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She didn’t make it.

Red Sox’s buddy, the beautiful blond, moved so fast she couldn’t track him. One moment he was just inside the door; the next he’d grabbed her from behind and popped her feet off the floor. As she started to holler, he clamped his hand over her mouth and subdued her as easily as if she were a child throwing a tantrum.

Meanwhile, Red Sox systematically stripped the patient of everything: the intubation, the IV, the catheter, the cardiac wires, the oxygen monitor.

Jane went ballistic. As the machines’ alarms started going off, she hauled back and kicked her captor in the shin with her heel. The blond behemoth grunted then squeezed her rib cage until she got so busy trying to breathe she couldn’t soccer-ball him anymore.

At least the alarms would—

The shrill beeping fell silent even though no one touched the machines. And she had the horrible sense that nobody was coming from down the hall.

Jane fought harder, until she strained so hard her eyes watered.

“Easy,” the blond said in her ear. “We’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Just relax.”

Yeah, the hell she would. They were going to kill her patient—

The patient took a deep breath on his own. And another. And another. Then those eerie diamond eyes shifted over to her, and she stilled as if he’d willed her to do so.

There was a moment of silence. And then in a rough voice, the man whose life she saved spoke four words that changed everything…changed her life, changed her destiny:

“She. Comes. With. Me.”

Standing inside the nursing station, Phury did a quick hack job on the hospital’s IT system. He wasn’t as smooth or flashy with the keyboard as V was, but he was good enough. He located the records under the name Michael Klosnick and contaminated the findings and notes pertaining to Vishous’s treatment with random scripting: All the test results, the scans, the X-rays, the digital photographs, the scheduling, the postop notes, it all became unreadable. Then he entered a brief notation that Klosnick was indigent and had checked out AMA.

God he loved consolidated, computerized medical records. What a snap.

He’d also cleaned up the memories of most if not all of the OR staff. On the way up here he’d swung by the operating suite and had a little tête-à-tête with the nurses on duty. He’d lucked out. The shift hadn’t changed, so the folks who had been in with V were all present and he’d scrubbed them. None of those nurses would have distinct recollections of what they’d seen when the brother had been operated on.

It wasn’t a perfect erase job, of course. There were people he hadn’t gotten to and maybe some ancillary records that had been printed out. But that wasn’t his problem. Whatever confusion occurred in the wake of V’s disappearance would be absorbed into the frantic workings of a tremendously busy urban hospital. Sure, there might be a review or two of patient care, but they wouldn’t be able to find V by then, and that was all that mattered.

When Phury was finished with the computer, he jogged down the SICU floor. As he went, he fritzed out the security cameras that were embedded at regular intervals in the ceiling so all they’d show was fuzz.

Just as he came up to the room six, the door opened. Vishous was death warmed over in Butch’s arms, the brother pale and shaky and in pain, his head tucked into the cop’s neck. But he was breathing and his eyes were open.

“Let me take him,” Phury said, thinking Butch looked almost as bad.

“I’ve got him. You deal with our management issue and ride herd on the security cameras.”

“What management issue?”

“Wait for it,” Butch muttered as he headed for a fire door at the far end of the hall.

A split second later, Phury got a load of the problem: Rhage walked out into the hall with a rip-shit human female in a choke hold. She was fighting him tooth and nail, the muffled yelling suggesting she had a vocabulary like a trucker.

“You gotta knock her cold, my brother,” Rhage said, then grunted. “I don’t want