Mountain Shelter

by Cassie Miles

  As if reading her mind, he separated his mouth from hers and gazed down at her. When he reached up to straighten his glasses, he instead removed them. His unshielded gaze focused intently upon her. Reverting to her true identity as a neurosurgeon, she noted that his pupils were so dilated she could barely see the gray of the iris—a clear sign of attraction.

  Proudly she smiled. She’d done that to him. He was so thoroughly turned-on that his eyes were solid black and his erection was rock solid. She had done it, and it felt good.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “I am.” She shrugged. “And you are.”

  Jayne hadn’t planned to kiss him. From the first time she’d seen him, she’d thought he was oddly attractive, but she wasn’t looking for a mate, unlike the OR nurse who’d taken one peek at Dylan and asked if he was single. Was that why she’d kissed him? To put her mark on him and let other women know he was taken?

  A silence stretched between them. Not because they were uncomfortable. They didn’t need words to communicate.

  She took a backward step. Without speaking, she was telling him that they needed to get moving. The time for the operation was nigh. She didn’t release his hand—another silent communication. She wanted to stay connected to him.

  He squeezed her fingertips, asserting his dominance.

  She squeezed back lightly, letting him know that she wasn’t a total pushover and deciding that she was reading far too much into minor gestures.

  Returning to reality, she said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Sure.” When he put his glasses back on, their moment was over. “Lead the way.”

  She made the walk down the long corridor that led to one of the waiting rooms for the friends and family of surgical patients. Though her hypothalamus was still doing a happy dance, certain memories sobered her mood. This was the walk she took to inform those waiting of the results. There were six times in the eight years when she’d been in charge of the surgeries that she’d had to deliver bad news. She remembered each of those patients and their families. Even now, their names and faces resurfaced in her mind. She and her team had tried their hardest to save them, but their best wasn’t enough.

  She was glad that her memory-stimulation surgery—the procedure on the agenda for today—wasn’t life threatening unless some terrible accident occurred, something like a power outage or mislabeled anesthetic. She wasn’t careless about the operation: all surgery was dangerous. But her outcomes on memory stimulation, except for one man who certainly wasn’t made worse by her surgery, had been a parade of successes.

  By the time they got to the waiting room, Jayne was smiling. The next time she made this walk, she would have good news. Seated in the corner with a very large backpack at her feet and a book in her hand was Cordelia Cameron, the wife of the professor who was Jayne’s patient. The small woman with graying hair fastened in a chignon at her nape greeted the surgeon with a big hug.

  When Jayne introduced Dylan, Mrs. Cameron cocked her head to one side and looked up at him. “Are you the man who answered my phone call this morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She went up on tiptoe to hug him, too. “I’m so glad Jayne finally has a boyfriend. Are you a doctor?”

  “He’s in computers,” Jayne said quickly.

  Mrs. Cameron returned to her chair. “My goodness, Dylan, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” he said.

  “And I’ll bet you’re hungry.” She unzipped the top of her backpack and took out a round plastic container. Inside were fresh-baked goodies. “Jayne is always half-starved, and she really likes my chocolate chip cookies.”

  Dylan accepted a treat. “You asked about cookies this morning.”

  “This container is for you two. I have another for Henry.” She continued to dig through the backpack.

  Though Jayne hadn’t expected food, she was salivating. “What else have you got there, Mrs. Cameron?”

  “You told me that the operation would take five or six hours, and I’ve eaten in the hospital cafeteria more than once. It is not a delight. I made some sandwiches for me and some extra for you. Tuna salad, ham or peanut butter?”

  “I have a few things I wanted to explain before I started to operate.” In the past, Mrs. Cameron had been interested in hearing about the procedure. “Why don’t we take your yummy backpack and go into one of these conference rooms?”

  Jayne led the way back into the corridor and opened the door to a small room with windows along one wall. The plants and soft pastel green-and-yellow walls did their best to make this simple space with a sofa, a round table and a few chairs seem comforting to those who waited. Jayne preferred the loud purple and red in the break room, but that area was reserved for the hospital staff.

  While tearing into a tuna sandwich, she ran through the basic tests that had already been performed on Henry Cameron, professor emeritus at University of Denver. “The MRIs and CAT scans are clear. His blood work didn’t show any new or unusual problems. Pressure is good. I can tell that you’ve been watching his diet and keeping him healthy.”

  “You bet I am.” Her small hand clenched in a tight, determined fist. She wasn’t about to let her husband go. “His cardiologist says his heart is doing fine after the bypass.”

  “And he’s able to walk without assistance?”

  “He’s capable of getting out and about as much as he was before the heart attack,” Mrs. Cameron said, “but he doesn’t want to go anywhere. He’s depressed.”

  “About his memory loss.”

  Jayne ate the sandwich, sipped water from a bottle that Mrs. Cameron produced from her ubiquitous backpack and listened as the concerned lady described her husband’s frustration with being unable to recognize old friends or students. He couldn’t recall lessons he’d taught for forty years, and when he started reading up on them again, he was angry with himself for forgetting such simple truths. The worst thing about being very smart was that you noticed the gaps when you forgot.

