Silent Creed (Ryder Creed #2)
Alex Kava
1.
Haywood County, North Carolina
Daniel Tate clenched his teeth and looked away just as the needle pierced a vein in his arm. He’d spent two tours of duty in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. He’d been shot at, dodged IEDs, and escaped a grenade. But needles—damn, he hated needles.
“This will help relax you,” Dr. Shaw told him.
When she walked in the door, Tate had been relieved to see a woman. But she had barely introduced herself before she pulled out a stainless steel tray with vials and surgical utensils and, of course, several syringes. Her black hair was pulled back tight, leaving only long bangs that overlapped heavy-framed glasses. She was younger than he expected, with smooth skin that hadn’t yet earned wrinkles at the corners of her mouth or eyes. And she was attractive, but instead of looking at her now, Tate let his eyes scan the room. He didn’t want to even see the needle, so he stared at the walls.
It was a strange room, empty except for the examination table. The drywall looked spongy, like the foam mats you’d find at the basketball court tacked up under the basket for overenthusiastic athletes to bounce off. Only these mats weren’t tacked onto the walls, they were the walls—whitewashed and seamless. The term “padded cell” came to mind.
There wasn’t a single thing displayed. Didn’t medical exam rooms have diplomas or something on the walls? Not that it mattered. Tate’s chance to back out had passed. He knew it as soon as he signed on page seven of that long-ass contract they’d handed him when he first arrived.
He didn’t even know where this place was. It had been pouring sheets of rain the entire hour and a half from the airport. That was yesterday, or at least he thought it was. His wristwatch and cell phone were two of the personal items he’d had to surrender. Other than not knowing the time of day, he didn’t mind. But Tate didn’t understand why he couldn’t wear his own shoes or underwear. The blue scrubs were comfortable, but the paper booties drove him crazy. He felt like he was shuffling, the sound reminding him of the old people in the nursing home where his wife worked.
“After I administer the drug, I’ll ask you a series of questions,” Dr. Shaw said.
He glanced at her and held back a grimace. She was loading another syringe. Long, slender fingers with bloodred nail polish. A ring on her thumb—that was strange, but young women did that, right? The ring had tiny diamonds dancing around the band. All Tate could think was that this served him right for not reading all seven pages. He’d only cared about the three thousand dollars he had been promised, and he had double-checked that it was in the contract.
He hated that his wife worked an extra shift once a week just to make ends meet. Their oldest daughter had started waiting tables at the coffee shop. Even Danny Junior had a paper route. But Tate hadn’t been able to get a job.
Not true. He hadn’t been able to hold a job since he’d been back.
The doctors called it post-traumatic stress disorder. But all Tate saw when he looked in the mirror was a perfectly healthy man. Never mind that his brain twisted pieces of information and insomnia kept him pacing the streets of their small town. He needed to start contributing and helping to take care of his family. Even if it meant a few needle pokes.
This time it didn’t matter where he looked. As soon as the metal slipped into his vein, he felt the liquid rush into his body. A heat wave crawled up his arm, over his shoulder, and spread throughout his chest. It took his breath away, and he felt his body shudder.
“You may experience a tightness in your chest,” he heard Dr. Shaw say. Only now it sounded like she was talking to him from the next room.
He turned his head to look at her, and just that movement made him nauseated. He tried to find her eyes through the blur. The small rose tattoo he had noticed earlier on the side of her neck had grown legs and started to inch along her skin like an insect. Tate blinked hard, trying to focus. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
“Nosebleeds are not uncommon,” Dr. Shaw continued in her calm, cool manner. “I’m going to ask you some questions, Daniel.”
Tate, he wanted to tell her everyone called him Tate, but he couldn’t take his mind off the bug digging into her neck. His heart galloped in his chest, and it was difficult to breathe.
“Daniel, can you count backward from a hundred for me?”
His mouth had a metallic taste and it took effort to make it move. Teeth and tongue seemed to be in the way of him activating his voice.
“Daniel, can you count backward from a hundred?” she repeated.