The ambulance had just turned around to go in the direction the boys were pointing, but when the gunshots were fired, it changed course. Sirens on, the ambulance crossed over the curb and swerved to miss the hospital emergency entrance sign. It bounded across the park toward the gunshot victim, weaving in and out of the crowd that was scrambling toward the boulevard.
Ellie jumped to her feet and ran after it. Her mind was racing. Who were the surgeons on call tonight? Edmonds and Walmer, she remembered, and she’d seen both of them in the hospital. Good.
The target had been a good distance away from the shooter, but he’d taken a direct hit to the torso. Ellie had no idea how bad the wound was, but she thought, if she could stabilize him, he’d make it to the OR.
The ambulance crossed the grassy area of the park in no time and stopped a few feet away from the downed man. Two paramedics leapt to the ground. Ellie recognized them: Mary Lynn Scott and Russell Probst. Russell opened the back doors and pulled out the gurney while Mary Lynn reached for the large, orange trauma bag and rushed forward, sliding to her knees beside the victim. By the time Ellie reached the scene, armed agents had surrounded him. One knelt on the ground talking to the man, trying to keep him calm, while two others stood over him.
An agent, taller than the other two and much more muscular through the shoulders, blocked her view. He barely glanced at her as he brusquely ordered, “You don’t need to see this. Go back to your soccer game.”
Go back to your game? Was he serious? Ellie was about to protest when one of the paramedics looked up, spotted her, and shouted, “Oh, thank God. Dr. Sullivan.”
All three agents looked at her skeptically and then slowly stepped aside so that she could get past. Mary Lynn tossed her a pair of gloves, and Ellie pulled them on as she knelt down beside the man to assess the injury. Blood saturated the man’s shirt. She gently lifted the compress Mary Lynn had pressed to his shoulder, saw the damage, and immediately sought to stem the bleeding. While she gave orders to Russell and Mary Lynn, she kept her voice steady. The patient was conscious, and she didn’t want him to panic.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
She made it a point never to lie to a patient. That didn’t mean she had to be brutally honest, however. “It’s bad, but I’ve seen much worse, much worse.”
Russell handed her a clamp, and she found the source of the bleeding. The bullet hadn’t gone through but had made quite an entrance.
Once Mary Lynn had gotten the IV line in, Ellie nodded to her to begin the drip.
“What’s your name?” she asked as she began packing the wound.
“Sean . . . Sean . . . ah, hell, I can’t remember my last name.” His eyelids began to flutter as he struggled to stay conscious.
The agent kneeling behind him said, “Goodman.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sean said, his voice growing weaker.
“Can you remember if you’re allergic to anything?” Mary Lynn asked.
“Just bullets.” Sean stared at Ellie through half-closed eyes. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes,” she said, flashing a smile. She finished packing the wound and leaned back on her heels.
“Dr. Sullivan’s a trauma surgeon,” Russell explained. “If you had to get shot, she’s the one you want operating on you. She’s the best there is.”
“Okay, he’s stable. You can take him,” Ellie said as she peeled off her gloves and dropped them in the plastic container Mary Lynn opened for her.
Sean suddenly grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Wait . . .”
“Yes?”
“I want to marry Sara. Am I going to see her again?”
She leaned over him. “Yes, you will,” she said. “But first you’re going into the OR to get that bullet out. Now sleep. It’s all good. The surgeon will take care of you.”
“Who’s on tonight?” Russell asked.
“Edmonds and Walmer,” Mary Lynn answered.
Sean tightened his hold on Ellie’s arm. “I want you.” He didn’t give her time to respond but held tight and forced himself to stay awake as he repeated, “He said you’re the best. I want you to operate.”
She put her hand on top of his and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
She stood and stepped back to get out of the way so that the paramedics could put Sean into the ambulance but was stopped by something solid. It felt as though she’d just backed into a slab of granite. The agent who had told her to go back to her soccer game was blocking her exit with his warm, hard chest. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, then let go. When he still didn’t get out of her way, she stood her ground pressed against him.
“Dr. Sullivan, do you want to ride with us?” Russell called out.
“No, go ahead. He’s stable now.”
Russell swung the doors shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, and the ambulance was on its way.
