Testing something else. Desmond wondered what that meant.
He followed Avery around the outer row. At the far end of the room, she opened another hatch and burst through into a corridor, which was dimly lit with what Desmond assumed were emergency lights. The entire medical section apparently had its own backup power system. Plate glass windows along one wall revealed operating rooms in disarray. Blood covered the tables and dripped onto the floor. Bloody sutures, clamps, forceps, and scalpels lay strewn about.
The opposite wall was solid except for a series of doors. Avery moved quickly, opening each one, her rifle held ready. Desmond covered her advance, sweeping his rifle forward and backward, Peyton tucked behind him.
“Found her,” Avery called.
Peyton rushed into the room.
Hannah lay on a hospital bed, her eyes closed, her strawberry-blond hair spilling onto the white pillow. An IV line was connected to her hand, and a clear plastic bag hung beside her. A monitor displayed her vitals.
Peyton lifted the young woman’s eyelids. “She’s sedated.” She began disconnecting the IV. “I’ll carry her.”
“You can’t,” Avery said, with force bordering on anger.
Peyton stopped. “I’m carrying her.”
“We’re going up seven flights of stairs—in a firefight. You can’t carry that much dead weight.”
“I’ll—” Desmond began, but Avery flashed him a look.
“No you won’t. You’ve got to fight. The stairwell will be crawling with people. So will the deck.”
Desmond knew there was no negotiation this time. And that Avery was right.
To Peyton, Avery said, “Either wake her up so she can walk out, or leave her here. Your call.”
Peyton glanced at Desmond. He nodded, silently insisting, Make the call.
Peyton studied the monitor a moment, then checked the end of the bed and began searching the drawers.
“What’re you looking for?” Avery asked.
“A chart. I need to know what they’ve given her. And what dose.”
“The charts are electronic,” Avery said. She gripped Peyton by the shoulders. “Look, if you’re going to wake her up, you’ve got to do it right now. Okay?”
Peyton exhaled heavily. Her hands and eyes were steady, betraying no hint that she was nervous, but Desmond could sense her fear. It was as though he knew her well—could read the emotions she kept hidden, the feelings strangers couldn’t see. Desmond wished he could take the weight off Peyton’s shoulders, but he could only watch. Her next actions could save Hannah or end her life. If she brought Hannah out of sedation too quickly, it could be deadly.
Peyton pulled out drawers, read labels on vials, and tossed them back one by one until she found what she needed. She loaded up a syringe and stuck it into the IV. Slowly, she depressed the plunger, watching Hannah. She kept one hand on the young woman’s wrist, monitoring her pulse.
Beyond the door, boots echoed in the corridor.
Avery froze.
Desmond turned.
Hannah stirred, sucked in a breath, and let out a low moan.
The footsteps stopped.
Avery moved to the corner of the room, behind the door, and motioned for Desmond to join her. Peyton ducked down behind the bed.
Desmond heard men’s voices in the corridor, speaking German. Something about gathering the samples.
Hannah’s eyes opened. They went wide at the sight of Desmond and Avery, dressed like her captors, guns at the ready.
She opened her mouth to scream, but Peyton sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and covered the younger physician’s mouth with her hand. Peyton held her other index finger to her own lips.
The beeping of the pulse monitor was the only sound in the room. As the beeps got faster, Desmond felt his hands start to sweat.
The footsteps outside resumed. They were moving away—except for a single set, which moved toward them.
Avery motioned for Hannah to get off the bed. Peyton reached up, disconnected the IV, and pulled Hannah down beside her.
Avery let her rifle slide out of her hands so that it hung by the shoulder strap. What’s she doing? Desmond wondered.
At that moment, the leads connected to the monitor slipped off Hannah. The beeping machine changed to a droning flat line just as the door creaked wider and a semi-automatic rifle peeked through.
Avery drew a fixed-blade black combat knife from a sheath on her leg. It was about eight inches long with a rubber handle. As soon as the man’s face cleared the door, she sprang up and stabbed the blade into the man’s neck.
He gurgled as she guided him to the floor, his eyes wide in disbelief. Avery had severed his windpipe and spine in one lethal, extremely precise blow.
Desmond stood in awe of her skill and poise. With barely a sound, she pulled the man clear of the door and readied her rifle.
The other footsteps continued moving away, their echo growing fainter by the second.
Avery withdrew the blade from the man’s neck with a sickening sucking sound, wiped it on his chest, and re-sheathed it. Still crouched, she moved deeper into the room and whispered to Peyton and Hannah.
“Let’s move.” To Desmond she said, “I’ll lead. They follow, you bring up the rear. Keep them moving.”
Avery was through the door a second later. Peyton wrapped Hannah’s good arm over her shoulder and pulled her up. Both women stared, mouths open at the sight of the dead man, but kept moving.
Desmond stood guard while they raced down the corridor, following Avery to the stairwell, which was lit with emergency lights similar to those in the medical section.
Avery stopped on the landing, listening.
Voices echoed above and below, bouncing off the metal walls. Desmond didn’t know if he was hearing twenty or a hundred voices, only that there were too many for them to slip past, and certainly too many for them to fight.
Avery set down her backpack, drew out a gas mask, and handed it to Desmond.