Page 4 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)
Chapter Two
Sabrina Wells had spent her entire adult life learning to coexist with chaos. As a trauma surgeon, she thrived in the liminal space between order and disaster. Blood and bone, muscle and sinew—the human body was a marvel of engineering, and when it broke, she was the architect who rebuilt it.
Tonight, however, chaos had traded its surgical scrubs for a cocktail dress.
The hospital’s annual charity gala transformed Dallas Memorial’s normally austere grand lobby into a glittering fantasy of crystal chandeliers and ice sculptures.
Wealthy donors circulated through the space like exotic fish in an aquarium—the women draped in designer gowns and heirloom jewels, the men in tuxedos tailored to disguise expanding waistlines.
The air smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and money—lots of money.
Sabrina smoothed a hand down the midnight blue silk of her dress, a rare indulgence for a woman who lived in scrubs and sensible shoes.
The dress hugged curves she typically concealed beneath lab coats, dipping low in the back to reveal more skin than she’d shown in years.
At thirty-eight, Sabrina had dedicated herself to medicine with single-minded focus, leaving little room for serious relationships, much less marriage—a choice she rarely regretted, except on particularly lonely nights.
She kept herself fit, but still felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the suspicions that had consumed her for the past three months.
“You’re working too hard.” Chief of Surgery Richard Maitland appeared at her elbow, champagne flute in hand. “This is a party, Sabrina. You’re allowed to enjoy it.”
“I’m enjoying it,” she protested, touching the stem of her own barely sipped champagne. “I’ve smiled at so many potential donors my face hurts.”
“Yet you keep scanning the room like you’re expecting trouble.” Richard’s astute gaze missed nothing, a useful trait in a surgeon but occasionally irritating in a friend. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been on edge for weeks.”
Sabrina considered her answer carefully.
Richard was her mentor and advocate, but even he would think she’d lost her mind if she shared her suspicions—that a US senator was funding illegal bioweapon research, that four patients who’d died in her ER had been victims of experimental testing, that the CDC and NIH had been unusually silent about her inquiries.
“Just professional paranoia,” she said lightly. “I’m waiting for my phone to buzz with an emergency alert. You know how it is—the minute I relax, we’ll get a multicar pileup.”
Richard nodded, accepting her explanation. “At least try to enjoy yourself until then. You’ve worked hard on this event, and it’s a triumph. The new trauma wing is almost fully funded.”
He took a sip of his champagne before adding, “Oh, and the board was impressed with your work on the joint oversight committee. Three new clinical trials approved, and you managed to get additional safety protocols added without the pharmaceutical companies throwing a fit. Not many trauma surgeons have your eye for research applications.”
Sabrina gave a modest shrug, though the acknowledgment pleased her. Her dual role as surgeon and committee member had been controversial when she’d first pushed for the position three years ago.
“Someone needs to bridge the gap between the researchers and the clinicians,” she said. “Most of our patients aren’t textbook cases that fit neatly into clinical trial parameters.”
“Which is precisely why you’re valuable on the committee.
You see the potential risks before they materialize.
” Richard glanced across the room at an approaching donor.
“Speaking of which, Mrs. Harrington is headed this way. I’d better intercept her before she corners you about naming the pediatric wing after her late husband again. ”
“Go,” Sabrina urged, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll make the rounds to the east wing donors.”
She made her way to the edge of the room, finding momentary sanctuary beside a towering ice sculpture of the hospital’s logo. The chill emanating from it cooled her flushed skin, providing welcome relief from the press of bodies.
It was then she noticed him.
He stood across the room in conversation with the hospital board president, but his dark gaze found hers over the man’s shoulder, as if he’d been tracking her movements all evening.
Tall and broad shouldered, he filled out his tuxedo with the kind of muscular authority that suggested military training, not desk jobs and country clubs.
Silver threaded his dark hair at the temples, and the lines around his eyes spoke of experience rather than age.
His face was handsome in a hard, uncompromising way—all angles and planes like something carved from granite.