Ellie turned to the agent who had been kneeling with Sean. “Was anyone else hurt?”
The granite wall behind her answered. “Not hurt, dead.” He was very matter-of-fact.
“They weren’t ours,” another agent explained. “They were wanted men.”
She turned around and came face to shoulders with the most intimidating man she’d ever seen, and that was saying something considering the monster chief of surgery she worked under. This man didn’t look anything like him, though. The agent was tall, dark, and scary, with thick black hair and penetrating, steely gray eyes. His firm square jaw was covered with at least one day’s growth of beard, maybe two. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in at least twenty-four hours, a look she knew all too well.
Ellie’s heart skipped a beat. The man could scare the quills off a porcupine. But, oh God, was he sexy! Ellie gave herself a mental slap. An intimidating man who was built like a monument and could melt iron with his menacing glare—this was what she was attracted to?
The agent who had been kneeling stepped forward and put out his hand. “I’m Agent Tom Bradley. Sean Goodman’s my partner.” He introduced her to the agent on his left and then to the man in front of her. “Agent Max Daniels.”
She nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the OR.” She didn’t wait for permission, but turned and ran back to the hospital.
Thirty minutes later she was dropping the bullet she’d retrieved from Sean’s shoulder into a small metal pan. “Bag it and get it to one of the agents waiting outside. You know the drill.”
Then the real work of repairing the damage began. Ellie had learned over the years that there was no such thing as a simple bullet wound. Bullets had a way of doing considerable damage before settling, but Agent Goodman was lucky. His bullet hadn’t penetrated any major organs or nerves.
Once she’d closed, she followed the patient to recovery, wrote orders, and went to talk to the crowd gathered in the surgical waiting room. A dozen people with worried faces sat waiting for the news. Agent Daniels was standing, leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest. His gaze followed her as she entered the room, and her heart began to race. She knew she looked a mess. She pulled off her cap and threaded her fingers through her hair. Why in heaven’s name she wanted to look good for him was beyond her comprehension, and yet she did.
“The surgeon’s here,” Daniels announced.
A petite young woman jumped up and rushed forward, followed by Agent Bradley and a crowd of worried relatives.
“The surgery went well,” she began and then explained some of what she had repaired, trying not to be too technical. “I expect him to make a full recovery.”
Sara, his fiancée, was crying as she stammered her thank-you. She shook Ellie’s hand and held on to it.
“You can see him in about an hour,” Ellie told her. “He’s heavily sedated and he’s not going to know you’re there,” she warned. “He’ll be in recovery for a while, then they’ll take him to ICU. Once the nurses in ICU have him settled, they’ll send someone to get you. Any
questions?”
A frazzled-looking nurse appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Sullivan?”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind looking at Mrs. Klein for us? She’s Edmond’s patient, but he’s in surgery.”
“I’ll be right there.”
She patted Sara’s hand and pulled free. “All right then. It’s all good.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Agent Daniels smile as she turned to leave. She walked down the corridor and had just turned the corner when he caught up with her.
“Hey, Doctor.”
She turned around. Her stupid heart went into overdrive again. “Yes?”
“We’re going to need to talk to you about the shooting. You’ll have to give a statement.”
“When?”
“How about after you check on that patient?”
She couldn’t resist. “Gee, I don’t know. I hate to miss soccer practice.”
She was laughing as she pushed the doors aside and disappeared into ICU.
Max Daniels stood there staring after her, a slight grin crossing his face.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Damn.”
Table of Contents
Teaser chapter
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
DUTTON
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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © 1996 by Julie Garwood
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eISBN : 978-1-101-53355-0
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For my sister and dear friend,
Mary Kathleen Murphy McGuire
Prologue
The Highlands, Scotland, 1103
Donald MacAlister didn’t die easy. The old man fought to stay alive with every ounce of strength and every pound of stubbornness he possessed. Though he should have welcomed death as an end to the terrible pain and anguish he was enduring, he wouldn’t give in to his suffering yet, for there was still the most important legacy of all to pass down before he could close his eyes and rest.
His legacy was hate. The laird was consumed by hatred for his enemy. He needed to see his son burn with the fever for revenge, and until he was certain the boy understood the importance of righting the terrible wrong done this dark day, he would continue to fight death. And so he clung to life and to his son’s hand, so small and fragile in his big, leathery one, his black eyes boring into those of his only living heir, while the old man instructed him in his sacred duty.
