The rain’s grown pretty heavy while we’ve been waiting for Michael and Cade. The fuckers take forever to show, and when they do make an appearance they’re soaked to the skin and dressed head to toe in black. They basically turn up looking like fucking criminals.

 

I give Michael a firm thump on the arm as soon as he’s within reach. “What the hell is wrong with you? Didn’t I say we don’t wanna draw any unwanted attention?”

 

“You told me to make sure Cade didn’t wear his cut,” Michael says, rubbing at his arm with an aloof but wounded look of pride. “And is he wearing his cut? No. He is not.”

 

Cade points to his back to demonstrate that Michael’s right. “This is all we had, man. Now come on, I thought you wanted to break into this place?”

 

“I did. But now that my sidekicks are a motherfucking huge ex-con covered in prison tats and a black guy in a fucking hoody, I’m not so sure. Doesn’t exactly scream respectable.”

 

Michael thumps me in the arm now. “Fuck you, Zee. And anyway, a black guy wearing an Armani suit hands down will always draw more attention.”

 

“And what about me? Am I not a sidekick?” Lacey’s hands are on her hips, her hair plastered to her scalp and hanging into her face in wet ringlets. She looks like a half-drowned cat.

 

“Fuck! Yes, you’re a fucking sidekick. For the love of god!” I’m beginning to think it would be better to do this alone, but there’s no way to shake Lace now. And Michael’s hardly one to heed my commands if he thinks he’s going to be needed. “Alright, fine, let’s do this,” I growl. It’s not ideal, but then whatever is?

 

Cade holds out his knuckles for me to fist-bump. “Strange turn of events, huh, bro? Both sent down for something that had nothing to do with us, and now, when we’re on the outside, is when we’re doing the illegal shit. Are we gonna kill this English fucker or what?”

 

“No. We’re going to avoid him like the plague. It’s too public to be brawling here. And we’re not doing anything illegal, either. We’re just breaking a quarantine. And maybe a few health codes.”

 

Michael gives me a dubious look. “You say that every time.”

 

I don’t even justify that with a response. Cade takes a quick look around, searching for the cops, who are still standing outside the hospital. They’re too busy chatting to a news reporter, who’s wearing one of the shortest skirts I’ve ever seen, to notice us. “So what’s the plan?”

 

“The plan’s simple. You two, get me under each arm. Lace, once we get around the side of the building, you run on ahead and tell the cops your friend is hurt and needs urgent medical attention.”

 

Cade lifts one eyebrow, shaking his head. “And what are we gonna do when the cops guarding the side entrance see that we don’t actually have a wounded guy to wheel inside?”

 

With a level of self-righteousness that even I can’t manage, Michael gives me an I-told-you-so look. He reaches forward and grabs hold of the bottom of my T-shirt, lifting it quickly before I can stop him. “Oh, I somehow don’t think a real injury is gonna be a problem, huh, boss?”

 

Cade sees the blood pouring down my stomach, the broken stitches sticking out of my now re-opened wound, and he blanches a little. I had forgotten all about that—Cade Preston never was comfortable around the sight of blood. Doesn’t look like much has changed. “Aw, for fuck’s sake!” he says, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. “Doesn’t that fucking hurt, man?”

 

I fix all three of them in the nastiest glare I can muster. Yes, it fucking hurts. Yes, I feel like shit. If I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure how long I’m going to be conscious if I keep losing blood at this rate. “No, asshole. I’m fine. Now come on, let’s go.”

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

The other entrance to St. Peter’s is a staff entrance, not used for emergencies. There are less people here, but there is still a pair of cops guarding the door, blocking anyone from going in or coming out. Just like I told her to, Lacey runs ahead and does a fine job of turning on the waterworks.

 

“My friend, he’s—he’s been stabbed! He’s losing a lot of blood. You have to let us inside!”

 

The cops aren’t buying it until Cade and Michael practically drag me around the corner, my legs trailing out behind me, and they see the blood. It’s all over my hands and face now, courtesy of a liberal application from my stomach wound, just to make things look a little more dramatic.

 

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck man? You need to take him around front!” the younger of the cops tells Cade, holding up his hands.

