by M. K. Dawn
“Archer?” Sloan rushed forward. “What happened?”
All he could do was nod as the nurses debarked and hurried towards the OR. There were no words. She’d warned him not to go and he refused to listen. Now Jones was dead, Cale on the brink, Martinez hurt. It was all his fault. He’d put the team together. Dragged them out there. Split them up. He wasn’t there to protect Jones. Or have Cale’s back. The room began to spin and blur.
“Archer! Archer!” Sloan’s voice broke through. “You need to sit. You’re hyperventilating. I’ve already scrubbed in. I can’t catch you if you fall.”
She was so close that if he leaned forward their bodies would be flush. He wanted to collapse…collapse in her arms. He was on the verge of a breakdown and he wanted nothing more than to be with her. Tell her what had happened out there. Let her be the one he leaned on when he broke down about the kid’s death—a death that would forever be on his hands. But Cale needed her more. She was the best of the best and if he was going to survive, she’d be the one that would save him.
“Dr. Egan,” a petite nurse called, “the patient is prepped.”
“Archer…, I have to go. Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Save him.”
“I’ll do what I can.” She forced a smile and disappeared into the room.
Slumping into the closest chair, he took a few deep breaths. She was the best. If anyone could save Cale, she would be the one.
“Colonel!” a voice called from the opposite end of the hall.
Archer lifted his head. It was one of the morticians—Marvin, he believed. He waved him down the hall.
For a moment he considered ignoring him and continue waiting for news on Cale, but there was something about his frantic motion that brought Archer to his feet.
“What?” he snapped when he reached the scraggly man.
“The soldiers have brought two men into the morgue.” Marvin scurried back towards said morgue. “They are refusing to follow protocol.”
A sudden coldness penetrated Archer’s core. “Two bodies?”
“Yes.” Marvin bobbed his head.
“You need to go. Pretend you never saw any of this.”
Marvin came to a stop at the morgue door and transformed into the professional he’d been in his former life. “It’s my job to oversee the morgue.”
“Open the door, Marvin,” Archer barked. He didn’t have time for this shit. “And leave.”
“Oh, of course.” His face flushed. “I just thought you should be warned.”
“Thanks.” Archer barged in as the cold chamber doors were closed. “What the hell happened to Martinez?”
“There were too many of them, Colonel,” one of the soldiers said. “We killed as many as we could, but we just didn’t get there in time.”
He should have stayed. Forced Martinez to get up. “What the hell was out there?”
The three men glanced between each other before one answered, “Mountain lions, perhaps. Some sort of rabid animal. We didn’t get a good look at them.”
Archer’s muscles tensed. “Mountain lions? Rabid animals? How many?”
The soldier in the middle—Russo—didn’t miss a beat. “Too many to count.”
“Interesting.” Archer bit back the anger building inside of him. “Marvin told me your men aren’t following protocol.”
“As we told him,” the bigger of the three said, “we are under direct order from the execs that these bodies be held and autopsied.”
“Why the hell do they need autopsies if they were killed by a pack of mountain lions?”
“Each were exposed to outside elements. The execs would like to know if the environment affected them in any way.”
That made sense. “Okay. I’ll speak with a few people and confirm the execs’ orders.” The autopsies would be useful if done by the right person.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Russo said. “I don’t think you’ve been introduced to my colleagues. This is Coble and Elliot. They’ve been ordered to stand guard.”
“Is that necessary?” Archer asked. “The dead are dead. Where they going to go?”
The corner of Russo’s lips twitched. “Can’t be too sure.”
***
The surgical ward was quiet. So much so that Archer resorted to tapping his foot against the floor, the chair, the wall—anything to break the agonizing silence. It had been hours since Cale was wheeled into the OR. Hours since Sloan had promised she’d do everything in her power to save him.
Still, he heard nothing. No one had come to update him on Cale’s condition. No one had left the OR and no one had entered. A few times he had peeked through the small window in the door just to make sure everyone was still alive and well. Not a single person noticed. Sloan, Fletcher, and Evelyn were heads down and working on different wounds. The nurses bustled around doing whatever it was nurse did. The anesthesiologist kept a close vigil on the monitors.
Archer tried to pass the time the best he could. After the confrontation in the morgue, he’d contacted the execs to get confirmation of the autopsies. It was as Russo said: they wanted to know if there were any effects on the remains from exposure. Archer had asked who would be the one to perform the autopsies. He hoped for someone he knew, someone he could trust when he went to that person to find out the truth about what had killed his men. What he got was Fletcher. Not a chance in hell would that man tell Archer anything. For a moment, he considered asking Sloan to speak with him, but pushed that idea aside. He didn’t want her anywhere near the man she’d been involved with the past few months.
After his conversation with the execs, a tablet was brought to him so he could submit a report on the events that led up to the mauling and deaths of his men. There wasn’t much to say. Even though verbal communication had gone down, The Bunker never lost the video feed. Technically, they knew more about what had happened to his men than he did. When he tried to turn the tables, requesting access to the videos, he was denied; it seemed that too was over his pay grade.