  Professor Cameron was the perfect candidate for her memory-stimulation surgery. Apart from the brain issues, his health was good. And he was motivated, eager to regain what he had lost.

  “As I’ve told you before,” Jayne said, “there’s very little risk with this procedure, and your husband will be awake most of the time. After attaching electrodes, we start by drilling two holes in the skull.”

  She noticed Dylan leaning forward in his chair and listening, showing a real interest. “Excuse me,” he said. “Why do you need two holes?”

  Jayne looked toward Mrs. Cameron. “Do you want to tell him?”

  “One is for the right side,” she said, “and another for the left. I think I understand, Jayne. After you make the holes, you send in a probe to find exactly the right spot, and then you implant a microelectrode, which is as tiny as a human hair, to stimulate memory.”

  The description sounded so very simple. It seemed crazy that it had taken vast improvements in technology to provide the equipment needed and countless hours on her part to perfect her technique. “Essentially, that’s all.”

  “When will we know if it worked?” Mrs. Cameron asked.

  “Right away. Henry will be talking throughout.”

  Dylan asked, “What about the anesthesia? It’ll take him a while to recover from that.”

  “It’s a light dose,” Jayne said. “Similar to the lidocaine used by your dentist.”

  His expression of disbelief was comical. “And it doesn’t hurt?”

  “The brain itself doesn’t feel pain,” she said. “There are many complicated explanations of this issue. Suffice it to say, I can cut into a naked brain, and the subject won’t experience discomfort.”

  “How is that possible?” he asked.

  “Pain is a warn
ing system. If you touch a flame, the pain tells you to move your hand. If the brain is injured, the warning has come too late.”

  Jayne didn’t want to get too graphic about what happens, not with the wife of her patient listening. But she’d heard of cases where an individual with an exposed brain could walk about and speak coherently.

  “I have another question,” Mrs. Cameron said. “When you’re done with Henry, will you say something to him for me?”

  “Of course.”

  The older woman’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke, “It’s a quote. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ He used to recite that sonnet to me. If he remembers, I’ll feel like he has truly come back to me.”

  Jayne gave her hand a squeeze and went toward the OR, where Henry was being prepped.

  * * *

  AFTER THE FIRST two hours of the procedure, Dylan leaned back in his seat in the gallery, looked away from the OR and checked his cell phone. There were two text messages from Detective Cisneros.

  The first read, PS cut back on his Mid-East biz. No current enemies. Unlikely terrorism. The initials “PS” must refer to Peter Shackleford, and “no current enemies” indicated that Jayne’s father hadn’t ticked off anybody in the Middle East, not lately. Cisneros had to be pleased that the threat to Jayne didn’t involve terrorism...just an assassin with a ruthless sensibility.

  The second message: PS talked to source in Mid-East. Koslov not working for his usual employers.

  Dylan sent back a text telling the detective that the feds were on the case, and Agent Woody was looking into their hacker. He also noted the link between Koslov and the Romero cartel and suggested Cisneros question Jayne’s dad to find out if he’d managed to irritate Diego Romero, the most bloodthirsty drug lord in Venezuela. Then he turned off the phone again.

  He looked down the row of chairs to where Woody was sitting. The FBI agent had returned to the hospital about an hour and a half ago with his wardrobe changed to his typical dark suit, white shirt and dark blue necktie. He didn’t need to produce a badge—Woody was a walking advertisement for the feds.

  Now might be a good time for a chat with him, not that Dylan was in any way bored as he sat in the gallery among students and docs. A short man with a little potbelly pushing against the front of his dark blue scrubs gave a running commentary of what was happening. It was “amygdala” this and “hypothalamus” that. One of the nurses referred to him as a “neuro-groupie” who liked to pretend that someday he’d grow up and be a surgeon.

  Dylan appreciated the play-by-play commentary. He was fascinated when they drilled the holes into Henry Cameron’s skull. As Jayne had promised, there wasn’t much blood. And there were nurses who seemed to have the sole job of suctioning away anything that might be messy.

  Every person in the operating room wore a sterile gown and cap over the scrubs. Even in that shapeless outfit with a mask covering her mouth and special goggles, Jayne was hot. He remembered how her firm, slender body had molded to his torso when she’d kissed him back and wrapped her leg around him.

  In the operating room, she was definitely in charge. The other docs, even a guy who was clearly her senior, deferred to her judgment and followed her orders. She had wakened Henry from his light sleep and was talking to him...while he had holes in his head. There were constant bleeps from some of the stainless-steel electronics. The screens with imaging of the brain showed precisely what happened when Jayne probed in different areas.

  After two-and-a-half hours, they still hadn’t finished with the left side. He signaled to Woody and they stepped away from the others for a private talk. Once again near the nurses’ station, Dylan positioned himself so he was able to see every approach to Operating Room 1A.

  Dylan spoke first. “What did you find out about Tank?”

  “Nobody’s seen the kid since yesterday afternoon.” Woody shot a furtive gaze down the hallway. “My people tracked his laptop to an abandoned house in the foothills. No sign of Tank. He had removed the computer’s memory and destroyed it.”