“Avenge me, Connor MacAlister. Take my hatred into your heart, protect it, nurture it, and when you’ve grown older and stronger, use my sword to slay my enemies. I cannot die in peace until you’ve given me your word you’ll avenge this evil deed done to me and mine. Promise me, boy.”
“Yes, Father,” Connor fervently vowed. “I will avenge you.”
“Do you burn with the fever for revenge?”
“I do.”
Donald nodded with contentment. He was finally at peace, and if he lived long enough to give his son directions for his future, that was all well and good; but if the next breath he drew were to be his last, that would be acceptable to him too, because he knew his son would find a way to do what he must. Connor had already proven to be highly intelligent, and his father had complete faith in him.
’Twas a pity Donald MacAlister wouldn’t be around to see his son grow into manhood, but with a broken leg and a fair-sized hole near his belly, he knew how foolish it was to wish for impossible things. God was proving merciful, however. The pain had eased considerably in the past few minutes, and a blessed numbness was stealing up from his feet to his knees.
“Father, give me the names of the men who did this to you.”
“ ’Twas the Kaerns who attacked. They came down from the north and from too far away to want our land. They’re blood related to the MacNares, though, and I’ve a suspicion their laird had a hand in this evil. MacNare’s always been a greedy one. He’ll never be content. You’d best kill him before he causes you trouble, or his lust for more land will bring him to your doorstep. Don’t act in haste,” he cautioned. “Neither the Kaerns nor the MacNares are cunning enough to have planned this boldness. They must have acted under directions from another. I don’t know who the traitor is, but you’ll find out. ’Tis my feeling the enemy hails from within.”
“One of our own betrayed you?” Connor was stunned by the possibility.
“Since yesterday eve when they attacked, I’ve been considering that possibility. The Kaerns came in through passages only my followers knew about. They never would have found the entrances without direction. There’s a traitor all right, and it will be your duty to ferret him out. He’s one of us, Connor, of that I’m certain. God willing, he’s singing the death rattle even now on my own battlefield. You’ll bide your time until you have all the names. Then wreak vengeance upon all of those still living. Consider killing their sons as well, boy.”
“I will, Father. I’ll destroy all of them.”
Donald’s grip on his son’s hand tightened. “This be my final lesson to you. Watch me die and learn how to live as a warrior. When you leave me, go to the path in the forest. Angus waits there to give you instructions for your immediate future.”
The laird waited until his son nodded his agreement before speaking again. “Look around you and tell me what you see. Is it all gone? ”
Connor stared at the destruction surrounding him, silently weeping with anguish. The stench of burning wood and fresh blood made his stomach lurch.
“The keep is in ruins, but I’ll rebuild.”
“Aye, you will. You must make
your fortress invincible. Learn from my mistakes, Connor.”
“I will make my keep stronger.”
“What of my loyal men?”
“Most are dead.”
The despair in the boy’s voice washed over the laird, and he immediately tried to reassure him. “Their sons will come back. They’ll wear your colors and claim your name. They’ll follow you as their fathers followed me. The time draws near for you to leave. Wrap a cloth tight around and around your injury to stem the blood before you stand, or more will be lost with each step you take. Do it now while I rest beside you.”
Connor hurried to obey his father’s command, though he didn’t believe his injury was significant enough to merit protection. Most of the blood covering his body was from his father’s wounds, not his own.
“You’ll have a scar to remind you of this black day,” Donald predicted.
“I need no reminder. I won’t forget.”
“No, you won’t forget. Does it pain you?”
“No.”
Donald grunted with approval. The boy had never been a complainer, a fact his father found most pleasing. He had all the makings of a mighty warrior.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Nine or ten years now,” he answered.
“I’m thinking you might be older or younger. Your size tells me you’re still a boy, but your eyes have turned into those of a man. I see the bright fire of fury there, and I am pleased by you.”
“I could take you with me.”
“You will not drag a dead man behind you.”
“Do your injuries pain you, Father?”
“ ’Tis the truth I don’t feel anything now. I seem to have gone numb. A blessed way to die, I’m thinking. Some men would not be as fortunate.”