The Rider Files
Romantic Suspense Series
Masters File
Book 2 of The Rider Files
Book 2 of The Rider Files
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2018 Readers' Favorite Award
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She's running from her past. He's running from his secrets ...
When Jenna Masters embarks on a vacation to Antigua, she anticipates leaving behind her hectic job in the intensive care unit but doesn’t anticipate meeting an attractive stranger, Ryan Walsh, with a dark past. She turns down a romantic encounter not wanting to invite danger into her life. When Jenna is kidnapped, she discovers her own past has resurfaced to claim her and she turns to the one man she knows can help her—Ryan Walsh. Ryan Walsh, former Army Ranger, works through Rider Security and Investigation to make up for past mistakes. When Jenna summons his help amidst her kidnapping, he finds himself on one of his toughest missions yet. Jenna and Ryan plummet into danger that threatens both of their lives. As the heat intensifies, the two find an electric current sparking between them. Will their new-found passion be able to grow? Or will they find their lives cut short by those that seek to destroy them? "If you're a fan of light suspense, romance, and humor don't miss this wonderful tale." -- Five Star Amazon Reviewer
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SAMPLE CHAPTER ONE
Ryan heard the beating of helicopter rotors seconds before he looked up to see a half dozen men rappelling through the open ceiling of the warehouse. Dark figures clad in black blocked out the sun and descended from the sky like fallen angels of death.
He pulled his sidearm.
“Incoming!” Reece yelled.
Ryan glanced at his partner, dressed in a navy suit over Kevlar like himself, who had also drawn his weapon.
His gaze darted to the transport van where men loaded the equipment. The cargo could be the only reason for the sudden intruders. The fact that the men lowering themselves from the sky wore automatic weapons strapped to them was evidence they were not here to make a bid on the prototype.
Ryan fired, hoping to drop as many attackers as possible before they touched the ground and had a chance to take aim.
As Ryan’s and Reece’s bullets struck several of the rappellers, they opossumed upside down, held in place by their D-ring and harness.
“What the hell is going on?” Maxine Rider’s gravelly voice sounded through Ryan’s earpiece.
Reece spoke over the sound of his gunshots. “Well, boss, the prototype demonstration may be over, but the party’s just begun.”
Sharp Industries had hired Maxine Rider’s Security and Investigation group as an extra layer of protection for the unveiling of their prototype weapon—a small drone capable of carrying a hundred bullet-size explosive devices that could be set to target individuals based on heat signatures or biosensors.
With the unveiling complete, prospective buyers had finished drooling and left. Only the prototype and a handful of security detail remained for the transport.
Three of the assailants touched down on the concrete warehouse floor and began laying weapon fire for the next incoming wave. Very soon, Ryan, Reece, and Sharp Industries’ security team would be outnumbered. So much for a deserted warehouse in North Atlanta being an ideal place for a semi-secret meeting.
Ryan and Reece took cover behind steel beams that stretched up to the rafters.
Ryan squeezed his trigger. As his bullet hit one of the black-clad men in the shoulder, he wondered at their credentials. Clearly ex-military though not from an elite forces team.
He glanced at the van. The cargo was almost secured. Two of Sharp’s security detail defensively shot at the intruders to protect two more who tightened the clasps around the crate. There wasn’t much point in hastily escaping with a twenty-five-million-dollar piece of equipment if it was going to get jostled and broken in the back of a getaway van.
“Cargo’s in jeopardy,” Ryan said.
“Yep.” Reece’s mustache twitched.
“You wanna drive or shoot?” Ryan asked.
“Do you have to ask?”
Ryan grinned and loosened his tie.
Reece reloaded his Beretta before providing cover fire as he and Ryan dashed for the van. By the time they reached the vehicle, three of the four security guards had been shot.
“Just like Tokzar!” Reece hollered.
Shit, I hope not, Ryan thought.
Ryan shoved into the driver seat and cranked the engine. In the driver-side mirror, he saw another six men touch down from the ropes connected to other choppers.
How many were they up against?
The automatic weapons’ fire had ceased and sharp shooters took aim. Apparently they developed the good sense to not destroy the equipment they were attempting to steal.
