Chapter 4 4

Alya felt herself being lifted off the ground. The world was a spinning blur of white lights and sterile walls.

Archer carried her through the back doors of the clinic and practically threw her onto the leather examination table in the private suite.

The door swung open. Dr. Callum Jenkins walked in, wearing a crisp white coat. He took one look at Archer's murderous expression and raised an eyebrow.

Callum snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He grabbed a gauze pad soaked in medical alcohol and pressed it to the cut on Alya's forehead.

Alya flinched, a sharp hiss escaping her lips.

Archer stood leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Do a full workup," Archer commanded, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Check her heart. Run her blood."

Alya's eyes snapped open. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"No!" Alya pushed herself up on her elbows. "It's just a scratch. I don't need a blood test."

Archer ignored her completely. He looked at Callum and gave a sharp nod.

Callum pulled a silver stethoscope from his neck and stepped closer to the table.

Alya's mind raced. If he listened to her chest, he would hear the massive, irreparable damage to her heart valves.

Callum pressed the cold metal disc against her chest, right over her heart.

Two seconds passed. Callum's hand froze.

His brow furrowed deeply. He moved the stethoscope slightly to the left, listening closer. He heard the chaotic, struggling rhythm. The severe murmur.

Callum pulled the earpieces out and looked down at Alya, his eyes full of clinical suspicion.

Before Callum could speak, Alya looked him dead in the eye.

"Viral myocarditis," Alya lied, her voice steady and loud. "I contracted it during a reporting embed in Syria three years ago. It left a slight arrhythmia."

She threw out the medical jargon like a shield, daring the doctor to question a war correspondent.

Callum looked skeptical. He turned his head toward Archer. "I should hook her up to the EKG monitor to be safe. That rhythm is..."

Alya gripped the edge of the paper-lined table. Her palms were slick with cold sweat.

Suddenly, a heavy vibration buzzed in the room.

Archer reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted black phone. He glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened.

It was the secure line from the Pentagon.

Archer's gaze flickered from Alya's defiant face to Callum's concerned one. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, a silent message passing between the two men that he wasn't buying a word of her story. But the call couldn't wait. "I have to take this. Hook her up. Don't let her leave."

Archer turned on his heel and walked out into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

The moment the latch clicked, Alya sat up. The feigned weakness vanished from her eyes, replaced by a predatory sharpness.

She looked at Callum.

"If you tell him the truth about my heart," Alya said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "I will publish the import manifests showing how this clinic smuggles unapproved anesthetics from Switzerland."

Callum froze, his hand hovering over the EKG machine.

He was a veteran of the D.C. elite, used to handling scandals, but the absolute certainty in Alya's eyes terrified him. She wasn't bluffing.

Callum slowly raised both his hands in the air, stepping back from the machine.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. Archer walked back in, bringing a wave of cold air with him.

"Well?" Archer demanded.

Callum cleared his throat. He didn't look at Alya. "She has a mild concussion. Extreme fatigue. The arrhythmia is consistent with her old viral infection. I'll prescribe some standard painkillers."

Archer's eyes narrowed. He looked back and forth between the two of them, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.

But he had no proof.

"Put your coat on," Archer ordered Alya.

An hour later, the black Escalade idled outside a modest apartment building in the Northwest quadrant.

Alya shoved her door open. She didn't look back. She didn't say goodbye. She walked straight into the freezing rain.

Inside the lobby, Ginger Battle was pacing the floor, chewing on her thumbnail.

When Ginger saw Alya walk through the glass doors with a bandage on her head, she gasped and ran forward, grabbing Alya's arm.

Ginger looked through the glass. She saw the terrifying silhouette of the Escalade, and the dark, imposing profile of the man in the back seat.

The lobby doors slid open. Marcus walked in.

He didn't look at Alya. He walked straight up to Ginger and handed her a thick, matte black business card with a gold-embossed crest.

"If she exhibits any medical anomalies, you call this number," Marcus stated, his voice devoid of emotion.

He turned and walked back into the rain.

Ginger stood frozen, staring at the card that represented the apex of Washington's dark power, her mouth hanging open.