A Risk Worth Taking. Brynn Kelly

well, Harriet,” he said.

      “That’s because you’re no longer around.” Her gaze dropped to where his hand joined Samira’s and then rose to Samira’s face. What was that—pity? Whatever happened to jealousy? She clutched the tablet like it was a ballistic chest plate. “I assume you want something.”

      “I need to borrow your security pass, just for five minutes. And quite quickly.”

      She raised thin eyebrows. “And that doesn’t sound at all dodgy.”

      “We’re passing straight through—I won’t touch a thing, I promise. There’s a guy following us. We have to lose him.”

      “Is he a cop?”

      “No.”

      “What did you do to him? Maybe I should let him catch up.”

      “Harriet...” He sharpened his tone. She needed to think he still posed a threat.

      “You know I could lose my job? I’ve only just recovered from the last time we—” She glanced at Samira. “Traded favors.”

      “Only if somebody finds out. And you know I don’t share secrets.”

      Her mouth tightened, a pucker of smoker’s fissures. They both knew he had her at “secrets.” Blondie was nearing the automatic doors.

      “Seriously, we’re in a bit of a hurry,” he said. “I don’t have time to explain.”

      “Good. I don’t want to hear it.”

      She exhaled in disgust and swiveled. They followed her around the circular desk until they were shielded from view of the entrance. He squeezed Samira’s hand, which hadn’t defrosted one degree. Harriet swiped at a security check and pushed a door open, ushering them into a deserted hallway—leading to the acute ward, if that hadn’t changed. The door swished closed and the lock clicked. He pulled Samira away from a window set into the door.

      Harriet hugged the tablet again. “Did you ever stop running, James, this whole time?”

      “Nope. That’s why I’m so square-jawed and fit.”

      “Oh, please don’t think I’m going to go all weak-kneed from one smile. I’m immune to you. I’ve developed antibodies against the virus that is James Armstrong. We’re even now, right?”

      He held out his palm. “Card.”

      “Which gate are you heading to?”

      “We’ll go out the west staff entrance to the Thames Path.”

      She yanked her lanyard over her ponytail and shoved it into his hand. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Straight through. Keep it out of sight. Don’t talk to anyone.”

      He closed his fingers around it. “Didn’t plan to.”

      “Mariya’s charge nurse in the Princess Alice wing today. Leave it with her—no one else. I take it you remember her.”

      Mariya. His luck was holding. “I do, as a matter of fact.”

      “Don’t let the bosses see you, and for God’s sake, restrain yourself from operating on anyone on your way through. We can all do without your ‘help.’”

      “Ah, you know me so well, Harriet.”

      “To my eternal regret.” She drummed trimmed fingernails on the back of the tablet. “This makes us even, right?”

      “Guess so.”

      “Good. I look forward to never seeing you again.”

      “Nice catching up, Harriet. And you might want to call the cops to pick up the tall blond guy who has just walked into the A&E. Blue jeans, brown leather jacket. He has a gun.”

      She swore, raising a palm, dismissively. “Oh God. It never ends with you, does it?”

      “I’m serious, about the guy.”

      “Just. Go.”

      The department’s renovations evidently hadn’t progressed further than the waiting area. A two-star hotel with a gleaming false advertisement of a lobby. He pulled Samira into a dingy corridor toward radiology, the hospital layout coming back to him like a blueprint overlaid onto his vision. His life had forged a new path but the corridors hadn’t. Still the same industrial-strength disinfectants failing to mask the stench of urine and decay. No number of interior-design consultants could disguise that. Still the same artificial lighting, so white it made even the healthy look gray and sick. Hell, it probably made people sick. And no matter what chirpy color hospitals painted their walls, how did it always end up some shade of mucus?

      Beside him, Samira looked like an incognito movie star on a surprise visit to cheer up sick children. He realized he was still holding her hand. Ah, well, couldn’t hurt. Physical contact—proven to produce oxytocin, lower blood pressure and reduce stress and anxiety. Ergo, ward off panic attacks.

       And just you keep kidding yourself it’s for her benefit.

      At the double doors into the back of cardiology, he scanned Harriet’s card over the reader. The light went red and it bleeped. Damn. He’d assumed she’d have access everywhere. They must have tightened security. He’d have to reconfigure his route.

      The doors opened and a tall bald guy in a short-sleeved white shirt and bow tie strode out, speaking to a staff nurse in a Belfast accent. Crap. Jamie spun to the handwashing station and bent over it as they passed. Samira took the hint and blocked the side view. That smarmy idiot had made consultant? God help the good people of South London. And the only excuse for a bow tie on a Sunday was if you’d got lucky at a black-tie do the night before.

      Jamie caught the door before it closed, and ushered Samira through, reluctantly dropping her hand. Best to look like colleagues catching up with paperwork on their day off.

      “You know this place well,” Samira said, quietly. “From when you were a paramedic?”

      “Aye,” he said, a mite too eagerly, “that’s why I brought us here.”

      Their enemy couldn’t watch every exit from the ever-spreading octopus of a complex. And the exit he planned to use was so obscure that only the longest-serving staff smokers knew about it—or, in his case, those who wanted to come and go without being observed or clocked. The sooner they got away, the less chance of being surrounded. Once out, they’d catch the first black cab or bus they saw. Melt into London.

      It’d be quicker if they could cut through the courtyard to the Princess Alice wing, rather than navigate the horseshoe of corridors and departments encircling it, but they needed air cover. Back at St Pancras he’d got a reasonable look at the ground enemy. Four men, three women, including Blondie and his driver. He’d committed their faces to memory—though an amped-up mercenary should be easy to spot among the glassy-eyed zombies who haunted the hospital on a Sunday morning. Then again, Samira stood out, too, in style alone.

      She looked healthier than when his train had pulled out of the Gare de Blois, leaving her standing motionless on a deserted platform, staring after his carriage. In his mind’s eye, she’d been there ever since—until he’d spotted her at St Pancras. A little curvier, her face less gaunt, her hair longer. Perhaps grief had started to release its stranglehold.

      In that week they’d spent together, unwrapping her had become a game—one he’d taken too far too fast, and paid the price. Every now and then he’d succeeded in drawing out a piece of the real Samira. Like a rat in a lab, he’d learned to steer the conversation to subjects that would engage or amuse her or—when that didn’t work—enrage her. When he’d played it right and lit her up, he’d lit up, too—and not much accomplished that these days. Boy, had she lit up. Her eyes sparked, her spine straightened, breath quickened, voice sharpened. Even her skin seemed to change, turning mahogany like a flame was warming it from beneath. Watching that was the reward for his persistence. He’d like to