Covert M.D. (13 page)

Rathe froze, knowing his instincts had been correct, though moments too late. He and Nia were both in danger. He held his hands away from his sides and eased
back a step, away from Cadaver Man. “Thanks, but no thanks. I know what happened to the last guy who ‘saw’ your boss.”

Rathe had to get away. Had to get to Nia.

Cadaver Man frowned, then his face cleared and he snorted. “That what the cops think about Grimsby’s eyeballs? Give me a break. That’d be a waste.” He glanced both ways, saw that they were alone and pulled a snub-nosed revolver from the small of his back. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way—you choose.”

A hint of movement warned Rathe, but too late. Meaty arms grabbed him from behind. He struggled and lashed out with a back kick, but his heel glanced off the huge man with little effect. He choked on the smell of rank, sour sweat, then choked harder when the moving mountain scissored a forearm across his throat.

Cadaver Man watched the proceedings with a faint half smile on his droopy face.

“What—” Rathe forced the words past his narrowed windpipe “—what happened to ‘easy or hard’?”

“Why, Dr. McKay.” Cadaver Man’s face loomed suddenly large in Rathe’s vision. He lifted the revolver. “This
is
the easy way.”

And he struck the pistol across Rathe’s temple. His cheek. His jaw. Not hard enough to break bones. The goal here was damage, not death. Pain exploded and turned the world to gray.

Rathe’s blood dripped down onto his shirt and spattered the sidewalk as the pistol-whipping continued.
One thought throbbed through his brain. Nia. He had to get to Nia. Had to keep her safe.

He surged toward Cadaver Man, nearly breaking his own neck in the process, and lashed a ferocious kick that met only air. One last blow knocked the world from gray to black, and Rathe sagged. His captor released his grip, and Rathe collapsed to the sidewalk, retching through split, bleeding lips.

He sucked in a lungful of blessed air and tried to roll away. A kick in the ribs stopped him.

“Search him and tie him up. We’re meeting the boss in two hours, after this awards thing is over.” Cadaver Man’s words seemed to come from far away. Much closer were the rough hands that found Rathe’s phone and the knife strapped to his ankle, the voice that chuckled darkly when that knife was slid free.

Rathe cracked his eyes open and recognized the mountain of flesh looming over him. “Fancy lawyer got you out, huh?”

“Shaddup.” The pockmarked man scowled. Rathe anticipated another kick, maybe the sting of his knife. He got a strip of duct tape across his mouth instead.

Cadaver Man moved into view. “Hurry up and get him into the car. We’re not exactly private here.”

Rathe kicked at them both, trying to slow them down, attract attention, anything. Pockmark cursed, grabbed his legs and bound his ankles tightly together with a plastic zip tie. He chuckled, twisted Rathe’s arms hard behind his back and zipped them together at the wrists.

Almost immediately Rathe felt the prickles of con
stricted blood flow. Within minutes his hands and feet would be useless.

Damn it!
He fanned the anger, needing to keep the panic at bay. But the fear was there, licking around the edges of his fuddled consciousness. Fear for himself. For Nia.

“Into the car.” Cadaver Man waved toward the street. “Make sure nobody sees.”

But they wouldn’t, Rathe knew. The hotel staff was busy with the awards dinner. Passersby would stick to the main road. The alley was safe for Cadaver Man and Pockmark, potentially deadly for Rathe.

He thrashed when Pockmark tried to lift him, and earned a brutal kick in the lower back. Then Pockmark grabbed him by the zip ties, and lifted him by the two thin plastic strips. The ties sliced into Rathe’s wrists and ankles, the pain sharper than the sick agony of his face and the duller throb of his ribs and lower back. He was suspended in the air for only a moment.

Then they threw him into the trunk of a dark sedan.

Pockmark’s greasy face loomed into view, close enough to bite if it hadn’t been for the duct tape. “Have a nice ride, jerk face.”

Then his fist sped toward Rathe’s left eye.

Blackness.

Chapter Eight

Where the hell was Rathe?

Nia frowned and buzzed him a fourth time. Even if he was focused on his snooping—or even better, had found something important—he should have called her back by now. Unless he couldn’t.

The thought tightened her left eyelid. Her chest constricted.

