CHAPTER NINE

The assassin emerged from the hospital room, his arm swathed in fresh bandages. He glanced furtively down the corridor. No police. No security. Just the steady hum of monitors and the distant chatter of nurses. Relief washed over him.

He had evaded capture in the desert. His wound had been tended to. But his work was not done.

As he strode, he whispered softly under his breath. “Forgive me… Forgive me… He grimaced as he strode forward, shaking his head side to side.”

He moved down the hallway, his footsteps measured, deliberate. The promise he had made echoed in his mind. To continue his mission. His mercy work.

He had no choice. No matter how much it ate at him.

He remembered when it had all started. Those frail bones under that bubbly, churning river.

He could still feel the pulse fading under his fingertips. “Oh, please,” he said, biting back a sob, pleading to the ceiling. “Please… forgive…” he trailed off, closing and opening his eyes like the lens on a camera shutter.

The hospital teemed with suffering. With souls in need of absolution. In need of prayer.

He scanned the faces of patients as he passed. An elderly man hunched in a wheelchair. A young woman clutching her abdomen. A child with a cast on his leg.

So much pain. So much anguish.

His fingers twitched at his side, longing to reach out. To lay hands upon them. To whisper the sacred words that would ease their torment.

But he restrained himself. He needed to choose carefully. To find the one who needed him most.

The man turned to him, expression worn. “Can I assist you in prayer?”

The man nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. The assassin offered a soft prayer, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over him. He moved from one person to the next, repeating his offer. More often than not, he was met with acceptance. It seemed there was always room for hope, even in places filled with pain and despair.

He approached a younger man with a thick bandage around his face.

The man turned, a grimace etched upon his weathered face. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"I was wondering if you would like some prayer?" the assassin offered.

The man's eyes narrowed. But he didn’t refuse.

"No sermon," the assassin reassured him. "Just a prayer. For healing."

His gaze flicked to the man's bandaged head. He could feel the despair radiating off the man, so intense it was almost tangible. The pain was there, yes, but beneath it was something else—anger. A deep-seated rage against the world that had brought pain to him.

The assassin uttered a quiet prayer under his breath and moved on, leaving the man staring after him in bewilderment.

Next, he approached a young woman writhing in agony on one of the beds. Her glazed eyes met his. "Prayer?" she whimpered.

"Yes," he said simply, clasping her hand in his own and murmuring words of solace.

He continued this way, moving from bed to bed, person to person—praying for the sick, the injured. Praying for mercy in this world of pain.

Finally, he came upon a woman who sat in a plastic chair, her foot propped up and wrapped in gauze. She glared at a nurse who was attempting to hand her a clipboard.

"I told you, I don't need any damn paperwork," the woman snapped. "Just give me the pain meds and let me go home."

The assassin watched the exchange, intrigued. The woman radiated hostility. Bitterness. Her soul cried out for solace.

He took a step towards her, his uninjured hand extended. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

The woman's head whipped around. Her eyes narrowed as they landed on him. "What do you want?"

The assassin smiled gently. "I couldn't help but overhear. It sounds like you're in a lot of pain."

"Yeah, what's it to you?" The woman eyed him suspiciously.

"I just wanted to offer a prayer for your healing. If you'd like."

The woman scoffed. "A prayer? What good will that do? I need real medicine. Not some hocus pocus nonsense."

The assassin's smile didn't falter. He took another step closer. "Prayer is powerful medicine, ma'am. It can work miracles."

The woman leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed.

The assassin's eyes glinted with amusement. He liked this woman's spirit. Her fire. It would make saving her all the more rewarding.

He glanced down at her injured foot. "That looks painful. How did it happen?"

"None of your damn business," the woman snapped. "Now, are you going to leave me alone, or do I need to call security?" The nurse was beating a hasty retreat, seemingly relieved to not have to deal with the grumpy lady.

The assassin held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I apologize for intruding. I only wanted to offer some comfort."

He took a step back, but his gaze remained fixed on the woman. "I'll leave you be. But if you change your mind about that prayer, I'll be around."

The woman snorted. "Don't hold your breath."

The assassin inclined his head, then turned and walked away. But as he did, he caught a glimpse of the clipboard the nurse had left on the woman's lap.

The name "Eleanor Hartley" was scrawled across the top, along with an address.

The assassin smiled to himself.

He caught himself and turned again.

The assassin's eyes bore into the woman, his stare unblinking and intense. She shifted in her seat, discomfort etched across her face.

"I told you to scram," she hissed, her voice quivering slightly despite her harsh tone.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "I sense your pain," he whispered, his voice low and unsettling. "It's more than just your foot."

The woman's eyes widened, fear seeping into her expression. She clutched her purse tighter, as if it could shield her from his probing gaze.