When Ryan heard the sound of Reece slamming the back doors shut, he hit the gas. “We’ve got the cargo, Max. Need a destination.”
“Claire,” Maxine snapped.
Claire’s strained voice sounded through his earpiece. “Working on it. Head north on Highway 19.”
“Copy.”
“Injuries?” Maxine asked.
“Only one of Sharp’s boys made it. He’s in the back with Reece.”
“Well, this is Charlie Foxtrot,” Maxine complained.
“Sharp has a storage facility near Lake Lanier. I’ll talk you there,” Claire said.
Reece said, “Max, what’re you going to do to make sure we get there in one piece? Those Little Birds are going to be on our ass soon.”
Ryan knew Reece was right. Having a destination was pointless if the enemy helicopters kept them from reaching it.
Twelve rappellers. Ryan did the mental calculation—from a capacity perspective, that meant four choppers at least.
“How many birds?” Maxine demanded.
“Four.” Ryan and Reece simultaneously answered her.
Ryan added. “Black Killer Eggs with shooters.”
He heard Maxine swear before she went offline.
He took a left on Old Roswell Road heading north.
Claire spoke. “She’s calling Bob Sharp now. Keep straight onto Westside Parkway.”
Ryan imagined the blue-haired girl frantically typing in front of three computer screens. She rarely had to extricate them from dangerous situations and she wasn’t military trained so she would find the pressure challenging. However, he had faith and confidence in Maxine that she would find a way to get him and Reece out of this mess.
Hopefully.
He heard Reece fire shots.
“Come on, Reece. Save your ammo. You’re not taking out a chopper with a nine millimeter.”
“Not the bird. Just a shooter. Or two.”
Ryan could hear the blades thumping through the sky. Like Tokzar. Ryan, Reece, and four other rangers had scrambled like hell to get through the abandoned town outside of Tokzar, Afghanistan, and to the extraction point where a Black Hawk approached to take them to safety. Enemy fire racketed relentlessly. They ran, hoping not to get shot. Except, unfortunately, Reece had gotten shot that day.
Ryan swerved the van around a slower car.
At a cruising speed of 155 miles per hour, the helicopter would have no problem keeping pace with the van. A good pilot could maneuver close enough for a gunman to take out a tire. Fortunately, at the moment, the power lines streaming above forced the pilots to take caution. When Ryan reached Tanner
MacDonald Parkway, the choppers would be less inhibited to get closer.
Ryan heard the clink of a bullet striking the metal of the van. Both he and Reece swore simultaneously.
“‘Rangers lead the way,’ man. Get us out of here.” Reece’s voice sounded strained, and Ryan guessed the bullet had landed too close for comfort.
“Working on it.” Ryan maneuvered around vehicles with a white-knuckled grip. A certain familiar adrenaline rush coursed through him.
“Left on Haynes Bridge,” Claire instructed.
“Hold on!” Ryan shouted to his passengers—Reece and Sharp’s security man.
Ryan took the turn sharp without a blinker. The car he cut off slammed to a halt as the driver honked the horn furiously. Ryan straightened the screeching tires and accelerated.
“Parkway’s coming up,” Claire advised.
“Crap.” Ryan needed to first cross the parkway and then hang a left to head north, but upcoming traffic would slow him down, making the van an easier target. He swung wide to the left then cut a sharp right at the intersection.
Honking horns erupted as he zipped past cars.
“Uh, Walsh?” Reece poked his head up by the front seat.
“Yeah?” Ryan’s eyes never left the road.
“You’re getting on the off-ramp.”
Ryan swerved, avoiding a head on collision. “Yep.”
Reece crawled into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt. “Okay. So long as you know. So long as you’re not having desert flashbacks where you can drive wherever the hell the truck won’t get stuck or mined.”
Ryan sailed across oncoming traffic, over the median. He cut left before slamming on the breaks.
Reece jerked forward, his seatbelt holding him in place, as he released a grunt. “Kidding man. Only kidding.”
The security guard in the back seat swore as he collided with the wall of the van.
Ryan looked through his window, craning his neck to try to see the choppers as they flew past.