He ran his palm across the scruff of his chin and leaned forward in the hard, unforgiving chair. The steady tap of his foot became more of a rapid twitch. Why the hell hadn’t anyone come to speak with him? What was taking so long?
He flew out of the chair, hands balled into fists at his sides. He fought back the urge to hit something like he did in the decompression room. It had been a long time since his quick temper had gotten the best of him—it was a trait he’d been working to control his entire life. Another trait his father tried to beat out of him and one his mother spent hours praying would someday pass.
It wasn’t his fault—not really. Had it since the day he was born, his mother always said. His father’s son through and through. Didn’t help he was a scrawny kid, growing up around military brats that were mean as they came. Parents expected kids to fight for themselves, stand up for themselves. There was no hand-holding. No participation trophies. No self-esteem building. He’d been beaten up more times than he could count. His mother tried to comfort him the best she could but his father wouldn’t allow it.
“That boy’s got to grow a pair,” he would say. “This world’s got no room for pussy boys who cry to their momma.”
He hated his father—still did to this day.
“Colonel.” Jolene, a petite African American with curvy hips and green eyes bustled down the hall. “General Davis would like an update on Major Cifarelli’s condition.”
“He too good to call?” Archer snapped.
She threw her hand onto her hip and glared. “Don’t get snippy with me, soldier. I’m just the messenger.”
Archer took a step back. She might have been a tiny thing, but man, could she pack a punch without lifting a hand. “Sorry, Jolene. What I meant was why send you all the way down here when he could’ve called?”
“The deaths and injuries of those men are confidential—as was the mission itself. He didn’t want to risk your conversation being overheard.” She threw back her shoul
ders. “Now, an update please.”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
Jolene peered over her shoulder at the closed door. “Perhaps if I knock.”
“Or you could wait. Let them do their jobs.”
“The general demanded an update.” Her voice lowered. “You of all people know how he gets if the information he requested is not provided.”
Archer knew all too well. “How about this. They’re still working on him, which means he’s not dead. For the moment, he’s…”
She rested the tablet on her forearm and turned it on. “He’s what?”
“Still in the OR but stable.”
“Thank you.” She typed his response. “Sign here.”
His forehead puckered. “Seriously?”
She raised her chin. “Yes, sir. Got to cover our asses around here.”
He signed his name more aggressively than necessary. “You think I’m the kind of man who would throw you under the bus if this all went to shit?”
Her face softened. “I don’t, but with all the crazy shit going on around here, you may not be alive to back me up.”
Archer chuckled. “Thanks for that.”
Jolene rubbed his arm. “Get some rest. Can’t save anyone when you’re dead on your feet.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Good Lord,” Evelyn said as one of the nurses wiped the sweat from her brow and they finished the closing the sutures on Cale’s legs. “Do we know what got a hold of this poor man?”
Fletcher cleared his throat. “Does it matter?”
Sloan held her tongue. He’d been this way the entire surgery. Cold. Shut off. Barely spoke a word. It was unlike him not to bark orders on the proper way to perform each technique. The few times he joined in on their conversations was only to steer them away from topics such as the one Evelyn just mentioned. Any speculation as to what happened to Cale had been halted. The only explanation for his rash behavior was he knew more than he was letting on. Whatever secret he kept hidden must have been top-secret for him to hold onto it so tightly.
“It matters a great deal, Dr. Barnett,” Evelyn retorted. “As does where he was when he received such injuries. If he were down on the farm and one of the animals went savage, it should be taken care of we can avoid breeding a whole herd with the defective gene. Now, if he was injured on some sort of equipment or by some accident, that too needs to be looked into so others do not sustain the same injuries.”
Fletcher snapped off his bloodied gloves and tossed them in the trash. “I assure you, Dr. Williams, the incident has been handled.” He turned his attention to the group. “This never happened. There will be grave consequences for those who speak of this to those not involved. Is that understood?”
Everyone nodded.
“Good. Dr. Egan, I assume you can take over from here. He shall be held in recovery room three. Doors remain locked at all times.”
Sloan’s skin tingled. That made no sense. “Locked? That seems a bit unorthodox. Is he contagious?”
“He is not. If you feel the need to question my orders, you may be excused from this case.”
Again, Sloan bit her tongue—not for her sake but for Archer’s. The fear splashed across his face when he arrived broke her heart. He would be devastated if she was no longer allowed access to the case files and provide updates on his friend. “I apologize, Dr. Barnett. My intention was not to question your decision but to understand the benefit of locking the major’s door.”
“As this is a top-secret case, we cannot have him leaving his room without first debriefing him. His door will remain locked at all times. Nurse Lockhart.”
Tiffany smiled as Fletcher spoke her name. He then handed her a single key on an unassuming key-ring.
It was the first of its kind Sloan has seen in The Bunker.
“Tiffany will take first watch and will work out a schedule with the remaining nurses present. Call Dr. Egan immediately when he wakes or if his condition changes.”
She took the key and stuck it into her pocket. “Yes, sir.”
It wasn’t the safest spot for such an important key, but Sloan kept that thought to herself.
“Use caution when entering the patient’s room. Again, this is a delicate situation.” Fletcher’s voice moved from brash to that of a man full of concern. “We do not want to alarm the people of a danger that does not exist. Nor do we wish to provide false hope.”
