Page 59 of Delta (Alpha #12)

I leave Kelly to arrange for Jen's surgery and take the next incoming patient—a sixty-year-old male with a closed skull fracture, GCS 6.

And so goes the shift—another two-car collision, a stab victim, several GSWs, an intentional opiate overdose. I lose a GSW victim—he'd simply lost too much blood, and we couldn't stem the bleeding in time, despite the field medic's heroic attempts en route.

By the end of my shift at eight the following morning, I’ve been on my feet without a break for sixteen hours, sans the forty-five minutes I spent in that broom closet doing paperwork.

I'm thoroughly exhausted and ready to get home, shower, and crash. I trudge out of the ER on aching feet, my brain racing with things I could’ve, should've done differently. How I could’ve saved Gus, the GSW who died.

I reach my car after what feels like an hour of walking, even though I only parked on the second level of the garage.

Unlock the doors and slide behind the wheel.

Let out a long sigh of relief—I absolutely love what I do, but it's exhausting, physically, mentally, and emotionally, especially these forty-eight or seventy-two hours on call shifts spent at the hospital, grabbing shut-eye when and where you can, living on old coffee and vending machine garbage.

It's a scent that catches my notice, first. Body odor and old cigarette smoke.

I don't smoke, and while I may smell like three-day-old ass at the moment, this is not my scent.

Warning bells go off in my head, and I'm already reaching into my purse for my bear spray.

Anselm drilled a lot of lessons into me over the years, but the one he impressed on me as being the most important was to trust my gut.

If something feels off, believe yourself and act immediately . Never second-guess, never hesitate.

I don't.

I squirt the bear spray over my shoulder blindly, and I'm rewarded by a howl of masculine rage and pain.

A heavy blow from a fist crashes into my temple, sending white sparks dancing across my vision.

My sparring sessions with Anselm prove their worth, then, because I know how to take that punch and keep fighting despite the dizziness.

I spray wildly into the rear seat; my attacker bats at my hand, knocking the bottle out of my grip.

I lash out with my fist, then catch flesh and bone with a satisfying crunch, but it's not enough.

I twist in the seat for a better angle, catch a glimpse of furious pale blue eyes and angular features, and then something sharp punctures the side of my neck.

I still get off a good punch though, despite the blackness flooding my system, the weakness spreading through me.

I feel myself slumping. Drowsing, being dragged under.

"She fights like animal,” I hear a heavily accented male voice say. "But she is out."

Not quite, fucker.

My phone is in the back pocket of my scrub bottoms. With the last of my strength, my sight fading, I work it out and get off a text to Anselm—911. I hear my phone hit the floor with a thump.

"Fuck," my attacker mutters.

I fight my left foot up, up, off the floor. Crush it down onto my phone's screen so he can't unsend it.

The darkness wins, then.

Consciousness returns in fragments, slowly.

First, there's pain, a headache infinitely worse than my worst hangover: that time, Rin, Bryn, Cal, Killy, and I got wasted together on Cal's parents' yacht down in the Caribbean, the summer I finished med school.

For a long while, I just languished in the sharp throbbing agony occupying my skull.

And then I become aware of thirst—cotton-mouth times a billion

The need to urinate, badly, is next.

I observe all this with clinical detachment and put together a theory: I’ve been drugged and have spent a long time unconscious.

Memory is next. Work—the MVC. Losing Gus—I remember the names of every patient I've ever lost; they're written in a pocket-sized Moleskine notebook I keep in my purse.

What else do I remember? Finishing my shift.

Going to my car. Blue eyes. Fighting. I sent a text to Selm.

I can't relax, because I know I'll have to get myself out of this, but I also know that Anselm See will tear the Earth apart with his bare hands to bring me home safely. I just have to stay alive until then.

I do keep tabs on what's happening with everyone—the A1S world is its own small, insular community.

We take care of our own. So I know that Bryn has been through hell, and I know Cal and Killy are AWOL and presumed kidnapped.