Reece peered toward the sky, upper lip curled toward his mustache. “Under the overpass. Nicely done, Walsh. We’ve got roughly sixty seconds before they close in on us from either side and we’re riddled with bullet holes.”
Ryan put the van in park and reloaded his gun.
“Claire, watcha cooking for us, honey?” Reece asked.
Maxine’s voice came back over the coms. “Sharp’s got drones in the air. ETA three minutes.”
“We’ll be dead in two,” Reece said with mocked cheer.
Ryan and Reece hopped out of the van.
Maxine ordered, “Defend the prototype, stay alive, and I’ll send the two of you to the Caribbean when this is over.”
Ryan supposed that was a better offer than he’d ever gotten from the Army Rangers for risking his life.
Black helicopters descended on both sides of the overpass. Armed men in black combat attire sat on either side of the choppers.
Ryan sighed and aimed his Beretta. “Yeah. Just like Tokzar, except choppers instead of all-terrain vehicles.”
* * *
Jenna skillfully inserted the long, slender needle between the vertebrae in the back of her heavily sedated patient. She tried not to be distracted by the elaborate tattoos spanning his skin. Based on their macabre appearance—skulls, black roses, a viper, and ghostly figures— she judged he would be an interesting character once he recovered from his illness and was awake. She had to give him enough sedatives to disable an elephant to finally get him lax.
Her nose itched beneath her mask, but she couldn’t break the sterile field to scratch it. As she pulled the stylet out of the needle, she wiggled her nose in lieu of being able to rub it.
Clear liquid dripped from the end of the needle.
Magic.
She would have to try that Bewitched trick more often.
Wonder if it would work on making my ex vanish?
She measured the opening pressure with a digital manometer and then collected the cerebral spinal fluid as it trickled. She preferred to have completely obtunded patients when inserting long, sharp objects into their spine.
When she collected a sufficient amount of fluid, she removed the needle.
And for all that ... you get a Band-Aid.
As she secured the Band-Aid over the tiny puncture site, she admired the large elaborate cross on his upper back. With three sharp points at the apex and arms and the swirls of decoration on the interior, it managed to look both holy and deadly.
She stepped away from the bed, finally able to rub her nose with the back of her gloved hand over her facemask. She stretched her back. Rolling off her gloves, she flung them into the trashcan. As she peeled off her cap, gown, and mask, a nurse stuck her head in the door.
“Need anything, Dr. Masters?”
Jenna looked up at Kat and smiled. “All done. Check out that champagne tap.”
Kat’s eyes fell on the vials of cerebral spinal fluid on the nearby table. “Nice.”
Jenna wriggled her eyebrows at her. “I’ve already placed the orders. Can you get that to the lab right away?”
“Sure thing.”
Kat stepped into the room as Jenna stepped out of the room.
Jenna had paused her normal rounds to get the lumbar puncture done, and now she needed to get back on track.
Six patients, one chest tube, and one cardiac arrest later, Jenna sat at the computer workstation typing notes and sipping a protein smoothie. She typed rhythmically to the beat of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ that she played in her imagination.
“What are you chipper about?” Mike, one of the nurses, asked.
“Antigua. Three days away.”
“Ah. That time again?”
“Indeed.”
“Oh, to live the charmed life of Dr. Masters.” He gave her a toothy smile.
Jenna smiled back and nodded.
If you only knew the sacrifices it took to get this far.
“Dr. Masters, room six has family requesting an update,” April, the charge nurse, informed her.
“Oh, right. Didn’t the patient have an uncle or something coming all the way from Russia?”
“Ye-ah.” April’s voice was hesitant.
“What’s wrong?” Jenna asked, blinking as she sipped her smoothie.
“Well, they look a little imposing.”
“They?”
“Do you want me to call security?”
Jenna had heard that some family members had been gruff over the phone with the staff. However, having a first-time conversation flanked by security would shatter any opportunity to build rapport with the family.
“No thanks, April. Can you put them in the family conference room, see if they want any drinks and then tell them I’ll be there in five minutes?”
“Will do.” She shrugged and left.