“Is there anything else we should know about this delicate situation?” Evelyn asked. “To ensure the safety of all involved.”
Fletcher scowled. “I’m not sure your services will be needed going forward, Miss Williams. Dr. Egan and I can handle the post-ops.”
Evelyn’s face dropped. It was not the answer she or anyone else expected. “Then I will see myself out.”
“Please do. And use the lockers to clean up before you leave the floor. Wouldn’t want anyone growing suspicious.”
Evelyn threw open the door and left the room without a word.
“Nurse Lockhart, if you and the others would be so kind as to wheel the major into his room. I believe it was prepped before arrival.”
Tiffany beamed. “I oversaw the setup myself.”
“Thank you. Dr. Egan, a word before you leave.” The room cleared to allow Sloan and Fletcher to speak in private.
“Are there additional instructions you wish to provide?” Sloan asked.
“I wanted to speak with you about the other night…at the bar. You saw Tiffany—Nurse Lockhart—and I together?”
Sloan didn’t bother to hide her frustration, ripping off her surgical gown and tossing it into the laundry bin. “What about it?”
“It’s not what it appeared to be.” He stepped closer and ran a delicate finger down her arm.
She jerked away. “What are you doing?”
“Attempting to apologize for my indiscretions. The thing between Tiffany and I…you see, it’s primal. Each of us meets the biological needs of the other. What you and I have is intellectual, sustainable. It’s what I see as a long-term commitment.”
How could she not have seen through his facade before? Had he always been this way? A man who’d strung along multiple women at a time, using each of them to meet one of his many needs? Their relationship, even when she was a young college student, had never been overly sexual. They’d been intimate on occasion, most instances initiated by her; other times when he’d thought he was on the verge of losing her. How could she have been so naive? “You want to be in a relationship with me, but sleep with other women?”
“It’s not that I don’t find you attractive, because I do—very much so. It’s just that I have certain…desires. Fetishes. If you would be willing—”
Sloan’s skin crawled. “Stop. Please, Dr. Barnett. There is no need to go into any sort of detail. I’m not interested in the sort of relationship you’ve proposed. You are my supervisor and this—whatever it was between us—has gone on long enough. If you continue to make unwanted advances towards me, I will be forced to report your actions as sexual harassment.”
“Sloan, it would be unwise to threaten a VIP such as myself. One who saved your life by adding your name to the attendee list. One who controls your career.”
Her body tensed. He had brought her here when so many others had been left to die? He knew she had a family. Did he forget or not care? “Dr. Fletcher, don’t you think it’s unwise to threaten a woman whose closest friend and roommate has a reputation for a hot temper and access to the weapons vault?”
Fletcher sneered. “Finally growing a backbone, I see. Maybe you have potential after all.”
Sloan stormed out of the operating room angrier than she had been in a long time. Who the hell did Fletcher think he was making such an indecent proposal then threatening her career when she turned him down? Not to mention him bringing her here when he knew she’d never be able to leave.
And his dismissal of Evelyn, who had every right to question the circumstances behind Cale’s inj
uries. The same questions had circulated through her mind as well. In every hospital, safety for the staff had always been a top concern. If a patient with questionable symptoms came through the doors—symptoms that could put them or other patients at risk—it would be made known why the person was quarantined. Why lock the patient in their room but still allow access to their caregivers?
The hall was empty, which was a bit of a surprise. She’d expected to find Archer waiting outside the OR for news of his fallen friend. Maybe he’d been called away to report on the incidents of the day? The clock on the wall read sixteen-fifty in military time, which translated into four-fifty in civilian time. How had it gotten so late? With the commotion, he more than likely decided to retire to their suite for the evening and wait for her to return with an update.
Before she spoke to him, a quick shower was in order. Her scrubs and surgical gown did little to prevent blood and other bodily fluids from seeping through to her skin. The arteries had sprayed into her hair on several occasions and there was no way she’d be able to walk around even after changing her clothes without raising suspicion.
The cool air of the doctors’ locker room sent chills over her damp body. The room was empty, which was a rarity. Most of the time it was filled with endless chatter. Today, everyone who had not participated in Cale’s surgery had been sent away due to the top-secret nature of the mission. The rest were now busy helping to get him settled in the recovery room. With the place to herself, she stripped down to her undergarments, stuffed the dirty clothes in a basket with the rest of the laundry, and enjoyed the solitude.
Being alone like this reminded her of the nights she spent on call. Most of the times she’d wait around the hospital for the next patient that never failed to arrive. When exhaustion tried to get the best of her, she would crank one of her favorite songs and dance around the empty locker room to get her heart pumping blood through her veins. Her favorite—what was the name? Every few weeks for three months she heard it playing in the background when she Face-Timed with her niece and two nephews. It was from that silly movie—Trolls was it? The melody swirled through her head. “Dance, dance, dance, dance.” Her body swayed to the long-forgotten tune. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered those sweet little faces, but she didn’t stop dancing. She moved how they taught her to, arm in the air, bouncing around to their favorite song.
