Page 17

SEVENTEEN

GRáINNE

“Another one for you, Grá,” Sandra tells me with a sigh. “It’s busy tonight.”

I take the file from her hands. “It’s Friday night,” I reply. It’s always busy in the emergency room on a Friday night. Hell, every single night is busy.

I flip open the file and scan the patient details. Male, mid-forties, multiple lacerations and contusions. Possible concussion. Another bar fight, most likely.

"Cubicle three," Sandra says, already moving on to the next case.

I nod and make my way down the crowded hallway. Taking a deep breath, I pull back the curtain to cubicle three. The man on the bed looks up at me, his left eye swollen shut, dried blood caking his nose and split lip.

"Good evening," I say, keeping my voice steady and professional. "I'm Dr. Fallon. Can you tell me what happened?"

He winces as he tries to sit up straighter. "I do not recall," he tells me, his French accent thick and heavy. “I woke up like this.”

I sigh. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard a patient tell me they don’t recall how they got their injuries. It’s usually one of three reasons. One, they’re a victim of domestic violence and are unable to speak up. Two, they’re affiliated with a gang, mafia, or club. Then there’s the third option: they get so drunk or high, they actually don’t remember what the hell happened to them. "Let's take a look at those injuries, shall we?"

As I begin my examination, I can't help but wonder how many more patients like this I'll see before the night is through. It's going to be a long shift.

I gently probe the man's face, noting the extent of the bruising and swelling. His right cheekbone feels tender, possibly fractured. As I examine the lacerations on his scalp, he winces and pulls away.

"Sorry," I murmur. "I know it hurts. I'll try to be quick."

His one good eye watches me with rapt attention as I continue my assessment. There's something off about him, which has me on edge.

"Can you tell me your name?" I ask, shining a penlight in his eyes to check pupil response.

He hesitates a beat too long before answering. "Jean. Jean Dubois."

I make a noncommittal sound, jotting notes in his chart. The name doesn't match the one on his intake form.

"Well, Mr. Dubois, I'm going to order some x-rays and a CT scan to rule out any fractures or internal bleeding. In the meantime, I'll have a nurse come clean and dress these wounds."

As I turn to leave, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong. “No one,” he growls thickly. “No one is to know that I’m here.”

“Mr. Dubois,” I say, reaching for his fingers and prying them from my wrist. “This is a hospital. You cannot manhandle me.” Once I get him to release his hold on me, I ease out of the cubicle.

My heart races as I pull the curtain closed behind me. Something is definitely not right with this patient. I make my way to the nurses' station, my mind whirling with possibilities.

"Sandra," I call out, spotting her behind the desk. "That patient in cubicle three, can you pull up his intake form again?"

She nods, tapping away at the computer. "Here you go," she says, turning the screen toward me.

I scan the information quickly. The name on the form reads Antoine Robert, not Jean Dubois. My stomach clenches as the unease grows. There’s definitely something suspicious about this man.

"Everything okay?" Sandra asks, noticing my furrowed brow.

I hesitate, unsure how much to share. "Can you do me a favor? When you go in to clean his wounds, take note of any tattoos or identifying marks. And be careful. There's something off about him."

Sandra's eyes widen slightly, but she nods. "Will do, Dr. Fallon."

I'm about to head off to my next patient, when the emergency room doors burst open. Two men stride in, their faces grim. But my spine tingles as I look at them. One of them is blonde and has a scar on his jaw; the other has dark hair and even darker eyes. Both men look as though they don’t belong.

"We're looking for a man," one of them announces to Sandra, his accent just like my patient’s. French. "Mid-forties, dark hair. He’s injured."

My blood runs cold. Whoever these men are, they're after my patient. I catch Sandra's eye, and she nods imperceptibly. She feels it too.

I know that she has this under control. I continue on with my other patients, needing to ensure that they’re cared for, but my mind races as I think of the patient with the fake name. He’s been really worked over, and I can’t help but think that he’s in trouble. Serious trouble. The two men who came to look for him scream danger.

It takes me around thirty minutes before I’m able to check on the patient again. As I approach cubicle three, I hear hushed, angry voices. I sneak into the cubicle, making sure not to make a noise with the curtain, but I freeze when I see both the men have entered his cubicle. The blonde one has his back to me.