  “But he left the tracking system intact?” That made no sense whatsoever...unless Tank wanted them to find some kind of evidence. “What else did he leave at this house?”

  “Nothing,” Woody said. “Are you sure he was the one who did the hack?”

  “I’m sure.” He’d explained once already. He had discovered digital evidence that the kid had hacked into Jayne’s security system last night and disabled it. Dylan’s fingers were itching to get onto a keyboard and find answers for himself. “I hope Tank is okay.”

  “He’s a criminal. These hackers don’t deserve sympathy.”

  Spoken like a heartless fed. “Have your guys unearthed any news about the Romero cartel? Any reason they might want to get revenge on Jayne’s father?”

  “They’ve been quiet, lately. The old man, Diego Romero, hasn’t been well. He’s an evil bastard and so are his men. I don’t know why they’d go outside the cartel to find an assassin.”

  “Kidnapping takes more finesse.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “I need to check in with my partner. I’d appreciate if you could stay here and keep an eye on Jayne for fifteen minutes.”

  “I owe you for the tip on Tank Sherman. Take your time. I’m going to be here until she’s done.”

  As if on cue, Jayne stepped into the hallway. She’d already slipped out of the bundle of sterile clothes that covered her. Another doctor—the gray-haired man—joined her.

  In an instant, Dylan was beside her. He kept his voice low. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s great,” she said. After two-and-a-half hours of meticulous surgery, he expected her to be tired or stressed. It was the opposite. Energy crackled around her. This woman loved her job. “The patient is responding beautifully. I’ve finished my work on the left side.”

  The doctor accompanying her said, “We needed a break before moving to the next phase.”

  “More food?” Dylan offered. “Water?”

  “I’ve been staying hydrated,” she said. “Maybe a bit too well hydrated. I’m out here for a bathroom break.”

  He fell into step beside her, leaving Woody and the other doctor standing in the corridor outside the OR. Escorting clients to the toilet was not one of Dylan’s favorite things. When they got to the door, he stepped in front of her and pulled his handgun.

  “This will just take a minute.” He pushed open the door to the ladies’ restroom and yelled, “Anybody in here?”

  His voice echoed off the tiled walls. The room with three stalls seemed empty, but he wasn’t taking any chance. He whisked her inside, and then he searched each stall. Avoiding her gaze, he held the door open.

  “Um, thanks,” she murmured.

  “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  As if he couldn’t feel like more of a jerk, Dylan stepped out of the ladies’ room and immediately saw Jayne’s father walking toward him. Peter Shackleford was accompanied by a black-haired man with heavy-lidded eyes, stubble on his jaw and a suit that looked like it had been made for him.

  “Javier Flores,” Jayne’s dad introduced him. “His family has been in the Venezuelan oil business for three generations.”

  The area outside the OR and the intensive-care unit was restricted. But Dylan had the feeling that Flores went wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted to go. He was sleek and intense. His dark eyes held unreadable secrets, and there was an edge about him. This was a mature and formidable man. Dylan needed to keep his eye on Flores.

  Chapter Eight

  After exchanging polite greetings with the Venezuelan, Dylan glanced toward Peter and said, “Jayne will be happy that you’re here.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll be able to watch the rest of the surgery she’s performing.”

 
Peter blinked as though he’d just awakened and found himself in a hospital corridor. “Surgery?”

  “The procedure she created,” Dylan said, reminding him. “She’s able to stimulate memory in stroke victims.”

  “Fascinating,” Flores said. “I did not know your daughter was a brain surgeon. Is this procedure successful?”

  “Very much so,” Dylan said.

  Jayne emerged from the restroom and confronted them. Her gaze rested on her father. Dylan knew she was looking for a sign of acknowledgment from Peter the Great. In the medical community, she received a ton of recognition. She was a superstar. But she still wanted applause from her father.

  Peter came toward her. “I hope we’re not too late to watch you do your thing.”

  “My thing?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Implanting the memory electrode,” Flores said as he shook her hand and introduced himself to Jayne. Dylan hadn’t mentioned electrodes or implants. How did Flores know?

  Her father asked, “When will you be finished?”

  “About another hour or hour and a half.”

  “Afterward,” Flores said, “we must take you out for an early dinner to celebrate another success.”

  Dylan’s protective instincts came to the forefront as he watched the handsome, perfectly tailored Venezuelan oozing charm all over Jayne. Was Flores naturally gushy around women? Drawn to Jayne in particular? Or did he have a more nefarious motive?

  Dylan was glad when she turned to him and asked, “What do you think about dining out?”

  The standard policy at TST Security was to allow clients to set their own agenda and then work around them. But Jayne wasn’t a standard client...not after that kiss in the break room. Dylan didn’t trust himself to stand by silently and observe while she was wined and dined. “We might need to take you to a safe house.”

  To Flores, she said, “We’ll talk later. Now I need to get back to surgery.”

  As she returned to the area where she would wash up and don her sterile gear before entering OR 1A, Dylan took her dad and Flores to the seating area nearby. “You can observe from here.”