out of her lungs. Pushing her way out before the man with the stretcher and running away without helping him seemed rude even in a situation like this. Probably an effort of her mind to normalize the situation.

It didn't matter. Running mattered. She had always been bad at running, but this was a good time to start.

This corridor would normally freak her out. It had a solid floor with the same no-slip surface as most of the hospital, but the walls and roof were made of glass, showing all too much of the outside.

The outside of the eighth floor.

She was too stressed to worry about seeing the treetops.

People she met sent her peculiar glances and someone said, "Hey, slow down."

She did, but not until she neared the other end. With any luck the goons didn't know exactly where he was. They might be even more lost around here than she and need longer to find the place than she did. In a less lucky scenario, they might have studied up and already performed their dirty deeds.

Bishop's voice said, "Where are you?"

"Just reached the, whatchamacallit, ward."

"We're pulling up at the hospital now. I doubt they'll storm in as a group. They'll probably try to do this with stealth, sneaking in and going through one area at a time, room by room. They shouldn't know exactly where he is. If we're lucky, seeing you was enough to scare them off."

The floor seemed peaceful and she walked as fast as she could towards the nurse's station.

They seemed surprised to see her again, especially so out of breath.

"Did you forget something?"

"Yes. I'll be out of there in a jiffy."

Now I'm lying to people trying to keep them safe. Maybe it's contagious.

She took the phone off speaker and lifted it to her ear, whispering as she headed for Paul's door. "Should I have told her the truth?"

"No. No reason to get them worked up. How is he doing today?"

"Better."

"Good. If he's out of it, lock the door and barricade it with anything that can slow them down. If he knows what's happening, lock the door and barricade it, and try to go out the back. We're on our way."

She paused outside Paul's door. "There's a lot of people here."

"Yes, and odds are they're of no interest to the club. Go into the room and lock the door."

Was he just saying that to make her feel better?

It didn't matter. Spreading panic wouldn't make the situation any better, and she was just a web designer, barely able to keep herself alive.

Paul sat up in bed and struggled with a breakfast tray. He hadn't been allowed solid food for the longest time, and he didn't look enthusiastic over the assortment on the tray.

His face lit up when he saw her. "Hey, I didn't expect you back so soon. Did you forget something?"

Thank God, he was coherent. Just two days earlier he wouldn't have understood what was happening.

His smile faded when she locked the door and rammed a chair under the handle. "What's going on?"

"I met one of your friends in the lobby. Doesn't mean he's coming here with flowers and chocolate, but he didn't seem happy to see me."

Bishop's voice said, "We're on the way."

Through the door, she heard the nurse's voice say, "Hey, you can't go in there. Can I help you with something?"

A deep baritone voice rumbled, "We're just looking for someone. Don't get in our way and no one gets hurt."

Paul had gotten out of the bed, faster than she'd thought possible. He pulled the tubes from the infusion pump out of the connector in his arm and nodded to the back door. Sharon rummaged around in her purse and pulled out a Walther PPQ. The pink Glock had been confiscated as evidence after the incident at the club, but Mona had good hopes of getting it back after the trials. In the meantime she'd bought this, and insisted Sharon carry it with her at all times.

He said, "What are you doing with that?"

"Giving it to you."

It looked much less scary in his hands. He checked it with expert motions and chambered a round.

In retrospect, handing her cop boyfriend a loaded weapon from her purse might not be in the lines of self-preservation.

"I have a permit." Her voice sounded mousy and it made him smile in spite of all.

"Yeah, I really don't care. Let's go."

The other side of the door held a long and empty corridor. To the right of them were more rooms just like his, and to the left lay rooms filled with exercise equipment.

Paul leaned against the wall and drew a labored breath.

She sent him a worried glance and he attempted a joke.

"This is where they torture people."

She would have laughed if it wasn't for a muffled voice behind them. "Hey, this door is locked."

Maybe she should have left it open and pretended the room was empty. No, they wouldn't give up so easy.

Sharon held up the phone. "Hey Bishop, those security guys could hurry up a little."

"I'm in the elevator. Backup's on the way."

And what would he and Neil do once they got here? The level was filled with patients, nurses, and doctors.

She had a more immediate problem. Paul rubbed his face, looking about to keel over.

"We need to move. Lean on me."

He did, and they made their way through the long hall.

"Is there no way out of here?"

"I don't know. I've been focused on surviving, going back to my room."

Behind them, there was a loud boom. Door number one must have gave way and they were out of time.

Paul looked around. "In here."

The big room was filled with exercise equipment.

There wasn't anywhere to hide, unless a body painter would show up and mask them as stationary bikes or a Stairmaster real quick.

He headed for a smaller door on the other side. "Get in there, and stay there."

"Not without you, I won't."

Another loud boom. Door number two was down.

Shouting voices drifted over, but they sounded far away. Maybe Bishop and Neil reached the nurse's station.

She hissed, "We don't have time to argue. Come in there with me. If anyone opens the door, you can shoot them."

"Okay."

It was a small closet filled with cleaning supplies, yoga mats, lightweight dumbbells, and other various equipment. There was just enough room for them both, and Paul closed the door to a slit where he could peek out.

A voice called out, "There are uniforms everywhere."

Another answered, "I don't care. I want to get that nark."

"No man, it can wait. Let's go."

"I want to see your hands in the air."
That
voice was familiar. Bishop.

She could see Paul relax, but he still held the pistol up. He eased the door open and looked around.

"I will go help him. You stay here."

"But..."

"Stay here."

Yes, he totally looked in a condition to render assistance.

Stubborn.

Sharon waited for a couple of minutes, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She heard yelling and thumps, but no shots.

The inactivity was driving her crazy. Whatever happened out there, she needed to know.

She tip-toed through the room and peeked into the corridor. It looked empty to the left, and to the right Bishop had two men handcuffed. Paul leaned against the wall, looking pale, but alive.

She took a tentative step into the corridor, and a split second later she was stuck in a vise. A strong arm held her around her chest, pinning her arms to her body, and a knife pressed against her throat.

"Hey, nark. Got your girlfriend."

There was no mistaking that voice. She had walked right into a trap set by Mr. Hate.

Paul looked up.

"Dammit, I told you to stay in the closet."

That's not what I expected him to say.

"I know, I'm sorry. Just shoot him, okay?"

Doug tightened his grip on her. "Shut up."