Chapter 8 8

Dawn woke up in the armchair. Her neck was stiff. Sunlight was streaming through the heavy curtains she had failed to close completely.

She looked at the bed.

It was empty.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. She jumped up.

"Jennings?"

A noise from the bathroom. The sound of retching.

She ran to the door. Jennings was on the floor, leaning over the toilet. He had dragged himself there on one good leg and sheer willpower. He was heaving, his back muscles bunching with the effort.

"You idiot," she scolded, dropping to her knees beside him. "You'll rip your stitches."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was pale, sweating profusely. "I hate... bedpans."

"You're stubborn," she said. She put her arm around his waist. "Up. On three."

She helped him back to the bed. He collapsed onto the pillows, breathing hard.

"Check the table," she said, pointing to the nightstand.

There was a glass of water and two white pills.

"Painkillers," she said. "Take them."

He looked at the pills. He didn't move.

"I didn't poison them," she said, rolling her eyes. "If I wanted to kill you, I would have just left you in the car."

"Paranoia keeps me alive," he muttered.

Dawn sighed. She picked up one of the pills, sniffed it, then broke it in half, examining the powder inside.

"It's Oxycodone, standard issue. If you're worried, we can wait for the excruciating pain to set in fully. Your call."

He watched her, a flicker of grudging respect in his eyes. He took the other one.

"Your phone," she said, pulling a cheap burner phone from the false bottom of her clutch. "I always carry a spare. Untraceable. Pre-paid."

He took the phone. He looked at it like it was an alien artifact. "A burner."

"Your phone has a tracker," she said. "Whoever ran you off the road is tracking it. I threw it in a dumpster behind a truck stop on the way here."

Jennings looked at her. "Who are you?"

"I told you. Dawn Hoffman."

"No," he shook his head. "Dawn Hoffman is a failed med student who organizes charity dinners and has panic attacks in elevators. You... you are something else."

"Maybe I just grew up," she said.

He turned the phone on. He dialed a number from memory. He spoke in rapid-fire, coded phrases, a clipped jargon of numbers and call signs. Dawn didn't understand the code, but she recognized the tone. Command. Anger.

He hung up.

"My security team is compromised," he said. "I can't go back to the city yet."

"I know," she said. "That's why you're staying here."

"For how long?"

"Until you can walk. Or until you can kill whoever tried to kill you."

He looked at the contact list on the burner phone. There was only one number saved.

Creditor.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"Me," Dawn said. "Just so you don't forget who you owe."