“Ready to go?” Logan’s voice broke in, and she palmed the phone before turning toward him. He held up her wrap and arched one brow. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, of course.” She presented her back, and he draped the black shawl across her shoulders. His fingers lingered long enough that she felt the warmth of him. It was a surprise, really. He was so cool on the outside.

“Of course everything’s okay? Or of course you’re ready to go?”

“Both.” Nia turned back to her date and expelled a breath. “Sorry. You’ve been great tonight, and I’ve been…”

“Distracted,” he finished for her, taking her arm. “I know. So let’s get out of here.”

Stay in public, well-lit areas. Don’t get yourself alone with him.
Rathe’s instructions spooled through her mind, but she couldn’t see any way out unless she ditched Logan—who she was supposed to be distracting while Rathe finished his search.

It had been three hours since their last phone contact. Three hours of rubber chicken and mindless small talk with Director Talbot and his third wife, a bitchy bleached blonde named Yvette, whose sharp green eyes had marked Nia as competition. Three hours of trying to draw out Logan, who had remained hidden behind a cool exterior, seeming amused by her subtle probes. Three hours of wondering what Rathe had found. Where he’d gone.

Rathe, where are you?

“Ah. Here’s the car.” Logan cupped a hand beneath her elbow and motioned toward the low-slung two-seater as the valet hopped out. “Shall we?”

His eyes challenged her, mocked her. The phone remained stubbornly quiet.

Nia lifted her chin. “Absolutely.”

But nerves sizzled to life once she was seated in the vehicle. On the way to the dinner, she’d known Rathe was behind them. The small space inside the car hadn’t seemed so enclosed then. So confining. Now it was just her and Logan.

They drove in strained silence. A glance showed her that his sharply defined profile was set, hard. His eyes caught and held hers.

The car seemed suddenly smaller.

They rolled to a stop outside the apartment building.

“Well, thank you for a lovely evening.” Nia grabbed for the door handle, ready to bolt.

Logan clamped a hand around her upper arm, and she froze, aware of his size and of the heavy muscles beneath his expensive tux. After a moment his hold gentled. “I’m not the guy, Nia.”

Panic flared. She dropped her chin and forced a laugh. “What guy, my soul mate? Isn’t it a bit premature for either of us to decide—”

“Don’t bother.” He held up a hand to stop the lie. “It’s okay. It makes sense.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “Whoever it is must have access to the sixth floor, had to know about you and McKay, and likely has a good grasp of transplant medicine.” He dropped his hand. “But it’s not me. You and your
partner
are wasting your time.”

She didn’t like the emphasis he’d put on the word, nor did she like that he’d seen through their machinations so neatly. He was smart.

And so was their mastermind.

“Dr. McKay and I will be the judge of that, if you don’t mind.” She opened the door and climbed out, not caring that the graceless action bared flashes of garter and thigh. “Thank you for an interesting evening.” One that hadn’t ended according to plan.

She was halfway up the brick walkway to the main doors when Logan’s voice called her back. “Nia!”

“What?” She turned, but didn’t walk closer.

“My patient, Julia. She had a son. He turned fifteen this month.” His lips thinned, his cool eyes sparked. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

Nia’s brain spun. It could be the break they needed. Or they could be inviting the enemy into their camp. She didn’t know whether he was friend or foe, and her mind continued to churn on one vital question. Where was Rathe? She needed his input.

Needed to know he was safe.

So she nodded to Logan. “I’ll discuss it with Rathe and we’ll let you know.” She took a step nearer the car. “It’d help if I could take him something. A show of faith.” Another step. “You suspect someone, don’t you?” His eyes darkened and she persisted. “Who is it?”

The ice crept back into his expression. “Not a suspect. More an observation.”

“Tell me.”

There was a strange mix of reluctance and anger in Logan’s face when he said, “One of the nurses has overseen each of the dead patients.” He took a breath. “Five years ago, her brother died of liver failure because he didn’t get a transplant in time.”

“Who?” The image of a broad, friendly face sprang to mind and Nia shoved it aside. The nurse had
cried
over Julia, damn it. She couldn’t be involved.

“Marissa Doyle.” The cadence of his voice suggested that there was a deeper connection there. Was there a history between Dr. Hart and his nurse? Was she his scapegoat?

