off and disappeared, grunting as she landed on the other side. It felt wrong to let her out of sight, even for a minute.
He swiveled, hand hovering by his holster. The goon had gone. Shit. The bear hoisted himself to a sitting position.
“What happened to that guy who was running for us?” Jamie said. “Did you see?”
“Nah, sorry. Bloody hell. What just...? Did I...? Are you a doctor?”
“Your heart stopped.” Jamie ran to the low wall separating the path from the river and looked over. Stones, rubbish, water... The goon had to have gone after Samira.
Gunfire rang out—muffled potshots from a pistol, over the wall. Then the echoing whine of an approaching helicopter.
Shit. Samira.
THE HELICOPTER SWUNG out over the wall, to the north. Gunfire popped. Beside Jamie, the glass dome of a streetlamp smashed. Bullets plinked along flagstones. He sprinted for the hospital wall, sheltered from view by the spindly canopy.
“Sorry,” he yelled to the bear. “I gotta draw their fire away.”
“Might be an idea,” the guy said, shakily. He had to be wondering what alternative world he’d been resurrected into. Just keep breathing, pal.
“I’ll send help. Just...take it easy, relax.”
“Relax. Sure.”
The shooters weren’t door gunners, just guys with assault rifles. Not as precise.
More ground fire, over the wall. An alarm wailed, echoed by another, farther off.
Jamie found a foothold and launched over the wall, under tree cover. As he landed, he skidded on wet leaves. No sign of Samira or the gunman. He’d royally fucked that up. Once in a while the first idea wasn’t the best idea... The smokers’ door was banging in the breeze. Don’t latch. Don’t latch. He peered up through the branches. He’d have to cross open ground but better that than the chopper spraying the trees and taking out the bear.
He launched into a sprint, pumping his arms, dodging cars, breathing hard. Gunfire plinked into steel, punched asphalt. As he bounded up the concrete steps, a gust swept the door. It latched. Shit. He hammered on it, turned, flattened, drawing his weapon—not that a Glock would take out a helicopter. The chopper veered toward him. He released the slide. A dozen alarms and sirens clashed.
The door fell away behind him. He stumbled back.
“Fuck me.” Mariya stood, hands on hips. “Is that a gun?”
Gunfire hammered the porch, tearing through the awning. Jamie pulled the door shut and shoved Mariya farther inside.
She shook him off. “Are you a good guy here or—?”
“Where’s Sa—?” he said. “Where’s my friend?”
“She ran down the corridor.” Mariya pointed. “Some guy followed her. He fired a fucking gun. I called security but they’re not here yet.”
Shit. Without an access card Samira would have run into a dead end. Jamie grabbed Harriet’s pass from the counter and looped it around his neck.
“Get out of sight and stay down,” he ordered. “Away from windows.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Mariya called as he rounded the corner of her desk and scoped out the corridor. Long and empty. At the far end, one of the double doors into Occupational Therapy hung open. He ran silently along the wall, gun down, pulse cranking, checking the empty bays either side. At the double doors, the security panel had been shot to pieces. A crackly voice sounded over the hospital loudspeaker. “The hospital is on full lockdown. Proceed directly to a refuge, as indicated by staff. Do not enter or leave the premises. This is not a drill.”
From ahead, a man’s voice trickled in over the recording and the alarms. A one-sided conversation, though Jamie couldn’t make out the words. On the phone?
He peeped between the doors. Nobody in view. Occupational Therapy would be empty on a Sunday. He took a longer look. The admin station was in an alcove halfway down the narrow wing, opposite a deserted waiting room. The guy had to be in there. With Samira? Jamie edged through the doors.
“...no idea where the fuck I am,” the guy was saying, in an American accent. “Place is a fucking maze. There are treadmills and shit in here—some hospital gym? I’m looking out a window at a courtyard with a tree in it... Yeah, I know that’s not very fucking helpful. Can’t you track me from the GPS on the phone or some shit?”
A window blind rattled. Jamie quietly lowered the rucksack to the floor.
“Why don’t I just shoot her and then the problem’s solved?”
Jamie’s forehead prickled. As he inched closer, he heard—or imagined—Samira’s breath wheezing in time with the ebb of the siren. He ran his gaze around the ceiling. No security cameras. He couldn’t count on help being forthcoming—and even if it was, Jamie could well end up taking a bullet.
“Hang on, man. She’s having a fucking fit or something.”
A clatter. Gasping.
“Lady, this better not be some trick... Nah, serious, man, she’s going purple. She ain’t breathing. What do I do? Well, someone’s gotta make a decision here! Where’s Fitz?”
Jamie exhaled and inhaled, like he was trying to do it for Samira. She would be fine. Terrified, of course, but nobody died from a panic attack. He pictured the goon’s position from his voice—looking down at Samira on the floor, facing the window? Gun in right hand, phone in the other? Doubly distracted.
“If Fitz is gonna interrogate her he better get here quick... No, I don’t fucking know CPR. Hang on. I gotta put the phone down a sec.”
Jamie launched around the corner. The guy looked up, fumbling to adjust his grip on a pistol. Jamie leaped, shoved the gun aside, wheeled and smacked his elbow into the guy’s forehead. The goon staggered back but gathered control of his weapon, swiveled and aimed it at Jamie’s forehead. Not so smooth, caporal.
Something blue flew across the alcove and clocked the side of the goon’s head. The impact rippled through him. He tipped sideways into a desk and crumpled onto the floor. What the fuck? A hand weight rolled off the desk and thudded onto the guy’s side.
“Oh my God, is he alive?” Samira’s voice, to Jamie’s right, barely audible over the alarms. She was kneeling in a corner, gray-faced, eyes huge. Over the loudspeaker, the recorded message repeated.
Jamie kicked the guy’s weapon across the floor. “You threw that weight?”
“It was sitting right there. It looked like he was going to... I didn’t think. Is he...? Did I...?”
Jamie checked the guy’s vitals. “Little groggy but okay. What happened to your panic attack? Were you faking?”
“No. But then I saw you and then the weight, and somehow I pushed through it.”
A tinny voice sounded. Merde. Jamie held a finger to his lips, and located the goon’s phone on an office chair. Still on. He picked it up, settling his breath.
“Nah, I’m okay. I’m fine,” he shouted, in his best imitation of the guy’s accent, muffling his voice with his hand. “Just some fucking security guard. Knocked him out cold. Listen, there’s some paperwork sitting here, says I’m in the...” Jamie stared at a concrete courtyard. What was on the far side of the building? “The...gynecology outpatient clinic. Shit, someone’s coming. I gotta go. You better get here, quick.”
Jamie hung up. The goon groaned. Jamie retrieved his rucksack, and drew out a syringe and vial from his white box of goodies.