Selm called me to tell me to keep watch and be prepared for anything, which is when I put that bear spray in my purse.

Fat lot of good it did. My assumption is that I've been kidnapped by the same people who took Bryn, as retaliation of some sort.

And, to be perfectly honest, I'm somewhat surprised it took this long for A1S enemies to come after me.

It's why I've kept up with my self-defense training, why I spend several hours a week at the range, keeping my weapons skills current.

I crack an eyelid, but there's nothing to see but darkness. There are other sensations to gain clues from, however. A subtle motion—side-to-side rocking, a dip, a lift. I'm on a boat. What else? I work my limbs: I’m not shackled or otherwise restrained. I'm clothed—in my scrubs, still. My Apple watch is still on the inside of my wrist, and I tap the screen to wake it up—the dim whitish glow illuminates a tiny patch of my surroundings; it’s of little use, though, as it’s a wifi-only model.

Dull reddish metal behind me and underfoot.

I tap a fingernail against the wall at my back, and it thunks hollowly.

I'm in a container, then. The air is somewhat fresh, however, which means there must be a vent of some kind, somewhere.

"Who's there?" A male voice pierces the thick black silence. A familiar one, at that.

My heart pounds frantically, seared with hope and relief and worry and fear. "It's Story," I murmur, my throat on fire with thirst, my voice raspy.

I hear movement. "Where?"

I tap on the floor. "Here."

"Keep doing that. I'll find you."

I tap, tap, tap until the shuffling is near, and then I reach out. My hand finds rough denim. A hard thigh muscle. A firm abdomen covered by a thin T-shirt.

"Got you," he says, his hand finding mine. He chokes, then. "Story? Is that really you?"

"Killian?"

He laughs, a half-crazed bark of desperation. "Story. I hate that you're here, but I'm also glad it's you."

"You've been in here the whole time?" I ask.

"Yeah. They send in food and water once a day. There's a bucket in the corner over there for using the bathroom.” He moves my hand and points.

"Who is it? Who has us?"

"Fuck if I know." A pause. "Did they…they didn't hurt you? Or…or anything?"

"No, Killy. I mean, I fought, but no. A decent punch to the temple, but I’m fine. They didn't do…anything else. That I know of, at least. I'm dressed and nothing hurts."

"At least there's that." He squeezes my hand.

"They fucked up, though," I say.

"Oh? How?" he asks.

I grin into the blackness, squeezing his hand back. "They put us together. And they have no idea who they've kidnapped."

He laughs. "I've been biding my time. We're on a fucking giant ass boat in the middle of the ocean—we were in port somewhere in Europe when they put me in here, and we've been at sea ever since. They brought you aboard via helicopter—I heard it."

"How long ago was that?"

"Barely an hour."

"No indication as to what they want?"

“To fuck with our parents, I assume."

Silence.

"Story?"

"Yeah, Killy?"

"I'm really, really glad it's you. I hope you understand what I mean by that."

I laugh. "I do. I'm glad it's you, too."

I've always been fond of Killy. He's a few years younger than me, but of all the A1S kids, he and I were always closest. Just friends, since we were somewhat raised together, but in the last few years I've become more and more aware of him as a male to whom I'm not actually related.

He's seriously hot, dryly funny, competent, and kind.

Cal has always been more like Uncle Val—quiet, reserved, watchful.

Killy is a mix of his parents, whereas Bryn is her mother's spitfire, hell-on-wheels twin in every way.

Killy has more of his father in him, a bit more cautious, a bit less reckless, a lot less hot-tempered.

The funny thing is, Cal is the daredevil of the boys.

Killy is always down to do whatever Cal does, but it's always Cal's idea.

Killy just won't be left behind and he won't be the one to wimp out on the fun.

So now I'm locked in a container on a cargo ship in the middle of the ocean with Killian Harris.

No one knows where we are. People are gonna be looking, but in the immediate future, no one is coming to save us.

Something tells me this shit has just started to get interesting.