Atticus Cameron. CEO of Dynamis Security, the multibillion-dollar global private security firm whose elite contractors protected everything from heads of state to oil pipelines in conflict zones.
Even those outside security circles recognized the Dynamis name—they were the invisible guardians of the wealthy and powerful, the company governments called when situations required expertise beyond conventional military solutions.
Their half-million-dollar donation had created quite a stir among the organizing committee.
Their gazes locked across the room, and something electric passed between them—recognition, though they’d never met, an awareness that defied logic or explanation. Sabrina felt her pulse accelerate, her body’s instinctive response to a perceived threat.
Because that’s what he was, she realized. Dangerous in a way that went beyond physical.
The board president followed the direction of Cameron’s gaze, spotted Sabrina, and waved her over. Caught, she had no choice but to cross the room toward them, aware of Cameron’s eyes tracking her approach with the focused intensity of a predator.
“Dr. Wells!” The board president beamed. “I’ve been singing your praises to Mr. Cameron. He’s made quite a generous donation specifically for your trauma care initiatives.”
“That’s very kind,” Sabrina said, extending her hand. “We appreciate your support, Mr. Cameron.”
His hand engulfed hers, warm and calloused—not the manicured hand of someone who spent his days behind a desk. “The pleasure is mine, Dr. Wells. I’ve been following your work with great interest.”
His voice was a smooth baritone, the cadence measured and controlled. But it was his eyes that held her—dark, intelligent, and watchful. Too watchful.
Alarm bells chimed in Sabrina’s mind. No one “followed her work with great interest” unless they were trauma specialists or medical students.
Certainly not private security contractors with no apparent connection to the medical field.
The pressure of his hand on hers lingered just a fraction too long before releasing, the contact sending an unwelcome shiver up her spine.
“How flattering,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Though I’m afraid my research papers aren’t exactly bestsellers outside medical circles.”
“Your recent research into anomalous trauma presentations is particularly fascinating,” Cameron said, his expression revealing nothing. “Especially those cases that resemble radiation poisoning but don’t respond to standard treatments.”
The board president, clearly lost in this turn of conversation, excused himself to greet other donors, leaving Sabrina alone with Cameron. The noise of the gala faded to a dull roar in her ears as she processed his words.
He knew. Somehow, he knew exactly what she’d been investigating.
“You seem remarkably well informed about my research interests, Mr. Cameron,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline now coursing through her system. “Most people’s eyes glaze over when I mention anything more technical than Grey’s Anatomy .”
“I’m not most people.” His mouth curved into something approximating a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “And neither are you, Dr. Wells. Perhaps we could find somewhere quieter to discuss your findings?”
Sabrina weighed her options. He knew something—perhaps even something that could help her make sense of what was happening. But meeting privately with a stranger who seemed to know too much about her work triggered every self-preservation instinct she possessed.
“I appreciate your interest, Mr. Cameron, but tonight is about raising funds, not discussing medical minutiae,” she demurred. “Perhaps you could call my office next week to schedule a proper meeting.”
A meeting she had no intention of keeping.
“Senator Mitchell’s name ever come up in your research?” Cameron asked, his voice so low she almost missed it over the orchestra’s crescendo.
Sabrina froze, her champagne flute halfway to her lips. Her eyes darted to his face, searching for some indication of his intent.
“Why would a senator’s name appear in my medical research?” she asked carefully.
“Because we both know it isn’t just medical research.
” His eyes held hers, unflinching. “Four patients in three months, all with identical symptoms. All with connections, however tenuous, to BioGenix Laboratories. Which, coincidentally, receives substantial funding through a foundation chaired by Senator Mitchell’s wife. ”
The crystal stem of the champagne flute felt suddenly fragile in Sabrina’s grip. No one knew about those connections. She’d been meticulously careful, using her home computer rather than hospital networks, making inquiries through former colleagues rather than official channels.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Someone who wants the same thing you do,” he answered. “The truth.”
Before she could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A group of new arrivals was creating a stir—photographers’ flashes punctuating the ambient lighting as the crowd parted.