Or was she a killer?

Confused by this new information, concerned by Rathe’s absence, Nia nodded. “Fine. We’ll look into it. I’ll get back to you.”

Logan Hart could either be a powerful ally or a horrendous mistake—and her instincts had no vote on which.

No longer compelled to keep her phone in the background, she pulled it out and buzzed Rathe again, not even bothering to wave when Logan pulled away from the curb. She held the phone to her ear, as though the contact would force the connection through.

It rang. And rang.

“Come on, Rathe. Pick up!” She pressed the phone to the side of her head and tried not to think of how they’d left things—but the guilt had been battering at the edges of her mind all night.

What if he hadn’t been trying to manipulate her with his kiss? What if he was equally confused by the chemistry that sizzled between them? She thought of how she’d shut the apartment door in his face and thought of the kiss they’d shared. Of the promise of more.

She’d never worried for a partner before, never wondered whether they were safe or hurt. But she’d never been in a situation like this before.

And she’d never before felt for her partner the way she felt for Rathe.

Maria,
she suddenly realized. This was how he’d felt for Maria. They’d been lovers. Friends. Partners. And she’d died. The knowledge quashed the quick flare of jealousy.

“Come on, Rathe. Pick up!” She dialed again, though she knew it was futile. “If you don’t pick up, I’m going to have to call Wainwright.”

A flash of connection arced through her concern. Wainwright. Bingo. The name reminded her of the last round of tinkering he’d done to the HFH phones. He’d added Global Positioning Satellite locators. She should be able to find Rathe’s phone with her own.

“Gotcha!” Still standing outside the apartment tower, unconcerned by the darkness because of the nearby doorman and the security guard in the lobby, Nia punched up the phone menu and scrolled to the program they’d called DOC-JAK, a play on the LOJAK stolen-vehicle GPS recovery system.

Then it’d been funny. Now it was anything but. She punched in Rathe’s phone number and waited while the screen flashed a test pattern.

Searching.

“Search faster,” she muttered.

She half noticed a sleek white taxi pull up to the curb. When nobody emerged, she waved it off, thinking it was offering her a ride.

Searching.

After a moment the driver climbed out of the cab, cursing. He flung open the back door. “Let’s go. We’re here.” The fine hairs on the back of Nia’s neck prickled when a groggy-seeming male voice muttered a Russian curse. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the E.R.? Those are some nasty-looking—”

Target Acquired.

Nia slapped the phone shut and shouldered the driver aside. “Rathe!”

“Hi, honey. I’m home.” It wasn’t the cheesy line
slurred through split lips that drove her back a step. It was the sight of his face.

He’d been brutally beaten. His left eye was swollen nearly shut. A blue-purple hematoma swelled his cheek to grotesque proportions, and his lips were ravaged and scabbed. Along the side of his neck, extending down what she could see of his shoulder, was a vicious bloody stripe of road rash.

The slits of eyes peering through puffy lids looked baffled and unfocused.

“Oh, Rathe.” Anguish tightened her chest. They’d played the game wrong, and he’d paid the consequences. Deeper inside her soul, though, was a flicker of relief.

At least he was alive.

“Is he yours?” The cabbie cut a dubious glance from her fancy black dress to Rathe’s torn, bloodstained shirt.

“Yes. He’s mine. Help me get him inside.” She checked him quickly, cursing when she saw that his wrists were crossed with deep gashes, one of which had just barely missed the critical vessels.

“I dunno.” The cabby stuck his hands in his pockets. “He’s in pretty bad shape, but he wouldn’t go to a hospital. Insisted on coming here.”

“It’s fine. I’m a doctor. Help me with him, please?”

At her beseeching look, the cabby shrugged, grabbed the wounded man by his already-torn shirt and hauled him upright. Rathe muttered a string of vicious curses in a variety of languages but stayed on his feet.

Nia tugged his arm across her shoulders and ignored
the cloying smell of blood and pain. She was used to it. This was no different from any other patient, she told herself, though the fist around her heart and the sick roil in her stomach said otherwise.

This was different. This was Rathe.

“Lady.” The cabby shifted and looked uncomfortable. “I need my fare. I know he’s hurt. I wouldn’t ask otherwise, but it was a long ride.”