Jenna thought about the patient in bed six. He had been the one who received a lumbar puncture earlier in the day. The twenty-six-year-old had seen some hard living, judging by the scars and tattoos that covered the majority of his arms and torso.
His muscular body was extremely fit though, which made restraining him challenging. They had to keep him from inadvertently harming himself or yanking out any of his lifelines—breathing tubes or intravenous access. His metabolism churned through sedatives like a piranha through flesh. Fortunately, he was young and recovery would be swift.
Five minutes later, Jenna straightened her scrub top and entered the family conference room. She stifled her surprise to see a broad-shouldered man in a suit with short, spiked, peppered hair and a tattoo crawling up his neck. Men the size of linebackers flanked him on either side.
“I’m Dr. Masters. I can give you an update on your nephew. Would you like to take a seat?”
“I am Vladimir Pronin. Thank you for your punctuality.”
He sat stiffly, and his men remained standing.
If Jenna had ever formulated a mental image of what an older, modern Vlad the Impaler would look like, this man would have supplanted it. Adding to the persona was his English, heavy with a Russian accent. His aura of strength was only magnified by his tailored gray suit and sleek, expensive obsidian watch.
Jenna sat opposite him at the conference room table.
Before she could start with her medical assessment and update, Vladimir spoke. “Mikhail is good kid, Dr. Masters. He has college education, and he looks out for the family. And we look out for him. So I was livid to have this Dr. Pasha tell me my nephew is in critical condition from drug abuse.”
His palms rested flatly on the table, and his jaw ticked like a man working to control his temper.
Well, now she knew why Dr. Alik Pasha had asked her to take his patient. And it had nothing to do with his patient load being high.
Jenna recognized dangerous men when she saw them, but she also knew that simple, respectful conversation about their medical concerns could diffuse the situation. She waited quietly for him to finish.
“My nephew is not flunky or junky or whatever you Americans call it.”
“I agree.”
He started to open his mouth and then closed it. He regarded her through narrowed eyes. At last he said, “You do?”
“Yes. He has no track marks to suggest intravenous drug use. There are no finger stains to suggest use of a crack pipe. His drug screen had opiates and benzodiazepines, but he got those in the ambulance and emergency room to control his delirium.”
Vladimir’s anger and defensive posture deflated.
“So what’s wrong?” He lifted his hands, palms upward.
Jenna tugged at her earring stud. “Has he been in the woods or wilderness recently, maybe hunting?”
Vladimir arched an eyebrow and looked from side to side at the men to his right and left as he seemed to consider whether or not to answer her question.
“Da.”
“Lyme disease.”
“Da?” The uncle’s eyes widened.
She resisted the urge to respond with da. “Yes. I’m told when he came in he was confused, agitated, and febrile. On my exam this morning, I noted a particular sort of rash. Then, I did a lumbar puncture. There is evidence of meningitis. I’m still waiting on the Lyme titer, but I’ve already started the appropriate antibiotics.”
He took a long moment to consider her. His eyes held a glint of admiration.
Rapport achieved.
“Why did not the other physician find this? Why was I told it was drugs?”
Because he stereotyped your nephew.
Jenna tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t incriminate Dr. Pasha, but the truth was he had assessed the patient’s age and tattoos and decided that drugs were the statistically probable culprit for his behavior rather than the less common meningitis. Jenna didn’t believe drugs caused his current state because she had looked closely for track marks and the man’s skin and overall hygiene were too immaculate.
She chose her words carefully. “Lyme disease can have a misleading presentation, especially in the young.”
Vladimir had obviously been insulted by Dr. Pasha in a way that conveyed he wished him bodily harm. The Russian appeared to have two men at his side capable of making his wishes come true.
“But you were not deceived.” His eyes flashed as though taking all of her in—physician, woman, and sleuth.
She shifted uneasily as he stared at her with a little too much interest.
He seemed to be committing details of her appearance to memory. He smiled a wolfish grin and leaned back.
Rapport gone overboard.
“The rash gave it away,” she mumbled. She began to sense some vague familiarity with the man. She felt a growing unease that this was someone notorious—someone she should neither cross nor to whom she should endear to herself.
