“Where’s my coffee?” Hannah asks as I finish the last sip of my drink and toss the empty container into the trashcan.
“Back at the coffee shop,” I say and point behind me toward the elevator doors.
Hannah chuckles and nudges my shoulder. “Next time, buy me one. I’ll pay you back.”
“Right. Sorry, I didn’t even think about it.” I hurry down the hallway to change into my scrubs.
She follows behind me, already dressed but seeming to want the company or to talk. I can’t tell which. It’s not like we don’t have a massive case load, but Hannah is the social butterfly around here and an opportunity to strike up a conversation, she’ll take.
“You seem distracted. Is everything okay?” Hannah asks.
I exhale a heavy sigh. What can I share with Hannah? Anything I tell her could easily be repeated, and letting her know I’m FBI is absolutely out of the question.
“I started seeing this guy,” I say. I open my locker and pull out my scrubs.
She folds her arms across her chest, and her eyes widen. “Go on.” She wants details.
I dress as quickly as possible. The faster I’m done, the less story I have to tell.
“My car broke down, the short version, he let me stay over, and now we’re… well, I don’t know what we are, but we slept together.”
“Is that the guy who showed up downstairs yesterday after work?”
“No, that’s my ex-boyfriend. Another disaster I’m dealing with around here,” I say. I finish getting dressed and slip on my shoes.
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for the ex. If I see him, I won’t let him anywhere near you.” Hannah holds up her arms like she’s going into a boxing ring to protect me.
I quirk a grin. “Thanks.” Grabbing my badge, I secure it onto my scrubs.
“You have a new patient in 218,” Hannah says. Her complexion is ghastly. There’s something behind her eyes. Is it fear? “I’m sorry.” Her words are barely above a whisper, but I hear them as she dashes down the opposite end of the hallway.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter under my breath.
Why is she apologizing?
As I approach the nurses’ station, room 218 is just across the hall. I get a nice look at the burly gentleman in his suave suit and hair with a little too much gel, which looks a bit crunchy.
He’s standing guard outside of 218.
His arms are folded across his chest, his eyes tight as his gaze follows me as I stalk past the room.
Why is there a bodyguard? The man’s not Russian and certainly not one of Mikhail’s, but I recognize him.
He’s Colombian and with the Sanchez Cartel, Enrique Sanchez.
Luckily, we haven’t crossed paths before. I hurry past the guard and saunter around the nurses’ station behind the desk to review the chart and information on our new patient, Victor Hernandez, in the computer system.
Carlo recently underwent surgery after taking four bullet wounds to the chest.
Ouch.
Who shot him?
Is that why he has a bodyguard stationed outside of his room? It’s not an officer or anyone with the concierge’s security team monitoring the patient.
I glance up inconspicuously at the gentleman standing guard. He’s one of the dozens of men being investigated for money laundering and drug trafficking.
I don’t recognize the patient’s name, which means it’s not their leader, Carlos Sanchez, or any of their higher-ups.
It’s no secret that the cartel has expanded throughout the city and has been hostile to the bratva.
Did the bratva do this? Put this man in our care with four bullet wounds in the chest. It’s any wonder he’s still alive.
I head toward the patient’s room, but Enrique stops me before I can step foot inside.
“I need to check on the patient,” I say, pointing at the door. “Are you going to let me through, or do I need to call security and have you removed?”
Enrique steps aside and lets me through before blocking the entrance to the door again.
It’s no wonder Hannah was apologetic about me having to deal with the cartel. Did she know it’s the cartel, or was she just worried because the guy standing outside the hospital room entrance looks intimidating?
Victor is asleep when I enter his room. I tap the keyboard on the workstation in his room and open his electronic medical records to mark his vitals. I go through the motions, blood pressure, pulsometer, temperature, and he opens his eyes.
They’re glassy and red. “I’ll be done soon,” I say. “Can I get you anything?”
His gaze moves down on my scrubs. “Where’s the short skirt?” he asks. “I thought nurses wear those sexy little uniforms to make the patients feel better.”
If I wasn’t undercover, I’d slug the bastard. “This is my uniform,” I seethe. I don’t even fake a smile.
His hand reaches out, and I move out of his reach before he can cop a feel. I jot down his vitals and lock the workstation before leaving the room.
The muscle outside the door steps aside.