"You should have realized what would happen, Antoine. You should have known we’d come for you."

“I won’t tell,” Antoine pleads. “The moment I’m out of here, I’ll be gone. No one will ever hear from me.”

“That’s not going to do,” the dark-haired man growls. “You’ve displeased Dragomir,” he snarls. “There’s no escaping for you. No leaving.”

I watch as Antoine trembles. “You’re going to kill me—here?”

I pull in a ragged breath. I have no idea what the hell is going on.

The air turns static as everyone turns to face me. I take a step backward, my heart pounding. “Sorry,” I stumble. “I have to check Mr. Dubois’ vitals.”

The blonde man watches me carefully, his eyes narrowed, before he steps closer to me. “You like eavesdropping?” he accuses.

I swallow hard, plastering on a fake smile as I skirt around him. “I didn’t eavesdrop,” I assure him as I move toward my patient. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us some privacy,” I say, not looking at them, my gaze focused on Antoine. “I’ll check on him and once I’m done, I’ll call you back in.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Doc,” the blonde growls, “we’ll stay where we are.”

I spin around and face the two dangerous men, my heart pounding, my hands trembling. “I’m sorry,” I tell them. “But every patient has the right to privacy.”

I’m so distracted by the two men that I forget that my patient is also dangerous. While my back is turned, he surges up from his bed. His hand wraps around my neck, and I still as I feel a sharpness at the base of my throat.

“I won’t go with them,” he stammers. “I won’t.”

“Antoine,” the blonde man snaps, his eyes wild as he stares at us. “You can’t escape what’s about to happen.” He edges closer to us.

"Stay back!" my captor hisses, his arm tightening around me. "I'll cut her if you come any closer!"

"Let her go, Antoine," the blonde one says, his voice cold. "You know how this ends."

"No!" Antoine grunts, pressing the blade harder against my throat. I feel a warm trickle of blood and try not to whimper. "I know too much. You'll kill me the moment I surrender."

My mind races, trying to find a way out of this nightmare.

I can hear sirens in the distance–the gardai are on their way. I wonder if someone knows that I’m here, that I’m trapped in this nightmare?

"Listen to me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "This isn’t the way you’re going to get out of this."

Antoine's breath is hot on my ear as he considers my words. For a moment, I think he might relent, but then the dark-haired man takes a step forward, and Antoine tenses.

"Back!" he snaps. "Back now, or I swear I'll kill her!"

The smirk on the blonde man’s face is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. “I do not care,” he states. “She’s heard too much as it is. You did this. You know what the repercussions are, Antoine. You knew that but you still came here.”

Antoine’s grip on me releases slightly and I try to push away from him, but he’s too strong. I feel Antoine's grip tighten again as he pulls me back against him. The blade digs deeper into the skin on my neck, and I can't help but let out a small gasp of pain.

"You're bluffing," Antoine says, but his voice wavers with uncertainty.

The dark-haired man steps forward once again, his hand reaching inside his jacket. "He's not bluffing, Antoine. We have orders. No loose ends."

Time seems to slow down as I realize that these men truly don't care if I live or die. I'm just collateral damage in whatever game they're playing.

I hear a commotion outside the cubicle, followed by Sandra's raised voice. I hear her tell someone that I need help. My heart hammers against my chest. Oh God, I hope it’s the gardai.

The men glance at one another before shooting Antoine with a dark, warning look. They quickly flee, no doubt realizing that the gardai are here. They leave me alone with Antoine, his blade still pressed tightly against my throat.

“We’re going to get out of here,” he growls, pressing the blade harder against my throat. More blood trickles down my neck.

The sound of heavy footsteps grow closer, and within seconds, the curtain is ripped open, revealing two uniformed gardai.

"Garda! Drop your weapon!" one of them shouts.

Everything happens at once. Antoine shoves me to the side, lunging for the window. I stumble, my head hitting the edge of the bed as I fall. Black dots fill my vision as I try to catch my bearings.

Footsteps sound as the gardai rush toward Antoine.

Pain shoots through my body, and I can't help but cry out in agony. Desperately, I curl up into a ball and cover my head with my arms, hoping to escape the chaos. But it’s too much, and everything goes black as I lose consciousness, sinking into the darkness like I’m sinking into an abyss.

The chaos around me fades into silence.