Chapter Seven

Doc

Present Day

The purr of the SUV's engine soothes me as I accelerate onto Interstate 5. Until flashing detour signs direct me to exit at Industrial Way. Fucking jackknifed tractor trailer is going to send me right past Hidden Agenda's warehouse.

It's been almost four months. By now, you'd think I'd be able to forget about the last time I saw Ryker McCabe. And his team. But whenever I leave my home in West Seattle, I have to pass within five minutes of the damn place.

The K&R firm rescues people from the worst of humanity all over the world. And when they're injured, they count on me to patch them up. Or…they did.

Years ago, McCabe's job offer pulled me out of a hole so dark and deep, I didn't think I'd ever see daylight again. Saving people—saving his people—gave me purpose. A mission. And enough money, I'm set for the rest of my life. Even if I never work another day.

"Patch up my team. Whatever. Whenever," he says, staring down at me with ice in his multi-hued eyes.

"And wherever?"

"Fuck, no. You treat my people at a neutral location. Rent an office. Buy an RV and set up a mobile clinic. I don't care. Whatever you need—equipment, money, permits—you'll have it."

For a few months, anyone he sent my way had to go to an office park in the Central District. It was damn lucky the place had a back door down an alley no one wanted to hang out in. My very illegal medical practice was sandwiched between a yarn store and a crystal shop. Someone would have noticed all the blood.

Then one of McCabe's team was targeted by a stalker. The asshole kidnapped and tortured her lover. The guy was so bad off when they rescued him, he could barely stand—let alone handle the drive from his Capitol Hill condo.

One house call earned me the trust for another. And another. I haven't needed that office since.

A cop waves me through a stoplight. Traffic is so heavy, I get a good look at the warehouse—and the single, black SUV parked out front. The same SUV McCabe was driving the last time I saw him. The night everything changed.

Seventeen years as Air Force Pararescue, saving the strongest and deadliest of the United States Armed Forces all over Iraq and Afghanistan. Eight years as an ER doc in Los Angeles. Two years at Harborview in Seattle before it all went to shit. Then all the work McCabe sent my way.

I thought I'd seen it all. Bruises so deep they were almost black. Gunshot wounds. Stabbings. Concussions. Broken bones. The most outrageous things I could ever imagine shoved up orifices they had no business being in. But nothing—not even amputating a man's leg with a glorified pair of scissors on the deck of a helo flying over the Al-Faw Peninsula—prepared me for what I saw the first, last, and only time McCabe called me to the warehouse.

Raelynn—the newest member of the team—was still recovering from a partially dislocated shoulder. But a couple of assholes broke into her home and, in less than an hour, put her in such a bad state, if McCabe hadn't been a universal blood donor, she'd probably be dead.

I've seen her and her guy—Nash—a couple of times since that night, checking on bruises, dislocated joints, and severe smoke inhalation. They're all healed up now, thank God. She's the one who told me McCabe and his wife had a baby girl. The kid is almost twelve weeks old now. I'll never meet her. Never know her name.

Why does that bother me?

I wasn't supposed to get close enough to any of his team to care. No details. No questions. Stay on the outside. Always.

But Raelynn reminds me a little of Tessa. The same smart mouth. The same attitude. The same stubborn refusal to take it easy. So when I realized how badly she was injured, I laid into McCabe. He told me to patch her up and get the fuck out.

It'd be easy enough to flip a U-turn. See if he really is there. But what the hell would I say to the man?

"Anyone need a doctor?"

"Still saving the world or are you on permanent diaper duty?"

"If you don't need me anymore, you can stop with the ridiculously large paychecks."

He'd probably kick my ass.

A horn blares. I slam on the brakes, coming to a stop only inches from the car in front of me.

Fuck. Pay attention. You got too close and you got burned.

With a quick shake of my head, I clear the cobwebs and focus on my destination. It's only been ten days since I last flew up to Blakely. But after a year of spending almost all my free time up there, the island is in my blood now.