 

“Does he look like he’s got time for me to take him around the front, asshole? He’s fucking bleeding out!”

 

I cough for effect, making a pained groaning sound and doubling over. I must look like shit. I’ve never been particularly tanned, but right now I’m guessing that if my coloring were manufactured as a paint, it would be called Early-Onset Death.

 

The cops look at each other, unsure what to do. “There’s a lockdown in progress at this hospital right now, sir. You might want to head over to one of the other hospitals instead,” the older, more experienced guy says.

 

“He’ll be dead before we get there,” Michael hisses,

 

“Yeah. And if he dies, that will be on you,” Lacey adds, tears still running down her cheeks. Maybe they’re raindrops actually; either way, it’s working in our favor. The cops look like they’re about to back down. They give each other another hesitant look and I think we’re through…but then the older one says, “I’m sorry, guys. A quarantine’s a quarantine for a reason. We can’t risk it. Here, I can have an ambulance sent over to—”

 

Cade nearly skids in the mud as I straighten up, shrugging off the two men who are supposedly supporting me. In two short strides I’ve covered the ground between me and the guy who was speaking and grabbed hold of his face in my palm, shoving him backward. He staggers back a step; I let go, pull my arm back and I swing as hard as I can, smashing my fist into his cheek bone. It all happens so fast that the younger guy barely has time to react. I kick out his legs from underneath him, and then Cade rushes forward and drives his fist into the kid’s face, hard enough that his body goes limp on impact.

 

Both of the cops lie unconscious on the ground.

 

Blowing, Cade straightens up, looking from the bodies to me, and back again. “Not illegal, huh? I’m sure Washington State considers assault on a police officer illegal,” he says.

 

Michael steps around him, stooping and collecting up one of the unconscious cops by the ankles. He begins to drag him away, smiling grimly as he does so. “What did I say? Every fucking time.”

 

In my defense, fuck those bastards. They weren’t gonna let us in, and with this pain in my gut, eating away at me, I’m not exactly in the most patient of fucking moods. We move both cops out of sight, propping them up into sitting positions against the low-lying wall of a small building, that, from the whirring sound emanating from inside it, houses one of the hospital’s power generators. We cuff the cops together, smash their radios, and leave them there in the rain, but not before I lift a key card off them that will allow us entrance into the hospital.

 

The key card works. Inside the hospital, the four of us peer at the ward signs, trying to figure out the best way to find Sloane. Splitting up is generally a bad idea, but St. Peter’s is fucking huge. We need to cover a lot of ground and quickly. That’s the whole reason I called Michael in the first place; the more eyes, the better. After arranging to meet back at the side exit in thirty minutes and being expressly told to stay the hell away from Charlie, Cade and Michael head off to search the emergency room—this is the most likely place we’ll find Sloane, but it’s also the place where there are the most people who might recognize me and Lace. Those fucking mug shots the cops posted of me are a major pain in the ass, and so is the fact that Lacey absconded from a treatment room not twelve hours after waking up from a pretty intense suicide attempt. That means the two of us need to stick to the quieter areas—the canteen, the locker rooms, the admin levels upstairs, and the recovery wards.

 

The canteen is full of people. Mostly patients and their family members, obviously wanting to stay away from any area where they think they might get infected with some nasty super bug. I send Lacey out onto the canteen floor to scan the area a little more thoroughly than I can from the entranceway; she comes up with nothing. Thankfully no Charlie. No Sloane, either. No doctors at all, apart from one guy, an Indian guy, who enters the room as we’re leaving. I recognize him straight away—he’s the doctor that helped Sloane with Lacey when I brought her in and collapsed with her in a heap, bleeding all over the lobby floor of the emergency room. It’s not Lacey who’s bleeding all over the hospital floor this time, though. It’s me. Thankfully the guy doesn’t notice the bright crimson droplets pat, pat, patting onto the ground as we hurry away.

 

We search the recovery wards, slipping from room to room as silently as we can. Lacey takes the right-hand side of the corridor; I take the left. No Sloane, but I do come across something that makes my head fucking spin. Or rather, I find someone.

