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Freya climbed from the hospital bed so she could pace the room. She wore the requisite gown and had removed the uncomfortable walking boot. She paced the room in a pair of slippers provided by the only nurse who knew she wasn’t a real patient.
Cal’s voice carried through the door. “Dr. Edwards is sleeping.”
Freya had a moment to decide if she should step into the bathroom or get back in bed. She grabbed the boot and hurried into the bathroom, where she sat on the shower chair and put the boot back on, tightening the Velcro straps as quietly as possible.
“Ms. Edwards?” The woman’s voice accompanied a tap on the door.
Doctor or investigator?
“Yes?”
“I was sent to do a blood draw.”
“I’m going to need a minute.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
Seriously? Since when did a nurse or orderly or whoever the woman was wait while hospitalized patients used the bathroom?
Freya considered making dramatic noises in hopes of driving the woman away, but decided to get the interaction over with. Her blood type wouldn’t match Diana’s, but hopefully no one would notice that right away.
They’d have to sort out the whole medical fraud thing later.
Oops. It’s not okay to fake check in to a real hospital under someone else’s name?
Freya had taken on oligarchs and once even stopped a coup and a televangelist set on bringing about the end of days, but she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d be able to face down the US health insurance system.
It might require faking her own death.
She stepped out of the bathroom to meet the hospital employee. “Is a blood draw really necessary?”
“I don’t write the orders. I just follow them.” The woman nodded toward the bed. “Get comfortable. You prefer left or right arm?”
She couldn’t remember if Diana was left- or right-handed, so she said, “Either.”
The band was around her arm and the woman was swabbing the inside of her elbow with alcohol when Freya spotted the syringe full of some kind of liquid. Not a blood draw.
She glanced at the woman’s face.
“Honey?” Freya called out. She wasn’t worried, but it might go smoother with Cal in the room.
“Do needles make you nervous? This’ll be done in a flash. You’ll barely feel a thing.”
“Honey,” she said, louder and with emphasis this time.
The woman picked up the needle. “I promise, you’ll barely feel it.”
The door slammed open and Cal entered the room, his gun drawn. “Step away from her.”
The young woman’s eyes widened. “What the hell?”
Freya repeated, “Honey?” This time she said the word sweetly.
Cal nodded. “Trap.”
The woman moved so Freya’s head and heart were right behind her from where Cal was standing. A shot at the fake nurse could wound or kill Freya too. She held the syringe to Freya’s throat.
She was clearly expecting a wounded and untrained archaeologist, not a woman who’d been in the CIA’s special forces.
