Bound by Duty

by Valerie Hansen

  Not until he understood what in the world was going on.

  * * *

  Dana Petrie looped her purse over her shoulder and slammed the small metal door of her locker shut so that she could reconnect the padlock. Exhaustion pulled at her, not uncommon after a long eight-hour shift. The stream of patients hadn’t let up all evening, at least in team one, where she’d been assigned. Honestly, she had no idea what had transpired in the rest of the emergency department.

  She left the locker room and crossed back through the department, halting midstride when she saw the familiar name on the ER census board next to room twelve.

  Mitch Callahan.

  Memories crashed through her mind, reminding her of everything she had lost just under three years ago. Her husband of barely a year, Kent, who’d died fighting a fire, and then her miscarriage on the day of Kent’s funeral. Bile surged in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down with an effort.

  She would never be the same woman she’d been back then. Not that it mattered much; these days she focused her energy on saving lives rather than on her barren personal life.

  She stared again at the name on the board. Mitch had been a firefighter, too, at the time. She’d heard the story, even read about it in the newspaper, about how he’d carried Kent’s body out of the burning building and had instantly begun CPR. He’d fought hard to save Kent, but her husband had died in spite of Mitch’s heroic efforts.

  She’d never thanked him.

  At the time, she’d been too traumatized by the miscarriage, especially on the heels of her husband’s death. Then, months later, it had been easier to simply block the memories of the past, doing her best to move forward with her life, despite the twin gaping holes in her heart.

  As the months turned into years, she had decided to leave well enough alone. But now Mitch Callahan was in the ER where she worked and her shift was over. Maybe she’d just take a quick moment to pop in to see him, check if he was awake enough that she could offer her gratitude before leaving for the night.

  There was no reason to rush home; there was no one waiting for her to return from work. Not even a pet. Just a big, lonely, empty house.

  One she’d grown to hate more and more with each passing day. Each time she wanted to sell, Kent’s parents swooped in, demanding to know how she could leave the house she had once shared with their son.

  She pushed the troubling thoughts aside.

  Almost against her will, her feet took her toward room twelve, tucked in a small alcove at the end of the hall. Through a narrow opening in the privacy curtain hanging across the doorway, she could see a tall male wearing black jeans and a black short-sleeved T-shirt stretched out on a gurney. His feet, encased in black work boots, dangled off the end of the cart. The man had short blond hair and chiseled features. She easily recognized him as Mitch Callahan, which seemed a little odd since she’d met the man only twice before that fateful night. He appeared to be resting with his eyes closed, so she hesitated, loath to disturb him.

  She took a step sideways, intending to leave him to rest, but her nursing shoes squeaked loudly against the linoleum floor. His blue eyes shot open and locked unerringly on hers.

  No sense in leaving without talking to him now. She swallowed hard and forced herself to walk forward, entering his room. “Hi, I’m sure you don’t remember me...”

  “Dana Petrie,” Mitch interrupted in a hoarse voice. “Of course I remember. How are you?” He moved to sit up, then groaned in pain. She could see that he had more than a half dozen stitches along the left side of his neck; the metal tray with discarded supplies was next to his gurney as if the doctor had left in a hurry.

  What had happened to him? The jagged wound looked reddened and angry. She couldn’t imagine what had caused the injury that had apparently brought him to the ER.

  “I’m glad you came over to talk to me, Dana,” Mitch said. “I forgot you were a nurse here.”

  “Yes, well.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. “I—uh—only stopped by to say thank you.”

  Mitch’s eyes widened. “Thank me? I...always thought you blamed me for...” He didn’t finish, as if unwilling to say her dead husband’s name out loud.

  “I don’t,” she said hastily, already regretting her decision to approach him. The last thing she wanted was to rehash the past. “You should rest. I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all.”

  “Wait,” he said, when she turned to leave. “Dana, please. I feel terrible about what happened that night.”

  “Don’t.” Her voice held a distinct edge. “I’d rather not talk about it. Just let me say thanks, okay? I hope you feel better soon.”

  “I will,” Mitch said. “But will you do me a favor?”

  She hovered near the doorway, eyeing him warily. “What?”

  “Find out who my doctor is.” Mitch eased himself up onto one elbow. “I really need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  She wasn’t sure why he was in such a hurry, but nodded. “Sure. You’re in team three, which belongs to Dr. Crowley. I’ll get him for you.”

  Before she could move, a man with a dark baseball hat pulled low over his eyes, his face covered by a black mask, roughly entered the room, brushing past her with such force he knocked her off balance. Her body smashed into the metal door frame, making her purse slide off her shoulder to bang against her hip.

  “Oomph.” Pain radiated down her arm.

  Before she knew exactly what was happening, the man rushed toward Mitch. Her eyes widened in horror when she caught a glimpse of silver near his hand.

  Was that a knife?

  She opened her mouth to scream but no sound escaped from her tight throat. Mitch reacted instinctively, grabbing the metal tray beside him and bringing it up to block the knife in the nick of time. Discarded supplies flew everywhere. The tip of the blade deflected harmlessly off the metal surface, making the man stumble.