“And the recovery?”
“The breathing tube should be able to be removed in a day or two. From there he’ll be observed for a few more days.”
Vladimir stood, and Jenna felt a wave of relief as their family discussion came to a close.
“Family can visit him now?”
“Yes, of course.”
Coming around the table, he extended a hand which Jenna accepted.
The firm but cool grip felt like gripping the handle of a pair of pliers. The handshake conveyed a similar precaution—you don’t want to be on the wrong end of it.
“Spasibo, Dr. Masters.”
With that, he abruptly planted a kiss on either cheek and then excused himself.
Ryan heard the beating of helicopter rotors seconds before he looked up to see a half dozen men rappelling through the open ceiling of the warehouse. Dark figures clad in black blocked out the sun and descended from the sky like fallen angels of death.
He pulled his sidearm.
“Incoming!” Reece yelled.
Ryan glanced at his partner, dressed in a navy suit over Kevlar like himself, who had also drawn his weapon.
His gaze darted to the transport van where men loaded the equipment. The cargo could be the only reason for the sudden intruders. The fact that the men lowering themselves from the sky wore automatic weapons strapped to them was evidence they were not here to make a bid on the prototype.
Ryan fired, hoping to drop as many attackers as possible before they touched the ground and had a chance to take aim.
As Ryan’s and Reece’s bullets struck several of the rappellers, they opossumed upside down, held in place by their D-ring and harness.
“What the hell is going on?” Maxine Rider’s gravelly voice sounded through Ryan’s earpiece.
Reece spoke over the sound of his gunshots. “Well, boss, the prototype demonstration may be over, but the party’s just begun.”
Sharp Industries had hired Maxine Rider’s Security and Investigation group as an extra layer of protection for the unveiling of their prototype weapon—a small drone capable of carrying a hundred bullet-size explosive devices that could be set to target individuals based on heat signatures or biosensors.
With the unveiling complete, prospective buyers had finished drooling and left. Only the prototype and a handful of security detail remained for the transport.
Three of the assailants touched down on the concrete warehouse floor and began laying weapon fire for the next incoming wave. Very soon, Ryan, Reece, and Sharp Industries’ security team would be outnumbered. So much for a deserted warehouse in North Atlanta being an ideal place for a semi-secret meeting.
Ryan and Reece took cover behind steel beams that stretched up to the rafters.
Ryan squeezed his trigger. As his bullet hit one of the black-clad men in the shoulder, he wondered at their credentials. Clearly ex-military though not from an elite forces team.
He glanced at the van. The cargo was almost secured. Two of Sharp’s security detail defensively shot at the intruders to protect two more who tightened the clasps around the crate. There wasn’t much point in hastily escaping with a twenty-five-million-dollar piece of equipment if it was going to get jostled and broken in the back of a getaway van.
“Cargo’s in jeopardy,” Ryan said.
“Yep.” Reece’s mustache twitched.
“You wanna drive or shoot?” Ryan asked.
“Do you have to ask?”
Ryan grinned and loosened his tie.
Reece reloaded his Beretta before providing cover fire as he and Ryan dashed for the van. By the time they reached the vehicle, three of the four security guards had been shot.
“Just like Tokzar!” Reece hollered.
Shit, I hope not, Ryan thought.
Ryan shoved into the driver seat and cranked the engine. In the driver-side mirror, he saw another six men touch down from the ropes connected to other choppers.
How many were they up against?
The automatic weapons’ fire had ceased and sharp shooters took aim. Apparently they developed the good sense to not destroy the equipment they were attempting to steal.
When Ryan heard the sound of Reece slamming the back doors shut, he hit the gas. “We’ve got the cargo, Max. Need a destination.”
“Claire,” Maxine snapped.
Claire’s strained voice sounded through his earpiece. “Working on it. Head north on Highway 19.”
“Copy.”
“Injuries?” Maxine asked.
“Only one of Sharp’s boys made it. He’s in the back with Reece.”
“Well, this is Charlie Foxtrot,” Maxine complained.
“Sharp has a storage facility near Lake Lanier. I’ll talk you there,” Claire said.
