Chapter 3 - THE VOICE ON THE LINE“He’s here,” I whispered, pressing my back against the freezing brick wall of the alley, tears of pure adrenaline stinging my eyes. “Detective Reed sent someone. They cornered me in the hospital supply room. They know about the card, Grant. They know I saved you.”
Silence stretched on the other end of the line for a terrifying moment. I could hear the faint hum of an engine in the background—deep, throaty, powerful.
“Are you hurt?” Grant’s voice wasn't panicked. It was terrifyingly calm, carrying a chilling authority that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
“No. I got away. But I’m trapped in the alley behind St. Jude’s. He’s looking for me right now—I can hear him kicking over trash cans near the loading dock.”
“Stay where you are,” Grant commanded. “Do not move an inch. Look toward the main street.”
“What? Why?”
“Just look, Emily.”
I peered cautiously around the corner of the brick dumpster enclosure, squinting through the swirling snow toward the brightly lit intersection bordering the hospital parking lot.
A sleek, matte-black SUV idled at the curb. As I watched, the passenger side door swung open. A man in a tailored black overcoat stepped out, holding a heavy black umbrella. He didn’t look like a thug. He looked like an executioner.
Before I could blink twice, another figure emerged from the shadows of the alley entrance behind me.
It was the fake orderly. He had found me.
He rounded the corner, a sadistic grin stretching across his face as his eyes locked onto mine. “Found you, little nurse—”
He never finished the sentence.
A heavy, dark-tinted sedan—the very same black SUV that had been parked outside my apartment building for days—cruised silently down the alleyway, its headlights off. It didn’t brake. It didn't slow down.
Thud.
The impact was muffled, heavy, and sickening. The fake orderly was swept off his feet, flying across the hood of the car before hitting the asphalt with a devastating thud ten feet away.
The SUV came to a smooth, elegant stop right beside me.
The rear window rolled down with a soft mechanical hum. Inside, illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard lights, sat Grant Mercer. He looked entirely recovered, wearing a sharp, charcoal three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt buttoned at the collar, completely erasing any trace of the dying, bleeding man who had collapsed on my kitchen floor just days ago.
Except for the slight, guarded way he favored his right side.
“Get in, Emily,” Grant said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that brooked no argument.
The rear door clicked open. The freezing wind bit at my face. Behind me, the fallen thug groaned weakly on the icy ground.
May you like
I looked at the open door of the mafia boss's car. I looked back down the dark alley.
I realized then that my old life as a quiet, ordinary ER nurse was officially over. I stepped off the curb and slid into the leather interior of the vehicle, pulling the heavy door shut behind me.
