Fugitive Spy. Jordyn Redwood

CIA. How could a man, his mentor, endanger his daughter so easily? It spoke of desperation. Of not being able to trust those he reported to. If Russell had information concerning this pathogen, he needed to give it to his handler, Jared Fleming. The only reason Casper could imagine Russell taking such a risk was if he didn’t trust Fleming anymore and didn’t know who else Fleming might have corrupted.

      “Fleming...” Ethan shook his head and clenched his hands against the wound, gritting his teeth together against the pain. A shudder ran through his body. “Compromised.”

      Casper’s stomach knotted. How did that happen? A handler compromised? Russell told Casper once during his fellowship, rather flippantly, that ES1 would make Marburg look like the common cold if it were developed and released.

      Had that been a warning for Casper? Did Russell know ES1 existed when he made that statement?

      “Does Fleming know about Ashley? That she might have this information?” Casper asked.

      “Hid it...from him.”

      “You were trying to find her?”

      “Hospital. Close.”

      That was Castle Peak Medical Center. No wonder Ethan was in this area. He’d gotten this far before he was discovered trying to get Ashley—to protect her.

      Will she even remember me? It’s been years. We’re both older. Different.

      “Take her...address. Help.”

      Casper shoved the items into his jeans pocket. He reached under his partner’s shoulders to lift him up, assuming his words were meant for assistance, but Ethan was dead weight. Casper settled him back down and placed his cheek next to his lips.

      Stillness. No inhalation. No exhalation.

      Ethan was dead.

      Clenching his hand into a fist, Casper punched the rotting wood planks. A window shattered and Casper instinctively flattened himself against the floor, his muscles tense. Even though his heart was heavy, there was no time for goodbyes. The decrepit back door whined as it shifted on its hinges, and Casper beelined through it and back out into the bitter night air.

      As he ran, Casper tripped on a roving tree root and fell into the snow just as a bullet whizzed past his ear, the high-pitched whine adding more chill to his bones than the drift he’d face-planted in. He wiped the frozen crystals from his eyes and tried to get his bearings. He needed a place to hide. There was a four-lane road off to his right. Cars streamed by and he considered commandeering one, but discarded the thought as it would draw too much attention.

      If he didn’t move fast, they were going to catch him and he wouldn’t be able to find Ashley and safeguard her.

      On his left, there was a copse of timber skeletons. In the faint moonlight, he couldn’t see the depth of them, but they were his only option for cover. The sound of heavy boot falls brought him to his feet and he ran, reaching instinctively to the waistband of his jeans for the small firearm he’d stowed there.

      It was gone. Likely ejected from its spot into the snow when he fell.

      Just as Casper reached a running stride, a hand clasped his shoulder and his feet tangled underneath him. A man, taller and heavier, forced him over onto his back. Two of his cohorts closed the remaining gap, each taking several swift kicks into his rib cage and sternum. His lungs exploded in white-hot fire. He tried to breathe. The effect of those blows was the same as being dropped straight onto his back and getting the wind knocked out of him. There was a glint of a knife straight up his jacket and shirt, the fabric falling away from his chest. Rough hands patted his body, his pants pocket. A fist connected with his jaw and his head spun.

      They were going to kill him.

      “Where is it?” one of the men yelled, delivering another kick to the side of his head.

      Casper flipped over and staggered onto his hands and knees. Droplets of blood—his blood—darkened the snow. A cut to his forehead? Pain seared in his chest as he coaxed the freezing air in.

      He didn’t know what they wanted, and if they determined he didn’t have it...they’d kill him just like Ethan.

      “Mr. English, if we don’t get the thumb drive, not only will you die, but whoever has it will suffer the same fate as you.”

      If Casper admitted he didn’t know what they were talking about, they’d finish him off without a thought. Ashley would be next. Would she even survive the night?

      Pain exploded as something unyielding connected with the back of his head. He splayed out onto the ground. Was someone whistling? A dog barking?

      Blackness.

      * * *

      The unconscious man was going to die if ER physician Ashley Drager didn’t do something.

      Quickly.

      “Ashley, his heart is throwing off some bad beats,” said Lance, one of the ER nurses, a raised urgency to his voice.

      Ashley glanced at the monitor. The rogue missteps of their patient’s heart had traversed by, now only witnessed by the ECG tracing the monitor automatically printed. His heart rate was on the low side, but considering his seemingly excellent physical shape that could be normal. Blood pressure was low as well, but not abnormal.

      The aberrant heartbeats Lance warned her about were out of place at best. Their patient didn’t wear a medical alert bracelet that gave witness to any serious medical conditions. A Colorado driver’s license identified him as Casper English. Age thirty-four. Five foot nine. One hundred and eighty pounds.

      Another nurse, Katie, pulled a photo from another of Mr. English’s pockets. Her eyes locked Ashley’s in terror as the red blood cells in her face scurried elsewhere, leaving her pink cheeks washed white. “It’s you,” she stammered.

      “What?”

      The young nurse held out a shaky hand. “The photo in his pocket is of you.”

      Ashley plucked the photo from her fingers—the image of her at her medical school graduation. Why would a stranger have this photo? She swallowed past the tension in her throat.

      First things first. If I want answers, I have to save his life.

      Two police officers huddled in the hall. A man found beaten in the woods certainly warranted their notification by the ER staff. His socks and shoes were missing. His shirt torn...no, sliced up the middle by something razor-sharp. A pair of worn, tattered jeans the only barrier left to protect him from the biting wind.

      Why do you have my picture? The thought became intrusive. She tried to shove it away.

      “What’s his temperature?” Ashley asked.

      “Ninety-three degrees,” Lance replied.

      “He has hypothermia. His heart doesn’t like this low body temperature and if we don’t get a handle on it, we’re going to have more problems on our hands. Warm blankets. Lots of them. Let’s get those IV fluids warmed up, as well.”

      Ashley frowned and gathered her dark brown hair into one of the ponytail holders she always kept on her wrist.

      So much for getting off work on time. Lord, would it be too much to ask to have an end of shift without a major crisis?

      As a favor to the night shift physician, Ashley had agreed to examine the mysterious arrival that had been dropped off by a stranger and his dog. The man who’d left him hadn’t wanted to answer many questions. Ashley hadn’t thought she’d walk in to find a critical patient flirting with the grim reaper.

      In a flurry of activity, Lance changed out the IV tubing so the fluid ran over a warming plate. Several heated blankets were placed over their patient. Katie grabbed a set of hot lights and set them over the ER gurney, their patient like fast food waiting for delivery.

      Ashley placed two fingers in the groove of the unconscious man’s right wrist, finding his pulse