Reece said, “Max, what’re you going to do to make sure we get there in one piece? Those Little Birds are going to be on our ass soon.”
Ryan knew Reece was right. Having a destination was pointless if the enemy helicopters kept them from reaching it.
Twelve rappellers. Ryan did the mental calculation—from a capacity perspective, that meant four choppers at least.
“How many birds?” Maxine demanded.
“Four.” Ryan and Reece simultaneously answered her.
Ryan added. “Black Killer Eggs with shooters.”
He heard Maxine swear before she went offline.
He took a left on Old Roswell Road heading north.
Claire spoke. “She’s calling Bob Sharp now. Keep straight onto Westside Parkway.”
Ryan imagined the blue-haired girl frantically typing in front of three computer screens. She rarely had to extricate them from dangerous situations and she wasn’t military trained so she would find the pressure challenging. However, he had faith and confidence in Maxine that she would find a way to get him and Reece out of this mess.
Hopefully.
He heard Reece fire shots.
“Come on, Reece. Save your ammo. You’re not taking out a chopper with a nine millimeter.”
“Not the bird. Just a shooter. Or two.”
Ryan could hear the blades thumping through the sky. Like Tokzar. Ryan, Reece, and four other rangers had scrambled like hell to get through the abandoned town outside of Tokzar, Afghanistan, and to the extraction point where a Black Hawk approached to take them to safety. Enemy fire racketed relentlessly. They ran, hoping not to get shot. Except, unfortunately, Reece had gotten shot that day.
Ryan swerved the van around a slower car.
At a cruising speed of 155 miles per hour, the helicopter would have no problem keeping pace with the van. A good pilot could maneuver close enough for a gunman to take out a tire. Fortunately, at the moment, the power lines streaming above forced the pilots to take caution. When Ryan reached Tanner
MacDonald Parkway, the choppers would be less inhibited to get closer.
Ryan heard the clink of a bullet striking the metal of the van. Both he and Reece swore simultaneously.
“‘Rangers lead the way,’ man. Get us out of here.” Reece’s voice sounded strained, and Ryan guessed the bullet had landed too close for comfort.
“Working on it.” Ryan maneuvered around vehicles with a white-knuckled grip. A certain familiar adrenaline rush coursed through him.
“Left on Haynes Bridge,” Claire instructed.
“Hold on!” Ryan shouted to his passengers—Reece and Sharp’s security man.
Ryan took the turn sharp without a blinker. The car he cut off slammed to a halt as the driver honked the horn furiously. Ryan straightened the screeching tires and accelerated.
“Parkway’s coming up,” Claire advised.
“Crap.” Ryan needed to first cross the parkway and then hang a left to head north, but upcoming traffic would slow him down, making the van an easier target. He swung wide to the left then cut a sharp right at the intersection.
Honking horns erupted as he zipped past cars.
“Uh, Walsh?” Reece poked his head up by the front seat.
“Yeah?” Ryan’s eyes never left the road.
“You’re getting on the off-ramp.”
Ryan swerved, avoiding a head on collision. “Yep.”
Reece crawled into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt. “Okay. So long as you know. So long as you’re not having desert flashbacks where you can drive wherever the hell the truck won’t get stuck or mined.”
Ryan sailed across oncoming traffic, over the median. He cut left before slamming on the breaks.
Reece jerked forward, his seatbelt holding him in place, as he released a grunt. “Kidding man. Only kidding.”
The security guard in the back seat swore as he collided with the wall of the van.
Ryan looked through his window, craning his neck to try to see the choppers as they flew past.
Reece peered toward the sky, upper lip curled toward his mustache. “Under the overpass. Nicely done, Walsh. We’ve got roughly sixty seconds before they close in on us from either side and we’re riddled with bullet holes.”
Ryan put the van in park and reloaded his gun.
“Claire, watcha cooking for us, honey?” Reece asked.
Maxine’s voice came back over the coms. “Sharp’s got drones in the air. ETA three minutes.”
“We’ll be dead in two,” Reece said with mocked cheer.
Ryan and Reece hopped out of the van.
