Chapter 3

The tires of the Escalade screeched against the concrete as Adelia whipped the heavy vehicle into a hidden, VIP underground parking garage in Midtown Manhattan.

She needed to swap the SUV for one of her clinic's discreet medical transport vans to bypass the media vultures swarming Mount Sinai.

She slammed the gear shift into park and pushed her door open.

The moment her boots hit the concrete, she froze.

A thick, metallic scent hit the back of her throat. Blood. Fresh and a lot of it.

Her spine stiffened. The elite surgeon inside her instantly took over, her eyes darting through the dim, yellow-lit expanse of the garage.

In the backseat, Leo rolled down his window. He pointed a small, steady finger toward a massive concrete support pillar fifty feet away.

Adelia followed his gaze. A thick, dark smear of blood dragged across the gray floor, disappearing behind the pillar.

She reached into the driver's side door compartment and pulled out a heavy-duty tactical flashlight. She kept her steps completely silent as she approached the pillar.

She flicked the beam on.

The harsh white light illuminated a massive man slumped in a pool of his own blood. His custom-tailored suit was shredded. Deep, jagged puncture wounds-gunshots-tore through his abdomen and right thigh.

Adelia crouched instantly. She pressed two fingers against the side of his neck. His skin was clammy, his pulse a rapid, thready flutter against her fingertips. He was bleeding out fast.

The man let out a low, guttural groan. The deep vibration of his voice sent a bizarre, violent shiver down Adelia's spine.

She leaned closer to assess his pupils, and the scent hit her.

Sharp cedar. Dark tobacco. Copper blood.

Her entire body went rigid. That smell. She knew that smell. Six years ago. A dark hotel room. Rough hands. A whispered promise.

"Mommy!"

Luna had slipped out of the car. She ran over, dropping to her knees next to the blood soaked man. She gasped, her little hands hovering over him. "Mommy, save the handsome uncle! Please!"

Adelia frowned, her mind calculating the risks. "Luna, get back in the car. These are gunshot wounds. If we get involved, we trigger a mandatory police report."

She pulled out her phone, ready to dial 911 anonymously.

Suddenly, the dying man lunged.

A massive, blood-slicked hand shot out and clamped around Adelia's wrist like a steel vice. The sheer force of his grip crushed her bones together.

The man forced his eyes open. They were wild and hazy with pain. "No... ER," he ground out, his jaw tight, muscles bulging under his skin. "Save me... I'll give you... anything."

Adelia tried to yank her arm back, but his strength was terrifying for a man minutes away from death.

As she leaned in to break his grip, a scent washed over her.

Sharp cedar. Dark tobacco. Copper blood.

Adelia's breath caught in her throat. Her lungs stopped working. The smell violently violently ripped open a locked door in her brain, dragging her back to a pitch-black hotel room six years ago.

"Mom," Leo's calm voice broke her paralysis. He was standing behind her, adjusting his glasses. "He's hit the femoral artery. He won't survive the ambulance ride."

Luna had tears in her eyes. She grabbed the man's bloody sleeve, refusing to let go.

Adelia stared at her daughter's desperate face, then down at the man whose scent was making her stomach physically churn. She gritted her teeth.

"Fine."

She ripped open her trauma bag. She grabbed a massive wad of gauze and shoved it brutally into the wound on his thigh, applying crushing pressure. The man grunted, his head falling back against the concrete.

She dragged him herself – every dead pound of his massive frame – across the concrete floor. Her muscles screamed. Her surgical gloves were slick with his blood. She heaved his torso into the back of the Escalade, then went back for his legs.

By the time she slammed the trunk shut, she was drenched in sweat and blood. She peeled off the gloves, threw them into a biohazard bag, and sprinted to the driver's seat.

She fired up the engine, spinning the steering wheel violently. The SUV shot out of the underground garage.

From the backseat, Luna's small voice piped up: "Mommy, you're bleeding."

"It's not mine, baby. Buckle up."

This is insane, she thought as she weaved through traffic. I have a dying grandmother, two children in the back, and now a gunshot victim with unknown enemies. But if I had left him there, the police would have shut down the garage. I'd still be stuck. This is the lesser evil.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. The man was unconscious, his breathing shallow. She had maybe fifteen minutes before he crashed again.

Fifteen minutes to get him to my OR, stabilize him, and get to Mount Sinai.

She pressed the gas harder.

The SUV tore through the streets toward her heavily fortified private clinic on the Upper East Side.