 

“Nothing over here, Zeth. Maybe we have to go up a floor. Come on,” Lacey says, but her voice is muffled by the roaring inside my head. I feel her small hand on my shoulder, and sense her peering around me to see what’s holding me up. She won’t know the woman lying in the bed, hooked up to a thousand machines, but I sure as hell do. “Who is it?” Lacey asks, her voice suddenly crystal clear and razor sharp as the roaring abruptly stops.

 

“It’s Charlie’s girlfriend,” I tell her, although girlfriend is a poor word to describe the Duchess. In a very old-school way, she is the epitome of a gangster’s mistress. Bella Mafia. Except Charlie’s English, not Italian. She looks like she might be dying, but then that’s not what’s surprising. What’s surprising is the fact that she’s even still alive. And also that my ex-employer isn’t here.

 

“She stabbed you,” Lacey says simply. Her little hand tightens on the doorframe, her knuckles going white.

 

“Yeah. She did.” I walk into the room, holding my breath. If the person in this bed were anyone else, a different person who had decided to take a knife to my stomach, my reaction right now would be decidedly more violent. But Sophie has been lied to for a very long time. I’m not angry with her. I’m angry that I got stabbed, sure, but I can hardly blame her. I don’t know how, but she found out everything that Charlie’s been up to the last thirty or so years, and she found out about me. She said so herself. Her voice, choked with rage, plays out in my head—And I know about you, too! I guess I betrayed her in the same way Charlie did. I practically grew up with her playing the part of a half-hearted and extremely unreliable surrogate mother, and I hid who I really was from her. She’s maybe the only person on earth I ever bothered to shield from that. She was always just so…oblivious to the world.

 

I watch as her chest rises and falls, accompanied by the low hiss of the machine that’s filling her lungs with oxygen. She’s in a seriously bad way. Lacey creeps closer to the Duchess’s bedside, peering cautiously at the empty shell of a body lying in the bed. She looks fascinated, morbidly intrigued by what she sees. She looks her slowly up and down, and then ever so carefully reaches out and takes the Duchess’s hand.

 

On the bedside table, a battered bible has been left out. It’s one I’ve seen a thousand times before—not a Gideon’s bible that most hospital bedside tables come equipped with, but the Duchess’s own bible; the same one she’s had for years. The leather cover is peeling and curled under at the corners, and the gold print on the front has all but worn away. Lacey sees it too and absently lifts the cover. A small rectangle of paper flutters out and drifts to the floor, slipping beneath the bed. I duck down to retrieve it, and as soon as my eyes catch on the image on its front, my hand fights to form a fist. It’s not paper, but a photograph. A fucking photograph of the Duchess and another woman I would recognize absolutely anywhere.

 

It’s a picture of her and my mother.

 

They’re grinning, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, staring straight into the camera. They look so young and so carefree, like they haven’t got a fucking problem in the world. This is an early picture of my mother, back before she died her hair to the dark color I always remember. She can’t be much more than nineteen. I had no idea she knew the Duchess. I had no idea she was even faintly connected to any of these people. Fucking hell. My mind is suddenly racing a million miles an hour.

 

“What is it?” Lacey asks, holding out her hand. I swallow, my tongue feeling far too thick in my mouth. I stare at the image hard, committing it to memory, and then I pass it over to Lacey.

 

“It’s nothing; just a picture. Put it back. Come on, we have to find Sloane.” I walk out of the room feeling sick to the bottom of my stomach. How well did the Duchess know my mother? And how the fuck did she manage to lie to me all those years?

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

My phone rings as we’re waiting for the elevator up to the third floor. On the other end of the line, Michael’s hushed voice sounds far too loud in the quiet of the abandoned hallway. “No sign of Charlie. And Sloane’s not down here,” he tells me. “Some nurse said she was paged to the Chief of Medicine’s office about twenty minutes ago. You should go up there.”

 

“Already headed in that direction.”

 

“Perfect. We’ll head there, too?”

 

“Yeah. Hurry.”

 

I hang up just as the elevator arrives. Lacey and I ride it up two floors and exit just as a woman in a dark pantsuit storms passed, talking on her phone. She doesn’t notice me and Lace, but I sure as hell notice her. The woman has FBI written all over her. Even Lacey can smell it on her.