"You don't know anything about me," she retorted, but her words lacked conviction.

The assassin's lips curved into a smile, but it held no warmth. "I know enough."

He reached out, his fingertips grazing the edge of her clipboard. The woman flinched, pulling it closer to her chest.

"Your anger, your bitterness... it's eating you alive," he murmured, his voice almost hypnotic. "But I can help you find peace."

The woman shook her head vehemently. "I don't want your help. I want you to leave me alone."

The assassin's eyes flickered to her injured foot, then back to her face. "You're in pain, Eleanor. Let me ease your suffering."

She froze, her grip on the clipboard slackening. "How... how do you know my name?"

The assassin merely smiled, a glint of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. "I know many things, Eleanor. Things that can help you, if you let me."

Eleanor swallowed hard, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Now, she wasn't so dismissive. Wasn't so cold. But he could feel his lips twisting back into a smirk. Part of him hated the enjoyment he felt. He didn’t want to go through with any of this…

But another part of him, deep, deep down relished the fear. Relished the power he held over this woman. It was intoxicating. The thrill of the chase—of knowing he could give, and take away, with just a few well-chosen words.

He took a step back and nodded towards her injured foot. "If you change your mind, Eleanor," he said, voice dripping with faux concern, "let me know.”

Her breathing was shallow now, her eyes darting nervously towards the hospital exit. He wondered if she was contemplating making a dash for it. But she wouldn't get far on that injured foot.

Flight… or fight. Now came the second expected response.

Eleanor's trembling fingers gripped the clipboard, knuckles white with tension.

Slowly, she lowered the clipboard, hugging it to her chest like a shield.

His eyes flicked down to the clipboard, to the form she had been filling out. Eleanor followed his gaze, realizing too late what he was looking at.

Her name, printed in neat, black letters at the top of the page. And just below it, her address.

She clutched the clipboard tighter, as if she could somehow erase the information with the force of her grip.

The assassin's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He had seen what he needed to.

"Watchful one, grant this woman the strength to endure the trials that lie ahead," the assassin murmured, his voice low and hypnotic. "Give her the courage to face her fears, to confront the darkness that threatens to consume her." His words hung in the air, a twisted benediction.

“You’re no servant of God,” the woman spat back. “You’re of the devil.”

“Oh?” he said, leaning in and leering again. There it was once more, another flash of delight at her terror.

Just then, a nurse's voice cut through the tension, shattering the moment like a hammer through glass. "Sir, I need you to stay put.”

He turned sharply at the familiar voice. It was the same nurse from his recovery room upstairs. He recognized her oversized nose and piercing, hawklike gaze under a fringe of graying blonde hair. Her forehead looked something like a blunt slab of granite in his opinion. And her presence was as welcome as stray stones in his shoes. She’d told him to stay put earlier, and he’d ignored her, and now she was scowling in his direction.

"Sir!” she called, louder, one hand raised as if to halt him. “Sir, please—stop! The police are on their way to ask you about the wound." The nurse's tone was firm, authoritative, but tinged with an undercurrent of unease.

The assassin's gaze lingered on Eleanor and her injured foot for a moment longer, a silent promise that this was far from over. Then, with a final, almost imperceptible nod, he turned to face the nurse, his expression a mask of calm innocence. "Of course," he said, his voice smooth and unruffled. "I'll be happy to cooperate with the authorities."

The nurse hesitated.

And then he turned and fled.

The assassin's feet hit the linoleum floor with purposeful strides. Ignoring the nurse's warning, he moved towards the exit, his pace steady and unhurried. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his angular features, accentuating the cold determination in his eyes.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. Hospital security. Their radios crackled with static, urgent voices demanding updates on the situation.

The assassin's heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His bandaged arm throbbed with a dull ache, a reminder of the violence he had already endured. But he couldn't stop now. Not when there was still work to be done.

He quickened his pace, his strides lengthening as he neared the exit. The security guards were closing in, their shouts becoming more insistent. "Stop right there! Don't move!"

But the assassin was already in motion. He burst through the doors, the cool night air hitting his face like a slap. He broke into a sprint, his feet pounding against the pavement as he raced across the parking lot.

Behind him, the security guards emerged from the hospital, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. They gave chase, their heavy boots thudding against the ground.

The assassin's lungs burned with the effort, his muscles screaming in protest. But he pushed on, weaving between parked cars and leaping over concrete barriers. He could hear the guards falling behind, their pursuit growing more distant with each passing moment.

Finally, he reached the edge of the parking lot, his escape within reach. With a final burst of speed, he vaulted over a low wall and disappeared into the night, leaving the hospital and its chaos behind.

He had a mission to complete, a promise to keep. And nothing, not even the full force of the law, would stand in his way.