Patient Under Guard

Rain hammered against the emergency room windows hard enough to blur the Chicago skyline into a wash of gray lights. Dr. Emma Hart barely noticed. She pushed through the double doors leading into Trauma Room Three, her dark-blonde hair escaping the bun she'd secured twelve hours ago. Or maybe sixteen. She'd stopped counting. "Motor vehicle collision coming in," a nurse called. Emma nodded while signing off on a chart. "Any fatalities?" "Not this one." Small victories. The emergency department thrummed with its usual chaos—monitors beeping, stretchers rolling, voices overlapping. For Emma, it was almost comforting. Predictable. Broken bones could be fixed. Bleeding could be stopped. Pain could be treated. People, for the most part, made sense. Her pager vibrated again. Then again. A moment later, every phone at the nurses' station started ringing simultaneously. Emma frowned. That wasn't normal. Across the room, Charge Nurse Linda answered one of the phones. The color immediately drained from her face. "What?" The entire station fell silent. Linda listened. Then looked toward the emergency entrance. "Clear Trauma One. Right now!" Emma straightened. "What happened?" Linda lowered the receiver slowly. "Federal agents." The room erupted with questions. "Why?" "Who?" "What's going on?" Before Linda could answer, the emergency doors burst open. Three men in dark suits entered first. Not police. Not security. Federal. The way they moved made that obvious. Focused. Alert. Hands close to concealed weapons. One of them scanned the room. His gaze lingered on every doorway. Every window. Every person. As though danger might emerge from any corner. Emma's pulse quickened. Then the ambulance doors opened behind them. The stretcher rolled in. And suddenly every sound in the room seemed to disappear. She knew that face. Everyone did. Nathaniel Reed. Thirty-four. Technology billionaire. Magazine covers. Business journals. Television interviews. One of America's youngest self-made billionaires. At least six feet three. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. The kind of face people remembered after seeing it once. Except the man on the stretcher looked nothing like the polished entrepreneur she'd seen in photographs. Blood soaked the left side of his shirt. His skin was pale. A bruise darkened his jaw. Fresh cuts marked one cheekbone. And his eyes— Emma froze for half a second. His eyes were awake. Alert. Dangerously alert. Like a man who expected violence at any moment. One of the agents stepped forward. "We need your best trauma physician." "I'm right here," Emma said. The agent looked her over. Apparently deciding whether she was competent enough. "We have a gunshot wound." Emma immediately moved beside the stretcher. "What caliber?" "No idea." "When?" "Thirty minutes ago." "Blood loss?" "A lot." She pulled on gloves. "Trauma One. Now." The team moved. Nathaniel remained silent as they wheeled him into the room. Only once the doors closed behind them did Emma get a better look at him. His white shirt had been cut away. The bullet had entered near his shoulder. Not ideal. Not fatal. At least not yet. "Mr. Reed, I'm Dr. Hart." His gaze met hers. Cold. Measuring. Distrustful. As if he were evaluating a threat instead of a doctor. "Can you hear me?" "Unfortunately." The answer was dry enough to surprise her. A nurse snorted. Nathaniel didn't smile. Emma examined the wound. "You're lucky." "So I've been told." "You missed several important organs." "I don't feel lucky." His voice carried a rough edge. Pain. Exhaustion. Something deeper. Emma reached for gauze. As she pressed near the wound, he hissed sharply. Muscles tightened beneath her hands. Strong. Far stronger than someone who should have been lying quietly on a trauma bed. Her gaze drifted lower. Old scars crossed his ribs. Several of them. Not surgical. Not accidental. The kind earned through violence. Emma looked up. Nathaniel was already watching her. He knew she'd seen them. A strange silence stretched between them. Then one of the federal agents entered. "Doctor. A word." Emma stepped aside. "What is it?" The agent lowered his voice. "What happens in this room stays in this room." She blinked. "I'm sorry?" "You do not discuss this patient." "That's called doctor-patient confidentiality." "This goes beyond that." Emma crossed her arms. The agent's jaw tightened. Finally, he sighed. "Someone is trying to kill him." The words landed like ice water. Emma looked back toward Nathaniel. He wasn't paying attention. Or pretending not to. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. Expression unreadable. The agent continued. "His location cannot become public." "Who is after him?" "I can't tell you." "Then why tell me anything?" "Because if anyone asks, you never saw him." Emma stared. The agent wasn't exaggerating. Not even slightly. A chill slid down her spine. She glanced at Nathaniel again. At the dried blood. The bruises. The exhaustion etched into his features. Suddenly the famous billionaire looked less like a celebrity and more like a man carrying the weight of something enormous. Something dangerous. A few minutes later, the wound was stabilized. The bleeding slowed. His vitals improved. Emma finally exhaled. Nathaniel was going to live. She finished writing orders before turning toward the bed. "You'll be admitted overnight." "No." Emma looked up. "No?" "I'm leaving." "You were shot." "I noticed." She fought the urge to roll her eyes. "You need monitoring." "I need to leave." "Absolutely not." Their gazes locked. For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Not arrogance. Fear. Real fear. Gone almost instantly. But Emma saw it. And somehow that frightened her more than the blood. Because men like Nathaniel Reed weren't supposed to look afraid. Yet for one brief second— he had looked terrified. And she had the unsettling feeling that whatever had put that look in his eyes was still coming.