seemed solid.”
“It was solid.” Rogers sighed heavily. “There was a police presence visible at the elevator banks, both in the lobby and the floor in question. There was an officer at the door of the patient’s room as well. Matter of fact, Lopez had created a dummy room with an armed guard, so it wouldn’t be easy for someone off the street to easily identify the actual location of our prisoner.”
“Yeah, I thought that part of the plan was brilliant myself,” Joe said. “I guess the dog we’re chasing is smart, too.”
“I don’t get it.” Sam was finding it difficult to process this new information. When he spoke again, he addressed his captain.
“Lopez told me he had a dual checkpoint in place. Every person entering that room would have had to be cleared—not just the doctors and nurses, but housekeeping and
dietary would have had to follow the same protocol. They had to be wearing a photo identification badge, and as a fail-safe that photo ID had to match the image in the guard’s laptop.
“Even if this guy did manage to create a fake badge, are you telling me that he was able to hack into the hospital personnel files and upload his picture so he’d pass the guard’s scrutiny?”
A slow, steady burn formed in his gut and spread through his body. Sam leaned back and threw his arms in the air. “If the guy is that good, we need him running the FBI, not running from it.”
“He found a loophole,” Captain Rogers said.
Sam arched an eyebrow. “Ya think?”
Rogers ignored the sarcasm.
“Lopez set up a failsafe plan for hospital personnel. He even went one step further and insured that the same police personnel rotated shifts on the door so anyone would question a stranger in uniform, and the officers would recognize their replacements. The guard would also log the time in and out of the room for each visitor.”
Sam leaned forward, waiting for more.
“What Lopez didn’t consider was that the culprit would create a fake FBI identity. There wasn’t anything on the laptop for FBI because Lopez intended to be the only one accessing the room. Unfortunately, he failed to make sure the guards knew it. That’s how we figure he got past the guard. He pretended to be one of Lopez’s own.”
“I told you,” Joe said. “The guy’s smart.”
Sam jumped to his feet. “Sarah...”
Captain Rogers waved Sam back down.
“Sit down, King. We’re taking care of it.”
“We need to move her to another floor ASAP,” Sam urged.
“I already talked with her doctor,” Joe said. “She’s stable enough to be moved out of ICU, so they are making arrangements for a private room as we speak.”
“Our men will be handling security on the door—not FBI, not hospital security guards—us.” Rogers glared at both of them. “Nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to happen to that woman on our watch. Understood?”
Sam’s heart started to beat a normal rhythm for the first time since he’d heard of Steven Miller’s murder. He didn’t know how this guy could keep slipping through traps, avoiding surveillance cameras and sidestepping witnesses, but it didn’t matter. No matter what it took, Sam wasn’t going to let the jerk anywhere near Sarah or any of the people who loved her.
With renewed determination, he shoved back from the table and stood. “Captain, with all due respect, don’t you think we’ve talked enough? The ball is in our court now. We’d better get busy setting things in motion. The FBI botched this one, but we can’t afford to. If he shows up here, I intend to make sure he’s sorry he didn’t stay in New York—deadly sorry.”
“King.” The censoring tone in his superior’s voice cemented his feet to the floor. “Your Amish background gives you a leg up over my other officers. I picked you because I believe you can deal with the nuances of this case the best. But for that same reason, you need to be careful. You can’t let your emotions color your judgment and jeopardize this case. Everything by the book. Got it?”
Sam nodded.
“Good. Now get back to Sarah. I’m going to finalize the room move with the hospital administrator while Joe coordinates the shift coverage outside her door.”
Sam didn’t need to be told twice. He was halfway down the hall with the door easing shut behind him before the captain had stopped speaking.
* * *
The man made a final adjustment to the fake beard that covered the lower part of his face, being sure to keep his upper lip clean, as was the Amish custom. He stared at the reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door and admired his handiwork.
The blond shaggy wig brushed the back of his neck. It made him twitch the way one might with an errant insect racing down your arm, and he shivered with disgust.
He was a man who took great pride in his appearance. His chestnut-brown hair was always faithfully groomed in a short, concise military cut. His fingernails were manicured at all times, his clothing choices impeccable. He’d be glad when this distasteful costume was no longer necessary.
He leaned in for a closer look at the blue contacts he’d worn to conceal his brown eyes. He finished off the look by donning a pair of plain, wire-rimmed glasses. The transformation was amazing.
He glanced down at his outfit. His clothes looked like they’d been woven a century ago. What kind of people willingly dressed like this?
He couldn’t wait to get out of this outfit and back into one of his expensive Armani suits. He longed to sit in his butter-soft leather chair, sip the prime Scotch from his private collection and gaze out his plate-glass window overlooking the ocean.
He hooked his fingers behind his suspenders, turned sideways and grunted with satisfaction.
One obstacle still remained.
He glanced at his immaculate nails. He’d have to go outside and dig in a flower bed. The thought of dirt under his fingernails actually caused his stomach to roil. But these men worked on farms. He imagined they grew used to the feeling of soil and debris as their manicure of the day. The thought made his lips twist into a frown of disgust.
Well, it wouldn’t be for long. Diamonds valued in the billions were definitely worth this ridiculous costume and a little dirt, weren’t they?
He sighed heavily. He’d have a very limited opportunity to interrogate the woman. But he wasn’t worried. If he couldn’t get her to tell him where she’d hidden the diamonds before he eliminated her, then he’d find them another way.
He rolled his white sleeves up to his elbows and smiled with satisfaction. Even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. If she had still been alive, that is. He paused for a moment and allowed himself to remember the look of panic and fear he’d seen in her eyes moments before he squeezed the life out of her.
He’d learned many things in his lifetime. One of the most important lessons was that when you needed to infiltrate enemy lines, it was best to blend in, give off an air of confidence, act like you belonged exactly where you were.
It had served him well over the years. His enemies had never sensed his presence—even though he was often right in their midst, hiding in plain sight, as the saying goes.
He stepped back, donned his straw hat and headed to the door.
* * *
Nighttime in hospitals always gave Sam the willies. Fewer staff. People speaking in whispers. Tonight his “willies alert” was operating on full throttle. Some cops called it gut instinct. Either way, Sam hated the tension that shot along his nerve endings, the fingers of unease that crept up his spine.
The only discernible sound as he moved through the empty corridors was