Maxine ordered, “Defend the prototype, stay alive, and I’ll send the two of you to the Caribbean when this is over.”
Ryan supposed that was a better offer than he’d ever gotten from the Army Rangers for risking his life.
Black helicopters descended on both sides of the overpass. Armed men in black combat attire sat on either side of the choppers.
Ryan sighed and aimed his Beretta. “Yeah. Just like Tokzar, except choppers instead of all-terrain vehicles.”
* * *
Jenna skillfully inserted the long, slender needle between the vertebrae in the back of her heavily sedated patient. She tried not to be distracted by the elaborate tattoos spanning his skin. Based on their macabre appearance—skulls, black roses, a viper, and ghostly figures— she judged he would be an interesting character once he recovered from his illness and was awake. She had to give him enough sedatives to disable an elephant to finally get him lax.
Her nose itched beneath her mask, but she couldn’t break the sterile field to scratch it. As she pulled the stylet out of the needle, she wiggled her nose in lieu of being able to rub it.
Clear liquid dripped from the end of the needle.
Magic.
She would have to try that Bewitched trick more often.
Wonder if it would work on making my ex vanish?
She measured the opening pressure with a digital manometer and then collected the cerebral spinal fluid as it trickled. She preferred to have completely obtunded patients when inserting long, sharp objects into their spine.
When she collected a sufficient amount of fluid, she removed the needle.
And for all that ... you get a Band-Aid.
As she secured the Band-Aid over the tiny puncture site, she admired the large elaborate cross on his upper back. With three sharp points at the apex and arms and the swirls of decoration on the interior, it managed to look both holy and deadly.
She stepped away from the bed, finally able to rub her nose with the back of her gloved hand over her facemask. She stretched her back. Rolling off her gloves, she flung them into the trashcan. As she peeled off her cap, gown, and mask, a nurse stuck her head in the door.
“Need anything, Dr. Masters?”
Jenna looked up at Kat and smiled. “All done. Check out that champagne tap.”
Kat’s eyes fell on the vials of cerebral spinal fluid on the nearby table. “Nice.”
Jenna wriggled her eyebrows at her. “I’ve already placed the orders. Can you get that to the lab right away?”
“Sure thing.”
Kat stepped into the room as Jenna stepped out of the room.
Jenna had paused her normal rounds to get the lumbar puncture done, and now she needed to get back on track.
Six patients, one chest tube, and one cardiac arrest later, Jenna sat at the computer workstation typing notes and sipping a protein smoothie. She typed rhythmically to the beat of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ that she played in her imagination.
“What are you chipper about?” Mike, one of the nurses, asked.
“Antigua. Three days away.”
“Ah. That time again?”
“Indeed.”
“Oh, to live the charmed life of Dr. Masters.” He gave her a toothy smile.
Jenna smiled back and nodded.
If you only knew the sacrifices it took to get this far.
“Dr. Masters, room six has family requesting an update,” April, the charge nurse, informed her.
“Oh, right. Didn’t the patient have an uncle or something coming all the way from Russia?”
“Ye-ah.” April’s voice was hesitant.
“What’s wrong?” Jenna asked, blinking as she sipped her smoothie.
“Well, they look a little imposing.”
“They?”
“Do you want me to call security?”
Jenna had heard that some family members had been gruff over the phone with the staff. However, having a first-time conversation flanked by security would shatter any opportunity to build rapport with the family.
“No thanks, April. Can you put them in the family conference room, see if they want any drinks and then tell them I’ll be there in five minutes?”
“Will do.” She shrugged and left.
Jenna thought about the patient in bed six. He had been the one who received a lumbar puncture earlier in the day. The twenty-six-year-old had seen some hard living, judging by the scars and tattoos that covered the majority of his arms and torso.
His muscular body was extremely fit though, which made restraining him challenging. They had to keep him from inadvertently harming himself or yanking out any of his lifelines—breathing tubes or intravenous access. His metabolism churned through sedatives like a piranha through flesh. Fortunately, he was young and recovery would be swift.
Five minutes later, Jenna straightened her scrub top and entered the family conference room. She stifled her surprise to see a broad-shouldered man in a suit with short, spiked, peppered hair and a tattoo crawling up his neck. Men the size of linebackers flanked him on either side.