Or maybe it's Nat who keeps drawing me back. The memory of the one night where we almost lost ourselves in one another haunts me. It was over a year ago now. The 4th of July has come and gone again, but I can't forget how she felt in my arms. How she tasted. How she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

Until she didn't.

She stopped meeting me at the boathouse after that night. But sometimes, I catch her watching me from her deck. I've waved, hoping to entice her to come down and chat. But she never has.

Gladys, on the other hand, is always waiting for me. Usually with a bag of cookies or brownies or a slice of pie for the "Dr. Sexy Pants" who came to her rescue. If it weren't for how terrified her niece was that night, I'd be convinced she faked that whole episode of confusion just to get me and Nat in the same room together.

I get the sense Gladys doesn't have many people who'll sit and listen to her—besides Nat. I try to show up half an hour before check-in every week to let her talk my ear off. Or interrogate me. Most of the time, she steers the conversation toward Nat before long. I don't have the heart to tell her Nat and I will never be more than strangers.

Once or twice, I've helped Gladys with odd jobs she can't do on her own. Like changing her lightbulbs or the batteries in her smoke detectors. I cleaned her gutters one week. Replaced a rotten board on her deck. A month ago, after several trips without a project, I offered to scrape the moss from the shady side of her house. Just to have a reason to chat with her.

I wonder if she'll have anything for me to do this time.

My phone rings, the car's in-dash display flashing: Medical Clinic.

"Reynolds," I say when the call connects.

"It's Angela." The young nurse clears her throat. "Um, Dr. Lambert has the flu. She can't come in today. I know you don't usually work the first part of the week, but could you cover for her?"

I should say no. I want to say no. The clear blue sky beckons. It's a perfect day for flying. An even better day for camping.

"The waiting room is almost full." Angela's voice catches. "And there's a DV case in Exam Room 2 with her eight-year-old son. She's terrified her boyfriend will find her. I called Detective Mitchell, but he can't get here for at least two hours. I know Dr. Lambert said we can't afford a security guard, but what if it happens again…?"

Fuck.

The free clinic in one of Seattle's rougher neighborhoods sees at least one domestic violence case a week. Sometimes more. A few days before Christmas, a patient's husband broke in just after closing and threatened to kill Angela if she didn't tell him where his wife was.

She was lucky. Someone at the donut shop next door heard her scream and came to investigate. The asshole fled, and the cops picked him up a few hours later. Angela was so traumatized, she almost quit.

"Dr. Reynolds?"

That others may live.

The PJ motto floats through my head on repeat. I can't leave Angela to handle this alone.

At the next light, I turn onto Airport Way and floor it. The clinic is only fifteen minutes away, but I can make it in ten if I'm lucky.

"I'm headed in. Lock the front door until I get there and keep your phone handy."

"But—"

"Do it, Angela. If anyone else shows up, use the intercom and ask them to wait outside. It's a nice day, and I'll be there before you know it."

"Okay." She lets out a slow, heavy breath. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure. And I'm making some calls when we close for lunch. One way or another, we're hiring that security guard."

Easing the silver Lexus into a parking spot behind the building, I relax my grip on the steering wheel. In five minutes, I'll be able to assess that domestic violence case myself—and keep an eye out for the woman's boyfriend. If he tries to get to her, he'll regret the day he was born.

I'm not losing another one.

I send Angela a quick text to warn her I'm coming in the back door, then enter the six-digit code. The lock is a fucking joke, but it's light years better than the simple deadbolt we had when I started here.

Tears shimmer in her eyes when she sees me. "Dr. Reynolds, thank you. I didn't know what I was going to do if you hadn't answered the phone…"

"Dr. Lambert should have called me first thing this morning. It's not your responsibility to make sure we're fully staffed. And we need a better system for DV cases than just ‘call Detective Mitchell and hope for the best.'" Shrugging into my doctor's coat, I head down the hall. "But we'll figure that out later. Let's see what our patient needs."

