Page 33 of Rescued By the Operative

After Georgeanne escaped, everything happened so fast that I was taken to the hospital in the back of an ambulance without a chaperone.

But now I’m stuck in a hospital bed with the scariest, meanest sister-wife waiting out in the hallway.

“You are welcome to sit in the waiting room until she’s discharged, but if you’re not immediate family, I can’t let you in,” I hear the nurse say.

Floydene has that snippy tone that I’m so used to hearing as she replies, “I suppose I’ll have to. The elders won’t like to hear this.”

The nurse isn’t having it with Floydene’s superior attitude. “If you attempt to enter her room again, I will call security.”

I love it when a big fish is put in their place once they’re outside the pond. What can I say, I’m a petty bitch and I’m enjoying this.

“Get changed. Let’s go,” Special Agent Carl says, appearing out of nowhere with a duffel bag.

“Where did you come from?”

“Do you really need me to explain how to sneak in and out of a hospital?”

I guess not.

“I’m not ready to go yet.”

Concern clouds his face. “What’s wrong? Are you actually hurt?”

“Well, yes!” I say. “I was stabbed, remember?”

“The file says it didn’t hit any major organs or arteries. You’re fine, agent.”

Damn. I hate that he’s right. I’m perfectly fine. As fine as I can be with six stitches in my side. Which, for a trained agent such as myself, is more fine than a civilian.

“True, but I want to listen to the nurse yell at Floydene again.”

“Carter,” he hisses in a hushed tone.

I roll my eyes and shuffle out of bed. “Give me your bag of tricks and I’ll get changed.”

I touch the wound on my stomach as the SUV pulls up to what’s supposed to be my “safe house.”

The Bureau has arranged a rental room for me to lay low in the wake of Georgeanne’s escape.

Special Agent Williams surveys the dilapidated house.

“What a shit hole,” he grumbles. “Why don’t I get you a room at the hotel where I’m staying in Bozeman?”

I glance up, and I have to agree it’s a shit hole.

But no, I don’t want to go to Bozeman.

I’m told this place is the most secure spot in the county, outside of the church. The guys who live here are armed to the teeth, and there are cameras everywhere. The doors are steel, and the inside walls are solid concrete. Best of all, it looks like a meth house on the outside, which definitely keeps random visitors away.

“It’ll have to do for now,” I say, scanning the rusty carport, the dirty Blazer, and the rebuilt classic car.

As for the church elders, they think I’m recovering from my stabbing in an isolated room at the hospital because I’ve contracted an infection.

In truth, I need to stay out of the crosshairs, for fear of retribution for letting Georgeann escape.

That prisoner did stab me good and hard before she ran away, but it was a good puncture once the blade sank through my bullet-rated vest. I make a mental note to order a new vest that also protects against blades pushing through the fibers.

The official story given to the elders at C.O.C.K. is that I’m on medical leave and that my doctor has ordered no visitors and no stress. That gives me enough cover to leave the hospital—again—without suspicion when Carl picks me up.