“I’m Dr. Masters. I can give you an update on your nephew. Would you like to take a seat?”
“I am Vladimir Pronin. Thank you for your punctuality.”
He sat stiffly, and his men remained standing.
If Jenna had ever formulated a mental image of what an older, modern Vlad the Impaler would look like, this man would have supplanted it. Adding to the persona was his English, heavy with a Russian accent. His aura of strength was only magnified by his tailored gray suit and sleek, expensive obsidian watch.
Jenna sat opposite him at the conference room table.
Before she could start with her medical assessment and update, Vladimir spoke. “Mikhail is good kid, Dr. Masters. He has college education, and he looks out for the family. And we look out for him. So I was livid to have this Dr. Pasha tell me my nephew is in critical condition from drug abuse.”
His palms rested flatly on the table, and his jaw ticked like a man working to control his temper.
Well, now she knew why Dr. Alik Pasha had asked her to take his patient. And it had nothing to do with his patient load being high.
Jenna recognized dangerous men when she saw them, but she also knew that simple, respectful conversation about their medical concerns could diffuse the situation. She waited quietly for him to finish.
“My nephew is not flunky or junky or whatever you Americans call it.”
“I agree.”
He started to open his mouth and then closed it. He regarded her through narrowed eyes. At last he said, “You do?”
“Yes. He has no track marks to suggest intravenous drug use. There are no finger stains to suggest use of a crack pipe. His drug screen had opiates and benzodiazepines, but he got those in the ambulance and emergency room to control his delirium.”
Vladimir’s anger and defensive posture deflated.
“So what’s wrong?” He lifted his hands, palms upward.
Jenna tugged at her earring stud. “Has he been in the woods or wilderness recently, maybe hunting?”
Vladimir arched an eyebrow and looked from side to side at the men to his right and left as he seemed to consider whether or not to answer her question.
“Da.”
“Lyme disease.”
“Da?” The uncle’s eyes widened.
She resisted the urge to respond with da. “Yes. I’m told when he came in he was confused, agitated, and febrile. On my exam this morning, I noted a particular sort of rash. Then, I did a lumbar puncture. There is evidence of meningitis. I’m still waiting on the Lyme titer, but I’ve already started the appropriate antibiotics.”
He took a long moment to consider her. His eyes held a glint of admiration.
Rapport achieved.
“Why did not the other physician find this? Why was I told it was drugs?”
Because he stereotyped your nephew.
Jenna tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t incriminate Dr. Pasha, but the truth was he had assessed the patient’s age and tattoos and decided that drugs were the statistically probable culprit for his behavior rather than the less common meningitis. Jenna didn’t believe drugs caused his current state because she had looked closely for track marks and the man’s skin and overall hygiene were too immaculate.
She chose her words carefully. “Lyme disease can have a misleading presentation, especially in the young.”
Vladimir had obviously been insulted by Dr. Pasha in a way that conveyed he wished him bodily harm. The Russian appeared to have two men at his side capable of making his wishes come true.
“But you were not deceived.” His eyes flashed as though taking all of her in—physician, woman, and sleuth.
She shifted uneasily as he stared at her with a little too much interest.
He seemed to be committing details of her appearance to memory. He smiled a wolfish grin and leaned back.
Rapport gone overboard.
“The rash gave it away,” she mumbled. She began to sense some vague familiarity with the man. She felt a growing unease that this was someone notorious—someone she should neither cross nor to whom she should endear to herself.
“And the recovery?”
“The breathing tube should be able to be removed in a day or two. From there he’ll be observed for a few more days.”
Vladimir stood, and Jenna felt a wave of relief as their family discussion came to a close.
“Family can visit him now?”
“Yes, of course.”
Coming around the table, he extended a hand which Jenna accepted.
The firm but cool grip felt like gripping the handle of a pair of pliers. The handshake conveyed a similar precaution—you don’t want to be on the wrong end of it.
“Spasibo, Dr. Masters.”
With that, he abruptly planted a kiss on either cheek and then excused himself.