"You sure you want the full package?" Lucas asks. He tucks one of his shoulder-length dreads behind his ear and stares down at his tablet screen. "We could start you on the basic system. Anything else would be…well…"

"Massive overkill?" He's trying to be nice, but I know what this place looks like. The flimsy glass door. The threadbare carpet. The plywood over one of the smaller windows that's been there for six months.

"Like wearing a pair of Louboutin's to karaoke night at The Little Red Hen," he says with a grin.

"Never been. No one wants to hear me sing. But I'm assuming it's not one of Seattle's more…upscale establishments?"

Lucas snorts and shakes his head. "Not even close. We'll take your money, Doc. But even our entry-level system would be about a hundred steps up from what you have now."

I should listen to him. My bank account would be happier. Dr. Lambert can't fund this work. The clinic barely breaks even. But McCabe's given me a small fortune over the years. Enough for me to pay off my house, buy my sea plane, and live a comfortable life. Our patients don't have that luxury. They deserve to feel safe when they're here. We all do.

Scanning the list I made on my lunch break, I shake my head. "The basic plan isn't enough. I need panic buttons in every exam room. Backup power. Biometric locks at the front and back doors, and cameras covering all the public areas."

"Oversight Platinum it is, then. Cam is gonna love me when I get back to the office." At my confusion, he grins. "Camilla Delgado? She owns Emerald City Security. Oversight is her baby. She designed it."

Cam. I know that name.

"She wouldn't happened to be married to a former Navy SEAL, would she?"

Lucas's eyes widen. "You know West?"

Shit. I should have kept my mouth shut.

"I've met him a time or two. He asked me for a second opinion on some X-Rays before Cam had surgery last year. Acquaintance of an acquaintance. I knew his wife was in tech, but nothing beyond that."

"She took over from the founder a couple of years ago. Royce designs apps now. For us and for others."

Royce. My first house call for Hidden Agenda. This is dangerous on every level. But Emerald City is the best, and that's what I need. Even if it does put me on McCabe's radar again.

"Doc? You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you okay?" Lucas frowns and reaches out to touch my arm. He's a big guy. When he showed up, I was briefly intimidated. Until he smiled and shook my hand. If I had to guess, he's one of those people who treats everyone he meets like they're his family.

"Fine. Long day, that's all. How soon can you start? And how much is this going to cost me?"

He taps his tablet screen a few times, adding all the bells and whistles to the Platinum package, then hands me the device.

Right above the total, a single line shocks me.

Friends and Family Discount - 25%

"I barely know Sampson. You don't need?—"

Lucas gives me a look that's equal parts sympathy and understanding. "I used to depend on places like this, Doc. The ones that didn't ask a lot of questions. That let me pay in cash. And anyone who knows Cam had surgery last year—let alone saw her X-Rays—is family."

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod. "Thank you."

After he checks his calendar, he tucks the tablet back under his arm. "I don't know what lucky star you were born under, but you caught us at the perfect time. Our installers finished up cabling work on another project this afternoon, and they're free for the next two days. How's 9:00 a.m. tomorrow?"

"Perfect."

By the time I get home, the sun is setting over Puget Sound. I haven't eaten all day, and my fridge is empty. I was planning on fresh clams for dinner. Days like today, I feel every one of my fifty-six years. Every scar from the crash that ended my work as a PJ. Every regret and lost patient from years in the ER.

I grab a rocks glass from the bar, add a couple of ice cubes, and cut a twist of lemon. The hiss from the bottle of club soda isn't what I want to hear. But it's all I allow myself.

After I accepted McCabe's job offer four years ago, I checked myself into a rapid detox program. I've been sober ever since.

But the ritual still comforts me.

I stare at the glass, but the fingers wrapped around it don't look like mine. Blood coats the knuckles. My father's voice echoes in my ears.

"See what you made me do? Why can't you listen?"

My mother sobs from the floor. I jam my hands over my ears, but it never works. I can still hear her. "I'm sorry, Gage. I'll do better."

