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I know Nick has been a crazy, obsessed motherfucker from the first day Julianna was carried into the facility, but the other man? I shake my head in bewilderment. That was not one of Nick’s crew. Shit, I can’t even begin to solve that particular dilemma right now. I’m in survival mode, and in order to survive, my gut is telling me there is another tracker I missed somewhere on her body.
Grinding my teeth back and forth with frustration, I think about where in the hell another tracker could be. I begin scoping her battered body from head to toe, and then take it a step further and start feeling around her entire body like a groping, horny teenager.
“Really, Travis?!” Grant scoffs, almost in disgust. “She was just in a serious car accident. You got it that bad for her, son?”
I don’t stop my searching as I speak matter-of-factly, “Grant, I’ve got a serious situation here. I’m looking for a tracker.”
Grant immediately stops wrapping Julianna’s head with the gauze for a moment, turns to me in stunned disbelief, and then narrows his eyes in consternation as he whispers, “What the hell are you into, boy?”
I shake my head, breathing heavily. I’m frustrated as hell as I frantically search her body. “It’s ten-ways-to-Sunday fucked up, Grant. The less you know, the better—you know the drill—but I do know more than one person is after her.” I shift my eyes to the man I’ve idolized for years, my gaze hard and menacing. “They want her real bad, and they’re not fucking around.” Why they want her this bad, I haven’t the first clue.
I continue to feel around for a device, working my way to the edges of her clothing. “She’s got experimental drugs rolling through her system. I need you to help me detox her.”
“What kind of experimental drugs, Travis?” he asks warily.
“The list is too long, Doc.”
Grant is speechless as I skim my hands all over her body, growing more frustrated by the second. Sliding my hands to her pajama top’s sleeve’s hem, I feel nothing. Shit, come on. I make my way to the edge of her pant legs to feel for anything unusual. Son of a bitch! In the left leg of her hemmed bottoms is a small tracker. They must have put them in all her clothes. I rip her pants off without thought. Glancing over at Grant, the poor man is almost in shock; he isn’t used to this. He’s just standing there as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Grant, we’ve got a problem,” I tell him calmly as I kneel down, placing the tracker on the linoleum floor. “Snap out of it, Doc. Need you to finish up here. I’ve gotta get her out of here,” I demand. I reach into my back pocket and pull out my Leatherman knife. Using the back of the metal casing, I smash the tracker to hell, rendering it useless.
Grant slowly moves his glazed eyes from the crushed tracker on the floor to me, looking stunned. “Grant! C’mon, man.”
He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. Being the ever intellectual man, he tries to reason with me. “She needs to have some x-rays, possibly an MRI, and I don’t know the extent of her head injury yet. Right now, she’s experiencing temporary unconsciousness caused by a severe blow to the head. She could have a fractured skull, memory loss, brain injury, and twenty other things I can’t name right now. Hell, Travis!” He shouts my name, exasperated with me. Grant doesn’t cuss, ever, and when a speech ends with ‘Hell, Travis’, I know the poor man is at his wits’ end.
“Look, this facility is perfectly safe.” Grant continues, “Policemen hover around here twenty-four-seven. Surely someone would be nuts to even try—”
“That’s the operative word, Grant, nuts,” I interrupt, snapping at him. “They’re not only nuts, but when they want something; they will stop at nothing to get it. You need to understand one thing here, Doc, just one thing.” I hold up my index finger to drive my point home. “All those MRIs and diagnoses don’t mean shit if you’re determining her death in...” I pause, moving my gaze down to the face of my watch for effect, “…thirty minutes or less.” I stand to my full height, meeting him eye-to-eye. “If she stays, Grant, not only does she die, but so do we.”
He doesn’t care for this bit of news; I can see it plain as day in his body language. He’s not used to someone else calling shots in his domain, especially when it’s over a patient who clearly needs his attention. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. He then lets out an exasperated sigh, indicating he’s throwing in the towel.
“All right, Travis, I get it. Whatever you need, you got it. You’ve got my number if you have questions or need more help.” He hesitates. “I’ve always trusted your instincts.”