 

“She’s probably someone we need to avoid?” she asks, shrinking back into the elevator.

 

“Someone you need to avoid,” I tell her. “Go and find Sloane. I’ll be right there, I promise.” Lace bounces on the balls of her feet, shaking her head.

 

“No, come on. Let’s just get Sloane and go, Zeth. Please!”

 

I place my hands on her shoulders, hunkering down to look her in the eyes. “I won’t be long. And I’m not gonna hurt her. It’s okay. Go. And. Find. Sloane.” I feel like I’m giving a command to Lassie, unsure whether she entirely understands what I’m telling her to do, but Lace gives me a slight nod of her head and shuttles out of the elevator just as the doors are about to close. She turns right…and I turn left, following after that FBI agent.

 

She hasn’t gotten far. I halt at the first bend in the corridor, peering around the corner to scout her location. She’s a mere three feet away, smashing her index finger into the buttons of a coffee vending machine, still on her phone. Her voice rises as she talks to someone, who clearly isn’t as smart as she would like them to be.

 

“I don’t care how long it takes, Jarvis, just do it! We can only legitimately keep her for twenty-four hours, and I want everything tapped. Her cell phone; her house; her car. Everything. That means you have an hour to find Judge Thomas and get him to sign off on it. This woman’s got no record. No priors. She’s a fucking doctor, for crying out loud. He won’t want to green-light a full observation, but it’s your job to convince him, okay?” She slaps her palm against the coffee machine, hissing under her breath. I’m pretty sure in those few sentences I’ve heard enough. She’s talking about Sloane; she has to be. If they’re planning on tapping her place, then there’s no two ways about it. Charlie or no Charlie, I have to get Sloane the hell out of here.

 

The woman hangs up her phone, and I get the briefest of glances at her name badge as she slips her cell into her pocket. I’m nowhere near close enough to read the name printed on the front, but I’m sure as hell close enough to catch the big DEA badge. What the fuck? What the hell are the DEA doing here? I was not expecting that. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that this chick’s not with the feds, but I’m not hanging around to find out. I’m turning, about to go locate Sloane, when I hear something that stops me in my tracks.

 

“Denise, there you are. I’ve got the—man, what the hell are you doing? Here, get out of the way.” I chance another quick glimpse around the corner and a second agent has appeared—dark suit; shiny Italian leather shoes; greased-back hair. He looks like the government version of a motherfucking Ken doll. He fiddles with the vending machine, and then it chunks and starts vending the coffee. This Denise woman scratches her head, blowing out a deep breath.

 

Denise. Denise was the name of Rick’s DEA handler. Agent Denise Lowell. A coincidence? A mind-blowingly huge, no-fucking-way, off-the-charts level of a coincidence? Yeah, I don’t believe in those. This has to be the same woman. It feels like a pretty big fucking jigsaw puzzle piece has just fallen into place, but I still can’t figure out what the whole picture is. I shake my head, growling under my breath.

 

“Thanks,” the woman says.

 

“No problem.” The guy hands her the little plastic cup and then leans against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re letting this get to you, y’know?” he says.

 

“So would you if you’d been working on the case for this long. I’m so fucking close I can taste it, and this woman is the key to shutting this thing down for good.”

 

The male agent shakes his head, smiling softly. “Babe, it’s all good. You’ve done as much as you can. This is a done deal.” He shoves away from the wall and plants a kiss on the top of her head.

 

So Agent Denise Lowell is fucking her workmate. And she’s been working on this case for a long time? That pretty much confirms my suspicions—she has to be the same woman that bribed Rick into feeding information to the Wreckers. But what the hell does she want with Sloane?

 

I’m not gonna stick around to ask personally. I make my way as silently as I can back down the corridor. Three turns later and I figure it’s safe to run. I’m about to get moving when I turn another corner and walk straight into the man I’ve been trying to avoid since I broke into St. Peter’s.

 

The grey-haired devil breaks into a glorious smile. “Ah! Zeth Mayfair! As I live and fuckin’ breathe.”