• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Fuck.

On the chessboard of his godforsaken existence, the pieces were lined up, the play preordained. Man, so many times in life you didn’t get to pick your path because the way you went was decided for you.

Free will was such bullshit.

Forget his mother and her drama—he needed to become the Primale for the Brotherhood. He owed the legacy he served.

After wiping the blade on his leathers, he resheathed the weapon handle down, struggled to his feet, and patted down his jacket. Shit…his phone. Where was his phone? Back at the penthouse. He must have left it there after he talked to Wrath—

A shot rang out.

A bullet hit him right between his pecs.

The impact popped him off his heels and sent him on a slow-mo fall through thin air. As he went back flat on the ground, he just lay there as a crushing pressure made his heart jump and his brain fog out. All he could do was gasp, little quick breaths skipping up and down the corridor of his throat.

With his last bit of strength, he lifted his head and looked down his body. A gunshot. Blood on his shirt. The screaming pain in his chest. The nightmare realized.

Before he could panic, blackness came and swallowed him whole…a meal to be digested in an acid bath of agony.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Whitcomb?”

Dr. Jane Whitcomb looked up from the patient chart she was signing and winced. Manuel Manello, M.D., chief of surgery at St. Francis Medical Center, was coming down the hall at her like a bull. And she knew why.

This was going to get ugly.

Jane scribbled her sig at the bottom of the drug order, handed the chart back to the nurse, and watched as the woman took off at a dead run. Good defensive maneuver, and not uncommon around here. When the chief got like this, folks took cover…which was the logical thing to do when a bomb was about to go off and you had half a brain.

Jane faced him. “So you’ve heard.”

“In here. Now.” He punched open the door to the surgeons’ lounge.

As she went in with him, Priest and Dubois, two of St. Francis’s best GI knives, took one look at the chief, scrapped their vending-machine cuisine, and beat feet out of the room. In their wake, the door eased shut without even a whisper of air. Like it didn’t want to catch Manello’s attention, either.

“When were you going to tell me, Whitcomb? Or did you think Columbia was on a different planet and I wasn’t going to find out?”

Jane crossed her arms over her chest. She was a tall woman, but Manello topped her by a couple of inches, and he was built like the professional athletes he operated on: big shoulders, big chest, big hands. At forty-five, he was in prime physical condition and one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country.

As well as a scary SOB when he got mad.

Good thing she was comfortable in tense situations. “I know you have contacts there, but I thought they’d be discreet enough to wait until I decided whether I wanted the job—”

“Of course you want it or you wouldn’t waste time going down there. Is it money?”

“Okay, first, you don’t interrupt me. And second, you’re going to lower your voice.” As Manello dragged a hand through his thick dark hair and took a deep breath, she felt bad. “Look, I should have told you. It must have been embarrassing to get blindsided like that.”

He shook his head. “Not my favorite thing, getting a call from Manhattan that one of my best surgeons is interviewing at another hospital with my mentor.”

“Was it Falcheck who told you?”

“No, one of his underlings.”

“I’m sorry, Manny. I just don’t know how it’s going to go, and I didn’t want to jump the gun.”

“Why are you thinking about leaving the department?”

“You know I want more than what I can have here. You’re going to be chief until you’re sixty-five, unless you decide to leave. Down at Columbia, Falcheck is fifty-eight. I’ve got a better chance of becoming head of the department there.”

“I already made you chief of the Trauma Division.”

“And I deserve it.”

His