“I, uh… There were some men who came,” she stammers. “They were trying to get into her room. They had guns, sir, and I didn’t know what to—”
“They pushed past me and got into her room but…”
“But what?” I growl. “But what?”
She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. “When they walked in… she was gone, sir. She had run.”
“She pushed open the window, sir, the one that leads to the maintenance balcony.”
“Where were my guards?” I demand. “The ones I left in her room?”
“And then they came back with more men, sir.”
She’s a blubbering mess now. It’s one thing to run a private clinic that sometimes caters to the city’s nastier elements. It’s another thing to have murderous troops storming down your hallways and hunting your patients.
But I don’t have time to cater to her emotional breakdo
