The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

Nicholas grinned at her. “When Adam finds a line into COE, we’ll take it to Zachery immediately. If he doesn’t, as you say, no harm, no foul.”

As they climbed out of the Crown Vic, Mike looked him up and down. “Nicholas, I think you should Brit it up for our laundress. That posh accent of yours plus your French cuffs might make Mrs. Antonio talk more.”

“If she has anything to say,” he said, without much hope.

“Have some faith,” Mike said, and punched his arm.

28

QUEEN TO B6

George Washington University Hospital

Washington, D.C.

Vanessa felt weightless, as if she were rising, rising into whiteness, soft, like clouds, barely touching them, passing through. She felt no pain, no discomfort at all. She was dying. Or she was already dead and this was her introduction to Heaven. Her brain turned on at the slow insistent beep beside her head. What was it? Why wouldn’t it stop? She suddenly felt her breath, in and out, in and out, copying the rhythm of the beep. But where was she? She felt a sudden lick of pain, then another, more like a tsunami this time, deep and hard. Her ribs were grinding with each breath.

No, this sure wasn’t Heaven, and since it wasn’t, then that meant Hell. No, not Hell, either. The pain meant she was alive and she was in the hospital, not sprawled on the asphalt while the building burned around her.

“Nessa, you’re awake? Yes, I see your eyelids moving. It’s about time. Listen, listen, you’re okay, you’re safe, sweetheart. Come on, Nessa, show me your beautiful eyes.”

The voice was familiar, though she couldn’t place it.

She forced her eyes open. The room was swimming, as though she were underwater, and wasn’t that strange? She managed to turn her head toward the voice. There was a man sitting next to her bed. Bald, for the most part, where he used to be blond. Blue eyes behind thick glasses. A funny-looking mustache. Slumped shoulders. Pale skin. Brown slacks, white shirt.

“Uncle Carl,” she whispered, and saying that one word nearly hurled her into so much pain she didn’t want to breathe anymore. He was holding her hand. Now he rose and bent over her.

“It’s going to be all right, Nessa, I’m here. You’re going to be okay, you’re going to be fine. You gave us quite a scare.”

“How did you find me?”

“Someone called in on your phone, several times in a row. We knew something was wrong immediately, sent a team into the GPS coordinates it broadcasted for an emergency extraction. Thank God in Heaven we did. You were shot in the chest, fell off the roof of a burning building, and thankfully survived the fall. We medevaced you to D.C. when you were stable. I didn’t want to leave you anywhere near the scene, for your safety. What happened? Clearly someone found the phone, but how?”

It was so hard to talk. She managed to whisper. “Long story. Matthew heard your text come in. He shot me. He shot Ian, too.”

Carl’s heart stopped. He’d gotten his only niece shot, nearly gotten her killed. “Here, take a little water, it might help.”

She tried to suck on the straw. “It hurts. Really bad.”

“I know. You ha

ve a morphine pump. Let me give you a good dose.”

He did. While they waited until the world grew hazy again and the pain pulled away, he said, “The NYPD found Ian’s body. Thankfully, the bullet missed your heart by a fraction.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “You were so lucky, Nessa, so very lucky. Is the pain better now?”

“Yes, I know it’s there, but it’s sort of standing across the room. Waiting.”

He smiled at her and began to stroke her hand. “You’ve had surgery. It was very long and I was so scared.” He paused, getting himself together. “Your blood pressure, well, it’s still a worry. Do you remember falling off the roof?”

She tried to remember, but it wouldn’t come.

“It’s all right, don’t worry about it. The fall broke a few bones. Your left tibia had a clean crack, but your femur and ulna on the right arm will need surgery when you’ve stabilized, probably a few screws and pins. Okay, I can see the morphine is taking you back to dreamland. Let it all go now, Nessa, let it all go. You can tell me the rest of it later. Sleep, sweetheart, sleep now.”

She thought she heard him say she wasn’t going to die like her father had when he’d been undercover during the height of the Troubles in Belfast.

She whispered, “My cover is gone, and that means—”

Her uncle put a finger over her lips and shook his head. “Not now, don’t worry about it.”