Chapter 130

**Calum POV**

The random guard and I follow after Torin, approaching the glass doors of the hospital, their weapons slung low but ready. The automatic doors whir open, a sterile gust of air escaping from inside. The faint scent of antiseptic greets us as we step in, boots echoing on the pristine tile floors. The interior is fairly busy, a bustle of nurses, family of patients, slits of silences save for the occasional flicker of fluorescent white lights overhead.
Torin snatches off his glasses and pockets it away. He assumes a facade as his face contorts and his chest starts heaving wildly as he rushes for the front desk. He shoulders pass the short queue. A woman stumbles out of the way and her man reaches for Torin—but his guard locks his arm to not only restrain but shove him away. And that guy doesn’t even try to look back at him before he backs away grudgingly, and so does everyone else.
“Please tell me you speak English.”
The secretary nods her head uneasily. “Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down. Those people—”
“I don’t give a fuck about,” he lashes out and pounds his palms on the surface of the desk—rattling everything atop. “My wife was in an incident—an ordeal—she was attacked. And I need to see her!” he demands with visceral anger rippling through her in a way that compels me to believe in its sincerity.
She lifts a diplomatic hand and nods again. “Okay, we’ve had a couple of Jane and Joe Doe cases just this morning. So what’s her full name so I can search for her in our database?And with an adequate description.”
“She’s a black woman,” he says bluntly. “I know you don’t have many of those back there.”
She looks away with wide eyes, aghast, as she types something into her terminal.
After a long while, she shakes her head slowly, eyes still tied to the screen. “I’m sorry, there’s no listed incidents from this morning about any… African-American women.”
Torin thumps his fist on her desk—the secretary flinches back with a startled gasp.
“I’ll find her myself. Tell me when I do, will I have to perform the damn surgery too?”
He moves away and storms toward the nearest corridor and the secretary springs to her feet.
“Wait, you can’t just—security!”
Torin accelerates and we follow in two, and it’s good that we kept our distance because a security officer impedes his path. And Torin’s academy-awarding performance continues as he rants to the officer. And then he moves his hand behind his back and starts throwing gang signs or something. Obviously with tactful meaning because the guard beside me observes with understanding and motions me to move on with him as we duck into another channel. Long corridors branching out in both directions, walls adorned with faded posters of healthcare advice.
He taps into his comms. “We're inside. Starting sweep.”
We move forward. And he frequently breaks away, checking the nearby rooms while I keep my eyes locked on the hallway ahead as he methodically clears each room. We pass nurses and doctors, every kind of hospital staff who are so harried and occupied, they don’t even take notice or question our aimless wandering.
He addresses me, saying, “The standard hospital has nine levels. You sure can’t narrow them down for us?”
I motion him to a vacant corridor as we find a comfortable corner. The guard watches out, head on a swivel as I take out the laptop, using my one forearm as a support. I do my thing and I infiltrate the hospital's network, which is as easy as a toddler pressing on the google tab. The guard isn’t watching me and has no clear sight of the screen. And that’s when I run through the surveillance feed and there’s just too many angles—corridors and rooms as I search for a clue—*Hadassah!* I found her. The exact level and ward. And she’s in a private room, sleeping in one of the beds with a nurse in the room who’s checking her vitals.
“Found her.”
I slap the lid close and I slide it back under.
We step deeper into the hospital. Shadows stretch across the sterile walls as the guard informs the external team of the potential sighting. Our footsteps quicken as we near the elevators, and I press the button for the fourth floor. There's a mechanical whine from deep within the building, the ancient lift groaning to life. It trembles before it rises, and the silence tightens.
In due course, the elevator doors ding open and I lead the way. Not knowing exactly what to expect, but they both led me here, knowing full well I’d be monitored with every movement. We enter the westward and a couple of doors down. I cast furtive glances before I open the door for him. He enters first and across from the entry, a nurse, with her back turned to us, arranges the small medical cabinet.
A few steps further, we step inside and we see Hadassah unconscious on the bed. The nurse with a mask on turns around, but those eyes are a cosmic pair I could never forget. The guard approaches warily and I move away readily.
“*Eafwan man 'ant*,” she exclaims in Arabic.
“English?” he says with his rimmed with revulsion.
“She in coma,” she says with a broken English accent. “You can’t be here.”
He lifts his shirt to expose the butt of his gun. “I was never here.”
She jumps back and jostles the cabinet with a soft thud as she raises her trembling hands. “Please, I have children.”
He jerks his chin to the exit behind him. “Say anything and it will be your children who suffer.”
She nods in a frenzy, crouching low as she scurries for the door, disappearing in the short passage. She opens the door and closes it with a mild bang, while she’s still in the room. Emilia whirls around and plucks off the mask before she draws a syringe from her baggy uniform pocket. With feline stealth, she encroaches the guard’s rear and kicks the back of his knee—he dips low enough for her to hook her arm around his throat so she can impale him with the needle, emptying the contents into his system.
Emilia backs away and watches as he whips around drunkenly to swing a sloppy punch. And when he goes for his piece, he crumbles to one knee before he drops flat on his side. Hadassah releases her hyena-like laugh and my eyes jump back to her. She flings off her covers and takes out her shoes and socks that were burrowed away in the closed compartment.
“How many hostiles are we looking at?” she asks, getting straight to it.
“Alot,” I say helplessly.
I move to sit next to her on the edge of the bed as she fastens her shoes.
Emilia settles on my other side and, with a subtle nudge of my shoulder with hers in a tiny yet imitate gesture of greeting—a small moment of inmost nearness. I fix the laptop on my lap and I open it up to exhibit the surveillance feeds and I specifically show them every entry point and exit covered by Torin’s men. Even though they’re dressed casually, their presence is unmistakable, towering above most people, rigid and menacing where they stand.
“So, how are we getting out of here?” I ask.
Emilia slants forward so she can connect her gaze with Hadassah, and they mirror the same mischievous look.
“We’re going to go right out the front door,” Hadassah starts.
Finishing the sentence, Emilia adds, “At least that’s what they’ll think.”