“No, no,” I reply, waving down her concern but check the wall clock. “We’ve had so many new people starting. The boss probably forgot to tell me. I have a lot of work on the open ward down on the third, so he’s probably doing me a favour. Let me go check anyway. Do you know where he is?”
“Probably gasbagging with Anna in six-forty. You know how she likes to natter.”
On the way to the room, I search for anything I can use as a weapon. Tucked in a crevice behind a fire exit, I remember seeing a discarded iron bar, probably left after the fire doors were upgraded. I also grab the utility knife from the cart and tuck that into my back pocket.
When I reach the ward, I lean the bar against the doorframe, then stand frozen, staring through the glass panel to assess the situation. Nurse Anna is slumped in her chair. Her head has lolled to one side. Sylvie has her eyes closed and appears peaceful. An athletic figure dressed as a porter stands on the other side of the bed. He removes air from a syringe of clear solution, holds the tube up to the light, and lets a squirt of liquid spring from the hypodermic needle.
Propped against the wheelchair outside the room, there’s an aluminium crutch. I grab the cuff end, twist the door handle and enter the room.
“What are you doing here?” I ask calmly, kicking a door wedge into place to prop the door open, with the iron bar within easy reach. “This is my shift.”
After glancing briefly at Sylvie, he gently places the syringe on the bed before looking up, smiling, and walking casually to my side of the room. I notice a hand move behind him to his waistband. A flash of silver slices the air before me. Automatically, I swing the crutch to block the attack and follow up with blows to his head and torso. The lightweight metal does no critical damage, but the surprise counterattack throws him off-balance and gives me a chance to drop the crutch, change weapons, and kick the door closed.
When we face each other again, I see the doubt morph into determination in his eyes—a predator who has underestimated his prey and now reassesses the fight. He gains his composure quickly and turns to confront me. From the efficient way he wields the knife between his waist and chest and close to his torso, I know he’s had training. When he lunges forward, I parry with the metal bar, and I watch his eyes widen. But the bar is heavy and not as easy to wield as a knife. When one of my blocks misses, the blade sinks into my upper arm.
Agony becomes a catalyst, and a red veil descends. Everything inside me crystallises with focus and clarity. My body is possessed by a killing demon. Every cell in my body craves this man’s death. My own safety is secondary.
What happens next is a blur of automated defensive actions and responses. Consciousness resurfaces when a frightened voice calls my name across the room.
“Ga-ga-Gabrielle,” stutters Sylvie, the name Gabriel pushed out and softened into something attractive and feminine.
I find myself on the floor with the man unconscious beneath me. One of my knees is on his neck, the other on his midsection, and I hold the knife in both fists above my head, ready to plunge the blade into his chest. His face is bloodied and lifeless, but I feel him still breathing.
“Stop.”
Bewilderment quickly turns to clarity, and I assess the man. Reasoning kicks in. I will need him alive to answer questions. Still working automatically, I pull the cable ties from my pocket and secure his hands and legs. While finishing up, I hear Sylvie say something like ‘courier’.
I stand up from the floor and notice her wide eyes flick to the CCTV camera. An alarm sounds from outside the room.
“Cou-rez,” she calls out hoarsely, her eyes pleading, as she releases the red emergency cord dangling from the ceiling.
“Run.”
Chapter Eighteen
Run
As I hurry to leave, I snatch up the attacker’s small red-and-black-checked backpack. I have no time to search the man’s body, but perhaps the bag contains items that might identify the attacker.
Outside Leblanc’s room, a bright scarlet light above the door flashes and emits a shrill alarm. Nobody is in the corridor. I can’t go back past the nurse’s station. And the other end of the ward is staffed at night. Security officers could approach from either direction at any moment. All fire exits have alarms fitted, and cameras are installed in the stairwells.
I need a strategy.
Fast.
Using the back of the utility knife, I break the glass of the fire alarm mounted on the wall. Instantly, deafening bells begin ringing, drowning out the security alarm. Even though I will becaught on camera, I push through the fire exit door and slam the door closed behind me. I descend the emergency stairs to the first stairwell, which I know is a blind spot. Working furiously but efficiently, I remove the porter garb, clean the knife wound as best I can, and use the utility knife to cut a strip off the polo shirt before tying the makeshift bandage tightly around my arm. Once I’ve changed into scrubs, I stuff everything into my larger rucksack. Sounds of movement come from above. Grateful to have listened to Mrs Bellacci, I fix the dark wig onto my blond crop before pulling up my medical mask and putting on glasses. Losing no time, I set both rucksacks over my shoulders and descend. A few flights down, I merge with a cluster of staff who burst through another exit door on their way to evacuate the building.
“A bloody false alarm. I’ll bet you money,” says a male nurse leading the charge. “Probably set off by some insomniac. And now the whole bloody ward will wake up, and I’ll have to rush around trying to reassure them and get them back to sleep.”
“Always better to be safe than sorry,” comes the female voice of someone behind him. “Where’s the meeting point again?”
“Medical staff car park. I hope the fire wardens get a move on. It’s bloody cold out there tonight.”
On my first day, one of the team took me through the procedures for a fire drill and showed me the spot in the hospital car park where everyone should congregate. Security staff will know exactly where the alarm was activated. That’s the first place they always check in case there’s a false alarm.
By then, I will be gone.
Adrenaline pumps through my body as I push through the door on the ground floor into the cold night air. Everyone muddles together in confusion in the car park, looking to the upper storeys for signs of flames, and nobody notices when I slipout of the side gate onto the main road. In the distance, I hear the wail of approaching sirens.