Page 110 of Vital Signs

Hunter

Still nothing at the clinic. Just a janitor and someone pacing by the windows.

Misha

Wright's expecting someone. He's at the door watching.

Hunter

This stakeout is bullshit. We should've just grabbed him after work.

Misha

Patience, mon loup. We need to learn his patterns first.

Hunter

I'll show you patience when I see you tonight. Your knees will remember every minute you made me wait.

My mouth went dry. A week ago, that text would have been flirtation. Now it carried the weight of ownership. I reachedup to touch my upper arm where the birth control implant sat beneath my skin, still tender from War's insertion.

"Movement," Xander interrupted from the back where he monitored our surveillance equipment. "Someone on foot approaching from the bus stop."

I shoved my phone away and grabbed the binoculars. Wright stilled, his head tilting forward like a predator scenting blood.

"That has to be our subject," I said, focusing on the approaching figure. "Young, male, maybe early twenties. Looks unsteady on his feet."

"Another lab rat," War said, his voice cold. "Watch how Wright interacts with him."

The thin man limped toward the house, pausing often, one hand pressed against his side as he climbed the steps.

"That's not security," Xander said, camera whirring.

War's jaw tightened. "That's a patient."

The bitter taste of adrenaline flooded my mouth. Wright ushered the man inside, closing the door. The wrongness crawled over my skin like spiders with steel legs.

Wright reappeared minutes later with a metal waste bin, carrying it to the side of the house. Blue flames leapt from the container as he added more papers, watching intently as they curled into ash.

"He's burning records," I said, nausea rising as memories of Roche destroying evidence flashed through my mind. "Covering his tracks."

War reached for his phone. "I'm calling Annie. If he's treating patients at home—"

The front door opened again. The patient stumbled down the steps, leaning to one side, hand grasping at empty air. He made it halfway to the sidewalk before collapsing like a marionette with cut strings. His body convulsed once, then went still.

Wright abandoned the burning bin and rushed to the fallen patient, a curse escaping him loud enough to carry across the street. He looked around frantically before grabbing the patient's arms and dragging him back toward the house.

"That fucker. He's not even checking for a pulse," War said, voice hollow with disbelief. "Not calling 9-1-1."

The image of Tyler's body on my mortuary table flashed before my eyes—cold skin, blue lips, dignity stripped away by Wright's callous disregard for human life. Another disposable test subject. Another victim no one would miss.

I threw my binoculars onto the seat. "We're going in. Now."

"The plan—" War started.

"Fuck the plan." My voice cracked with rage. "That patient is dying while we sit here. I won't let another Tyler happen."

War studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Front door or back?"