  Mitch used the tray as a weapon, bringing it down hard on the guy’s head with a loud thunk. The man went down, sprawling inelegantly across the foot of the gurney. Mitch instantly yanked his feet out from beneath the guy’s frame, rolled off the cart and staggered upright. He moved swiftly toward Dana, latching onto her arm.

  “I need the closest way out of here,” he said in a low, harsh voice.

  She was just as anxious to get away from the man moaning in pain on the gurney. “This way.” She ducked out of the room, glancing around the ER. There were a couple of security guards gathered around a room where some patient was screaming in pain, loud enough to have muffled the noise from Mitch’s room. She directed Mitch to the stairwell located just a few feet from his room.

  The stairs only went up, because the ER was located on the street level.

  “Who was that man?” she asked, leading the way up to the second floor.

  “I don’t know,” Mitch said. “I didn’t get a good look at his face, did you?”

  “No, he was wearing a mask.” She reached the top step just as they heard the doorway crash open from below and the sounds of heavy footsteps thudding against the stairs.

  The guy was following them!

  “Hurry,” she urged, grasping Mitch’s arm. “This way.” She picked up the pace, running along a darkened hallway heading toward a stairwell on the opposite side of the building that she knew would lead them outside.

  Where were the hospital security guards? She knew they had cameras posted in dozens of locations, mostly in the main thoroughfares, not in patient rooms. Still, someone must have noticed them fleeing from a guy with a knife.

  But the only sounds echoing around them were their own footsteps and their own heavy breathing.

  If she was on speaking terms with God, she might have prayed, but the words wouldn’t form in her mind. Instead, she focused on moving as fast as possible away from the man t
hreatening them.

  The minute they cleared the doorway of the stairwell across the hall, Mitch caught the door, making sure it closed soundlessly behind them. She understood he was trying to hide their location from the knife-wielding guy following them, so she did her best to step quietly as she headed back down to the main level of the hospital.

  Moments later, they burst through the lower level of the stairwell, into the balmy summer night. It felt good to be outside the constricting walls of the building.

  “Do you have a car here?” Mitch asked.

  “Of course. But shouldn’t we talk to the police?”

  “No. We need to get out of here.”

  She hesitated, unsure of why he was in such a hurry to leave without notifying the authorities. The adrenaline rushing through her veins ebbed away, leaving her feeling weak and shaky.

  “Okay, fine. This way,” she said, gesturing for him to follow her across the surface parking lot to the concrete structure looming before them.

  Mitch positioned himself behind her as she wove through the parked cars to the spot where she’d left her small two-door sedan.

  She dug into her purse for her keys, using the fob to unlock the vehicle. She slid behind the wheel, leaving Mitch to fold himself into the passenger seat. The area along the side of his neck was awash with fresh blood, and she realized he must have broken open his stitches.

  “You’re bleeding. We need to get you back inside,” she said, turning toward him. “You’ll need several of those sutures repaired.”

  “No time. Let’s go. Hurry!”

  With a sigh she started the engine and backed out of the parking space. As soon as she put the car in Drive and rolled forward, she saw him.

  The guy wearing the face mask was sprinting across the open parking area, heading straight toward them, his hand still gripping the knife.

  “Go, go, go!” Mitch shouted.

  She hit the accelerator and sent the car flying through the structure. She took a corner, heading away from the man, which also brought them closer to the exit. Thankfully, she was on the first floor and the gate was up, so she didn’t have to slow down too much.

  After exiting the structure, she cranked the wheel hard to the right, taking them far away from the bright lights of the hospital into the inky darkness. Risking a glance at her rearview mirror, she tried to see where the guy was.

  There was no sign of him. Her shoulders slumped in relief, until it hit her.

  Obviously, he must have a car there, too. Was he right now jumping inside to follow them?

  “Take another right,” Mitch said, drawing her attention from the knife guy. “The freeway on-ramp isn’t far.”

  “The freeway?” She glanced at him in confusion. “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere. Preferably as far away from this hospital as possible,” he muttered in a grim tone. “We need to make sure he hasn’t followed us.”

  She couldn’t deny she wanted the exact same thing. She drove through the night, the bitter taste of fear coating her tongue.

  The events that had taken place in the past few minutes seemed unreal. The more she thought about it, the less it made sense.

  “But why?” she pressed, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. “Why would he follow us? I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “Frankly, I don’t, either.” Mitch tentatively felt along the side of his neck, where the oozing blood was beginning to congeal into a tacky mess. “But I have a bad feeling I’m being set up.”

  She took the on-ramp and pressed the accelerator down to get up to freeway speed. As her compact car ate up the miles, her thoughts whirled.

  Had Mitch suffered some kind of head injury? Or was he just being paranoid? There was no denying the knife-wielding guy had intended to cause him harm, but to show up at the hospital? Who did that? This whole situation was downright crazy.

  “Set up for what, exactly?” she asked.

  Mitch was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Murder.”

  Copyright © 2018 by Laura Iding

  ISBN-13: 9781488087929

  Bound by Duty

  Copyright © 2018 by Harlequin Books S.A.

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com