Chapter 2 - The Man Everyone Wants Dead
1218 Words
The rain hadn't stopped.
It streaked down the hospital windows in silver rivers, turning the city lights beyond them into blurred smudges of gold and white.
Emma rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock.
11:47 p.m.
She should have gone home two hours ago.
Instead she was standing outside Room 814 staring at two armed federal agents.
Emphasis on armed.
Inside a hospital.
That wasn't normal, no matter how many times she reminded herself that a billionaire with a gunshot wound was lying on the other side of the door.
One of the agents shifted.
"You need something, Doctor?"
"I'm checking on my patient."
His expression remained blank.
"As you were ten minutes ago."
Emma sighed.
"And fifteen minutes before that."
"You seem to be keeping track."
"We're trained observers."
She almost rolled her eyes but thought otherwise.
The agent actually looked pleased with himself.
After a moment, he stepped aside.
Emma pushed open the door.
The room was dimly lit.
Only a bedside lamp illuminated the space.
Nathaniel sat upright against the pillows.
A tablet rested on his lap.
The television was muted.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside him.
Emma stopped.
"You shouldn't be drinking coffee."
Without looking up, he said, "You say that every time."
"I've only said it twice."
"Feels like more."
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Nathaniel finally looked up.
For a second neither of them spoke.
He looked better.
Color had returned to his face.
The pain was still there, though.
She could see it around his eyes.
Around the tension in his jaw.
Like he was constantly bracing for impact.
"How's the shoulder?" she asked.
"Attached."
Emma moved closer.
"That's not what I asked."
"It hurts."
"Thank you."
"You prefer honesty?"
"Generally."
Nathaniel studied her.
His gaze lingered for a fraction longer than necessary.
Not inappropriate.
Just curious.
As though still trying to figure her out.
Emma checked his chart.
Vitals stable.
Blood pressure improving.
No fever.
Everything looked good.
She should have been relieved.
Instead she found herself oddly unsettled.
The room felt too quiet.
Too isolated.
Too heavily guarded.
Like the center of a storm.
Nathaniel broke the silence.
"Do they always check on patients this often?"
"No."
"So I'm special."
"You're difficult."
That earned the smallest hint of amusement.
Not a smile.
But close.
Emma nearly missed it.
Nearly.
"You should rest."
"I'm not tired."
"That's a lie."
He looked away.
The movement was subtle.
But it told her enough.
The man hadn't been sleeping.
Not properly.
Not for a while.
"Nightmares?" she asked.
His head snapped toward her.
The reaction was immediate.
Instinctive.
A wall slamming into place.
Emma immediately regretted the question.
Not because it was inappropriate.
Because she'd accidentally touched something real.
Something vulnerable.
Nathaniel's expression hardened.
"I don't have nightmares."
"Okay."
"You don't believe me."
"No."
He looked almost offended for a moment.
Then he laughed once.
A short sound.
Rough from disuse.
"You don't seem intimidated by me."
Emma blinked.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
She glanced around the room.
"The armed guards help."
That nearly produced another smile.
Nearly.
Nathaniel leaned back against the pillows.
The movement made him wince.
Emma noticed immediately.
"You need pain medication."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're stubborn."
"I'm both."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
A strange quiet settled between them.
Comfortable.
Unexpectedly so.
Outside, thunder rumbled across the city.
Nathaniel looked toward the window.
His face became unreadable again.
The softness vanished.
The tension returned.
Emma followed his gaze.
"What are you looking at?"
"The weather."
"Liar."
His eyes shifted back to hers.
"You call everyone a liar?"
"Only the people who keep lying to me."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Then he surprised her.
"I used to like storms."
Emma waited.
He wasn't the type to volunteer information.
Every word seemed expensive.
Painfully earned.
"As a kid," he continued quietly, "I'd sit by an open window during thunderstorms."
Emma pulled a chair closer.
Not because she intended to stay.
Because suddenly she wanted to hear the rest.
Nathaniel stared out the window.
"My mother hated it."
A faint smile appeared.
The first genuine one she'd seen.
Small.
Brief.
Transforming.
"She'd complain that I was getting the house wet, but I’ll always assure her that I’ll clean up after the storm.”
Emma smiled.
"And did you?"
"No."
"Rebellious child."
"I thought I was fearless; I thought thunderstorms spoke to me."
"What changed?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Nathaniel's smile disappeared.
Just like that.
The room grew colder.
Emma immediately wished she could take the words back.
Nathaniel looked away.
A long silence followed.
Then—
"Life."
The single word landed heavily between them.
Emma didn't push.
She knew grief when she heard it.
Loss.
Regret.
Pain.
All compressed into one simple answer.
Life.
The monitor beside the bed continued its steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Nathaniel's gaze drifted toward the door.
Toward the armed guards outside.
Toward whatever invisible threat followed him everywhere.
Emma suddenly remembered what the federal agent had said earlier.
Someone is trying to kill him.
Not was.
Is.
Present tense.
Ongoing.
Active.
The realization sent a chill down her spine.
Nathaniel noticed.
"You should go home."
She frowned.
"What?"
"It's late."
"I know."
"You look exhausted."
Emma laughed softly.
"Coming from the man who hasn't slept."
Nathaniel's gaze held hers.
Something unspoken but familiar passed between them.
Recognition.
Maybe.
Two exhausted people pretending they were fine.
Then his expression shifted.
His attention moved to the hallway.
The change was instant.
Every muscle tightened.
His eyes sharpened.
Predatory.
Alert.
Emma turned.
The door was still closed.
Nothing had happened.
At least nothing she could see.
Yet Nathaniel was suddenly completely still.
Listening.
Waiting.
A knot formed in her stomach.
"What is it?"
He didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
Then came the sound.
Footsteps.
Running.
Fast.
Several pairs.
The agents outside immediately shouted.
A door slammed somewhere down the hall.
Emma's pulse spiked.
Nathaniel was already swinging his legs off the bed.
"What are you doing?" she hissed.
He ignored her.
Another shout echoed through the corridor.
Then a radio crackled.
Someone cursed.
The room's tension exploded.
Every instinct in Nathaniel's body seemed to ignite at once.
Emma had never seen anything like it.
Not fear.
Preparation.
The reaction of a man who had learned the hard way that danger never announced itself politely.
The door suddenly flew open.
One of the agents rushed inside.
His face was grim.
"Nobody leaves this room."
Emma's stomach dropped.
"What happened?"
The agent looked toward Nathaniel.
Then back at her.
"Someone tried to enter the floor using a stolen hospital ID."
The room fell silent.
Nathaniel's face didn't change.
Not even slightly.
As if he'd expected this.
As if this was normal.
Which somehow terrified Emma more than the news itself.
The agent continued.
"We caught him before he got here."
Before he got here.
Emma slowly turned toward Nathaniel.
And for the first time she truly understood something.
The guards.
The secrecy.
The fear hidden behind his eyes.
The scars.
The gunshot wound.
This wasn't a temporary problem.
This wasn't some isolated incident.
Someone wasn't trying to kill Nathaniel Reed.
Someone was hunting him.
And judging by the look in his eyes—
they weren't going to stop.
- Writer