The glass hits the counter with a solid crack. Club soda splashes over my hand. Fucking hell. Just a memory.

I leave the mess, suddenly desperate for air, and stumble outside to the deck. The water is only fifteen feet away, and the fresh breeze cools my cheeks. One of the evening ferries cuts through the water. I should call someone. Or go to a meeting. Anything but sink into one of my Adirondak chairs and sit here alone.

But when I pull out my phone to find the closest—and soonest—AA meeting, a text message waits on the screen.

Nat: You missed your check-in window. By a lot.

My lips twitch. I wasn't sure she'd notice my absence.

Doc: Work emergency. I won't make it this week. Sorry for any hassle.

Her reply comes in seconds.

Nat: Are you okay?

This is the most we've "spoken" since the night she kicked me out of her house. And she's worried about me?

Doc: I'm fine. Had to cover for a sick colleague. How are things there?

Nat: Same as they always are during the week. But quieter.

I'd give almost anything to hear her voice right now. To wave up at her from the campsite I've come to think of as "mine." To have a reason to keep texting her all night. But we're not friends. She made that very clear. Even if "quieter" makes me think she might actually miss me.

So I head back inside and flip on the TV. Baseball it is.

I haul my ruck over my shoulder and lock my SUV. I'm about ready to come out of my skin. Emerald City Security spent three days at the clinic installing their top-of-the-line system. Another full day training the staff. Then I worked the weekend with only a surly traveling nurse for company. I saw so many sunburn and dehydration cases, I wanted to scream by the end of each day.

My Cessna 172 is ready and waiting for me at the terminal in Kenmore. "Hello, gorgeous. Sorry I stood you up last week." I run my hand over the plane's nose. "You ready for some airtime?"

Less than fifteen minutes later, I'm cruising over Puget Sound on my way to Blakely. Clear, blue skies stretch out in every direction, and I take a deep breath—my first in too long.

Dr. Lambert tore me a new one when she found out about the security system.

"This isn't your clinic, Reynolds. It's mine."

"Then act like it," I snap. "Take some goddamn responsibility for your employees' safety."

"I could fire you for this."

"Then you'd need to find someone else willing to work every single weekend for what you think qualifies as a salary."

Some days, I wonder why I stay. With no work for McCabe's team, my days are constant repetition with little hope of anything even remotely interesting.

Mothers and kids sick with the flu, falls, and repetitive stress injuries, the occasional domestic violence case.

I should have kept my less-than-legal clinic in the Central District. Turned it legit. Done things right. But McCabe told me I had to be available whenever he needed me. So I took the job in South Park. Lambert doesn't care if I disappear in the middle of a shift. Or simply don't show up at all.

I wonder about the woman and her son from last week. Laura and Benjamin. Her boyfriend left her with a black eye and a split lip. Little Benny cried the whole time until Angela brought him a candy bar.

Detective Mitchell showed up before I was done with my examination, but Laura refused to press charges.

Maybe she'll be okay. Maybe she'll leave the asshole before he kills her. Maybe her son will grow up without any more terrifying memories. But I know how these things go—all too well. Laura's face haunted my dreams last night. Along with so many others. Marie, Reena, Opal, Wendy…and Tessa.

"Doc, I'm sorry."

"You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Hold on for me. Please."

But she didn't hold on. She couldn't. And I wasn't there to protect her.

The harsh scent of blood fills my nose. Thirty-seven stab wounds. Four broken ribs. A dislocated shoulder, a shattered cheekbone. Two missing teeth. All because she dared to leave him. Dared to fall in love again.

A small dot on the horizon draws me out of my memories, and I start my slow descent toward the marina.

How much longer can I go on like this? McCabe only pulled me in once or twice a month at most, but the mere possibility I'd get a call kept me focused. Kept me sober. Kept me alive.

Four months without those calls and yesterday, I found myself in the liquor aisle of the grocery store staring at the bottles of whiskey.

A few nights away from civilization will set me back to rights. It has to.