And the dispatcher had asked him, quite reasonably: Why then, sir, do you suspect she’s missing?
Spencer had hung up in a huff, thought, then called Raj, who was awake and hungry for more news. Raj was nonplussed, but game, after Spencer explained the situation, emphasizing that he suspected Rita was confused from whatever was going on in her head and that she may have wandered off, and why involve hospital security since they would simply give him the run-around, like the police had? Raj disliked authority, so avoiding hospital security appealed to him.
To their surprise, and Spencer’s increasing sense of dread, Raj had led Spencer to the second-floor bridge connecting Turner to the new hospital wing, then under the yellow construction tape blocking its entrance and through a door someone had left ajar, and then across the bridge and into the darkened interior of the construction area. The signal had dropped at that point; Spencer had wondered if it had something to do with his phone, which was almost out of power.
But by that time, he could hear their voices, which, along with a faint glimmer of light, had led him here, to this bizarre scene straight out of some Hollywood slasher movie.
Now, he didn’t think, or hesitate. He didn’t care who these guys were. He simply attacked. A mindless machine, intent on taking them down and getting Rita the hell away from here.
He hit them hard, with a classic rugby tackle, low, using his shoulder.
The tall, sandy-haired one went down first. He appeared to be in the act of inspecting the robot. The wind Spencer knocked from him came rushing out of his mouth with a high-pitched yelp, and he went up and over Spencer, ass over elbows, spinning around and landing full on his back, onto the pitiless concrete.
Having not lost any momentum, Spencer then plowed into the other one, who was slim with dark hair. This guy was quick, and had already started to move out of the way, but Spencer’s impact was still tremendous. The two went down together.
The man grunted as Spencer landed on top of him. Spencer immediately straddled him and, before the man could recover, punched him in the face, his fist sinking to a satisfying depth into the soft cartilage of the man’s nose. There was a squirt of blood.
Spencer hit him again. It made a soft, wet sound, like a watermelon’s hitting pavement and breaking open.
The dark-haired man groaned.
Spencer clamped one enormous hand around the man’s throat and raised his other fist, which was now stained with the man’s blood. The man struggled at the hand around his neck. Blood gurgled from his mouth and nose.
Spencer hesitated.
Finish him! some ugly part of him screamed.
Spencer had never in his life been so angry, so full of hatred.
He squeezed the dark-haired guy’s neck harder. Two more well-placed blows, he knew, would smash most of the bones in the asshole’s face.
Three more would probably knock him into a coma.
The guy sputtered and squirmed, pawing at Sebastian’s hand.
Spencer’s raised fist shook.
No.
He was better than that. A man of faith and conviction. This guy was down for the count. That’s all that mattered.
For good measure, Spencer knocked him once more in the side of the head, with less force, before pushing himself up and off him. The man curled up into the fetal position and groaned.
Panting, Spencer glanced at the sandy-haired one on the floor. He wasn’t moving.
Rita.
He’d worry about the two of them later. Right now, he needed to get Rita away from those damn machines.
The anesthesia machine was the closest one to him. Remembering Montgomery’s spiel from the OR that morning, before everything went all to hell, he frantically ran his eyes and hands over its sides until he located a large red button.
The fail-safe switch.
The one that would shut everything off, wake her up, and reverse the paralysis.
He slapped it with his palm.
The machine emitted a low buzz, followed by a hissing noise. That was it: No other signals came, no other indications that it was doing what it was supposed to do. Spencer hoped pushing the button had done the trick.
Now, where’s the one for the damn auto-surgeon …
There it was.
Beckoning like a red beacon on the side of the robot, several feet away.
He strode over to it.
He was reaching out for the button, his hand inches from it, when the dark-haired guy jumped on his back.
SEBASTIAN
Christ, but this guy was big!
Sebastian had learned long ago to trust his instincts.
Dazed, and half-blind from both pain and the blood streaming into his eyes from his ruined face, Sebastian’s instincts were telling him that he wasn’t going to get out of this fucking situation unless he dealt with this big bastard—
(Cameron, he realized, that neurosurgeon in the ER)
—who was, quite literally, standing between him and his freedom.