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Fiona was in some sort of trouble. He tried to think, to remember if she’d been with him when he’d descended into the basement to find Micheline’s prison.
No. She hadn’t. But then why did he remember hearing her voice? He thought back, wincing as he recalled Bart and Randall trying to pick him up, thinking he could somehow walk up the stairs. And then Fiona had insisted he wouldn’t be able to, so Micheline had asked them to get a stretcher.
Fiona had been there. How? And why? He doubted Micheline had brought Fiona down there to show off her prison. Plus Leigh would have been there, and he didn’t remember hearing Leigh’s voice.
Which meant...what? Had Fiona been taken prisoner, too? Had they—Randall o
r Bart—beaten her, too? Fury heated his blood. So help him, if either of those fools had touched one hair on her head, he’d make them regret it.
He had to go check on her. Glancing around, he saw he’d been hooked to a single IV, though the hanging bag had gone dry. His painkillers, no doubt. There didn’t appear to be any kind of machines monitoring him. Taking a deep breath, which brought on so much pain he broke out in a sweat, he tried to push himself up on his elbows.
Not happening. Not today, his broken body screamed.
Still, he persisted. Damned if he’d lie here and rest while Fiona suffered. He had to get to her or, even better, figure out a way to bring in reinforcements.
There had to be someone in the FBI he could call. But first, he had to get out of this bed and find a phone.
Finally, after several excruciating attempts, he managed to sit up enough that he could press the button to electronically adjust the bed. Now, with back support, he could sit, and hopefully the pain levels would subside enough for him to try to get up from the bed.
A quick glance under the sheet made him realize he wore no clothes, not even his underwear. He didn’t see them anywhere in the room, either. Guessing they’d been bloody due to his beating, he imagined his captors had tossed them in the trash somewhere or incinerated them.
There had to be something he could wear. Even a hospital gown would be better than wrapping a bedsheet around himself and trying to walk down the hall. Though he would if he had to. Once he made it back to his room, he could grab a change of clothes and check on Fiona.
His phone. He could simply call her, and once she answered, he’d let her know where to find him. If only he had his phone.
Evidently, they’d taken that, too. Glad he’d password protected the thing, he took a fierce kind of pleasure knowing they wouldn’t be able to use it. Unless they pressed his thumbprint on it while he was unconscious, which was entirely possible.
“Looks like you’re going to live.”
Jake looked up. The same attendant from earlier stood in the doorway, eyeing him.
“It appears so,” Jake replied. “What’s the prognosis?”
“Since they wouldn’t take you to the hospital for X-rays, I can’t be entirely certain, but I think you have a couple of bruised or broken ribs. It looks like whoever beat you kept the blows centered there. You’re lucky, because they could easily have taken out a kneecap or an elbow. You’ve got a lot of bruises and cuts, but as far as I can tell without X-rays, nothing else seems to be broken.”
Jake nodded, wincing at the pain this caused. “My head?” he asked. “No fracture? They clubbed me in the back of my skull to knock me out. It still hurts like hell.”
Coming closer, the woman smiled. “You have a pretty big gash there, so I’m guessing that’s the source of your pain. And your nose doesn’t appear to be broken, surprisingly. Initially, I even thought one of your cheekbones was fractured, but it’s not.”
The lackadaisical approach to medicine floored him. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because she frowned. “Look, I’m just an RN. I’m supposed to be treating colds and strep throat and the occasional infected cut. Not something like this.” She waved her hand at him. “I demanded you be transported by ambulance to the ER. You looked terrible and I wasn’t sure you’d make it. They wouldn’t let me call 911, so I did the best I could.”
“They?” he asked. “Meaning Micheline.”
Slowly, she nodded. “And Leigh. I’ve seen far too much of this kind of thing lately. Now that I know you’re stable, I’m quitting. I can’t work for people like this.”
If they let her leave, he thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. He wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up in a cell down in the basement, too.
“You called?” Bart’s voice, startling both of them.
Suddenly, the nurse wouldn’t meet Jake’s gaze. “Yes. He’s well enough to be transported back to his cell.”
“What?” Jake tried to push away from the pillow, but the blinding pain knocked him back instead.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said before lifting a needle and giving him a shot in the arm. Everything went black after that.
* * *
After Jake had been taken away on a stretcher, Micheline turned to face Fiona.
