Too Late (A Morgan Stark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

PROLOGUE Michelle pulled her coat tighter around her neck as she left the hospital for the night and headed into the brisk D.C. fog. It had been a long shift—too long. She couldn't sustain work hours like this, and a talk with her boss was long overdue. Maybe she shouldn't have switched hospitals. She now had the least amount of seniority of anyone in the department, and that meant she worked nights, weekends, and holidays. She'd taken for granted being able to pick and choose. She'd been dazzled by the promise of a signing bonus, along with an increase in pay. Michelle tried to think of other things as she walked quickly down the street. The blue light of television sets flickered behind a few drawn curtains, but most of the windows were dark. Reasonable people with reasonable bosses had already gone to bed. The images of the day kept flashing through her mind—the endless flow of patients, the suffering, the impatient doctors, the results she knew would be bad news to be delivered to patients—and she shook her head vigorously as if she could shake the thoughts free. No more. She'd think about all that tomorrow. She tried to think of happier things. Of the frozen meal awaiting her at home, of a night of comedy reruns, a glass of chardonnay big enough to swim in. Separating work from her life was getting to be a harder and harder endeavor. The noise snapped her out of it. She looked around quickly, her skin crawling at the sudden sound, and saw only an empty street behind her. Parked cars lined the narrow avenue, but she couldn't see anything else in the darkness and fog. Too late. It was too late to be going home this time of night. She glanced at her watch—nearly 11. She chided herself. She had meant to leave at 7. Again. Michelle increased her pace. Home was only a few blocks away now. But then, it came again. The noise. She stopped again. Michelle peered through the fog in the dim streetlight. “Hello?” she called, her voice trembling. She was so close to home now. She didn't need this. It wasn't any of her business. She kept on walking, calmly and purposefully, as if she hadn't heard anything. But she had. The noise hadn't come from a car. It was too sharp. She heard it again. A sharp, short c***k. It didn't sound like a gunshot, either. So what was it? She walked faster. It was coming from somewhere behind her. What if someone was hurt? What if they needed help? What if she switched on the news tomorrow and saw that someone she could have helped had died, right here, a few blocks from her apartment? Michelle stopped in her tracks. She turned around. The street seemed innocent in the light of the streetlamp. Peaceful in the silence. A little bit of fog clung to the lamppost, where it cast a web of shadows on the ground below. She retraced her steps, her heart pounding in her chest as she proceeded. Then it came again. The noise. Closer this time. To her left. She stopped there, frozen, while the sound echoed against the buildings around her. A small alleyway opened off the street, snaking into the dark between two buildings. Dark and empty except for a shape huddled on the ground. It didn't move. Probably just a pile of trash. But what if someone was hurt? Michelle walked quickly—almost ran—to the alley entrance, her breathing heavy. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn't a pile of trash. It was a man lying on the ground, clutching his head. His glasses had been knocked off and smashed, and his face was covered in blood. He groaned, the noise cutting through the foggy silence. She rushed over to him, her adrenaline kicking in, back in work mode. “Are you OK?” she asked. “Can you breathe? Talk to me!” She frantically checked his pulse. It was weak, but there. But there was so much blood. She pulled out her phone, dialed 9-1-1. “911. What is your emergency?” “There's a man down here. He's hurt. He's bleeding. I think he's been mugged.” That must be it. She didn’t see any other reason for him to be in injured like this in the alley. “Can you give me your location?” Michelle stood and ran to the end of the alley to be sure she had the right cross streets. “I’m near the intersection of Roxboro Place and 8th Street Northwest.” “I’ve got police and an ambulance on their way to you, ma’am. Do you want to stay on the line with me? Is there any chance you’re in danger?” Michelle looked around. The street was deserted. Whoever had hurt this man was long gone. “No. I’m fine. I’ll wait for the emergency personnel.” She hung up and hurried back to the man. “I've called 911. They'll be here soon. Just hold on.” Her voice shook. His brown eyes stared up at her, pleading for help. He beckoned for her to come closer. She'd done what she could. She'd called the authorities. She listened hard for the sound of sirens. The man's eyes continued to stare up at her, imploring her to do something to help. Michelle had to do something, anything to relieve his pain even if it was only for a moment. She slipped off her coat and folded it, easing it under his head to use as a pillow. She shivered in the cold. “What happened?” she asked. “Were you attacked? Mugged?” She glanced around again. What if she was wrong? What if whoever had done this was still here? But there was no other movement in the alley and the only sound was the man's ragged breathing and the pounding of her own heart. She looked a little closer to see if she could find the source of the blood on his face. In the dim light, she couldn't make out any cut or abrasion. She brushed his hair back from his forehead as much to comfort him as to look for his injury. But then, suddenly, Michelle felt it. An icy cold hand on her wrist. A strong grip. Too strong. He was squeezing her. Hurting her. Sitting up. Smiling. Her mind raced, trying to make it all make sense. Had he not actually been hurt? Had he been faking it? He pulled out a knife. “NO!” she cried out, trying to wrench her hand away from him. But she couldn't. His grasp was too strong. She started to panic. “I wanted you to see me,” he said. “I wanted you to know who I am.” She gasped and pulled harder at her hand. “You should've kept walking,” he said. He started to pull Michelle towards him by the arm, deeper into the shadows. She was fighting, but it was no use. “Please,” she pleaded. “Just leave me alone. Take my purse. Whatever.” He laughed. “I don't want your money.” Who was this man? Why would he want her to know who he was? It made no sense. None of it made sense. She tried to yell out. To scream. To warn someone. Anyone. But he was on top of her. He was too strong. She felt something hard, cold, and metallic against her throat. She closed her eyes. And then all was darkness.