Green Beret Bodyguard

“I hope you’re not squeamish, Dr. Felson.” Dr. Trapp adjusted his glasses and peered at his vicious instruments. “Autopsies are not for the squeamish.”

Dr. Felson rolled her eyes at Lola. “If I were squeamish, I wouldn’t have survived my training.” She added in a mock whisper to Lola, “Dr. Trapp doesn’t think women can stomach autopsies.”

“I heard that. You’re not a woman, you’re a doctor.” Dr. Trapp wheeled the scale next to the slab

“My point exactly. Anyway, I’m not squeamish, just hygienic.” To prove her point, Dr. Felson strode to the stainless steel sink and cranked on the water.

Lola eyed her wrinkled gloves and flushed again. Although you could eat off this floor if you really wanted to, it was still a floor in a hospital, and Lola’s gloves had been sweeping it moments before.

She peeled off the gloves and dropped them into the trash can. “Did you two see someone in the hallway when you came off the elevator?”

Dr. Felson twisted her head over her shoulder as she soaped up her hands in the sink. “No.”

Lola shifted her gaze to Dr. Trapp. “Dr. Trapp?”

“Hmm?” He’d picked up his saw and was testing the blade with his gloved fingertip.

“Did you see anyone outside the door or in the hallway?” Dr. Felson had turned from the sink, crumpling a paper towel in her hands and drawing her brows over her nose, probably congratulating herself that she’d refused to shake hands with the crazy doctor.

Dr. Trapp glanced up and over the rim of his glasses. “The hallway was empty. There’s nobody down here this time of the day, or should I say night? The pathology department is closed for business. That’s why I prefer to do autopsies now—fewer distractions.”

Lola rolled the kinks out of her shoulders. The intruder had heard the elevator and had taken off the way he’d come down…the stairwell. Or maybe he’d slipped out the exit to the alley. She’d seen the door handle turn. There was no mistaking that.

Dr. Trapp waved a scalpel across Elena Hidalgo’s body like a magic wand, only there was no bringing this sad woman back to life. “Are you done communing with the crack addict?”

Lola pursed her lips. Miami Hope Hospital should be thrilled Dr. Trapp saw only dead patients and not live ones. “I just wanted to have a look at my patient’s mother so when he speaks of her, I have a visual.”

“You’re a pediatrician, Dr. Famosa, not a psychiatrist.”

“Sometimes the two go hand in hand.” Lola shrugged out of her lab coat and dropped it into the laundry bin. “Dr. Felson, can you stand at the door and wait until I get in the elevator? I swear there was someone outside this door earlier and it creeped me out.”

The doctor held up her hands, elbows bent. “Sure, if you get the door. I don’t want to have to wash my hands again.”

Lola cranked open the door and propped it open with her foot while Dr. Felson wedged her shoulder against it to hold it ajar. She winked at Lola. “I don’t blame you. I’m not comfortable wandering around the basement at night, either.”

Lola slipped into the hallway as Dr. Trapp’s voice whined, “I hope you’re not squeamish, Dr. Felson.”

Lola quickened her pace over the freshly mopped floor. It occurred to her that maybe her stealthy stranger had been someone from the janitorial staff. Whoever it was, he or she had been skulking outside the door—no other word for it.

Jabbing at the elevator button, Lola threw a glance at Dr. Felson, still stationed in the doorway of the morgue. Dr. Felson called down the hallway, “I hope it’s not slow tonight. Dr. Trapp’s getting very antsy in here.”

An orange light illuminated the B above the car as the elevator settled into place. The doors rumbled open and Lola flashed a thumbs-up sign to Dr. Felson and slipped inside the confines of the four walls. Safety.

She’d grab one of the security guards to see her safely to her car, and then maybe she could shake this aura of doom that had hung over her for too long. She rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. In reality, she’d never escape the dread that had overcome her life since her brother, Gabriel, had disappeared in Afghanistan…not until he was home safe and sound.

The doors slid open at the lobby level, where a few people still milled around, perhaps coming in to visit patients. Miami Hope’s emergency entrance, which would be bustling, was around the corner and facing a different street.

Lola spied her favorite security guard, Sergio, and waved. “Hola, Sergio. Qué tal?”

Sergio flashed her a big smile. “Hola, doctore. Estoy bien. Trabajando tarde?”

“Sí, I’m working a little late. Can you walk me to my car? Or at least watch me? I’m on this level.”

“No problema.” He took two steps toward the door leading to the parking structure and held it open for her. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s in the second aisle, two from the end. If you could just walk me to the end of the aisle that would be great.”

The soles of her sneakers squeaked on the smooth surface of the parking garage. Sergio’s solid presence beside her was comforting. When they reached her car’s aisle, she put her hand on Sergio’s arm. “This is good. Gracias.”

Lola beeped her remote. Grabbing the handle of her car door, she turned and waved at Sergio, who was still stationed at the end of the aisle. She tossed her purse into the passenger seat and dropped onto the leather on the driver’s side.

She clicked her locks, and almost immediately a frisson of fear spiraled up her spine. Then a hand clamped over her mouth from behind and a husky voice rasped in her ear, “I need your help.”

Chapter Two

The woman’s soft lips parted beneath the loose clasp of his hand, her lipstick sticking to his palm. He clicked the safety of his unloaded weapon in case she got any ideas about laying on the horn. Her hands grasped the steering wheel, her knuckles white against the black leather.

God, he felt like the slime of the earth, but he needed to take her by surprise so she couldn’t warn anyone, couldn’t warn his enemies. Her bottle-green eyes, wide above his hand clamped over the bottom half of her face, met his gaze in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry. I need information from you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Air escaped noisily from her nose and her hot breath condensed on his palm. He cupped his hand, giving her space to breathe. “I’ll remove my hand from your mouth if you promise not to scream. Can you promise me that?”

She nodded, and dark strands of hair that had escaped from her ponytail tickled the back of his hand. He slid his fingers across her soft cheek and held his breath.

Crying out, she scrabbled for the door handle and he cinched her upper arm with his fingers. “I’m Jack Coburn.”

The utterance of his name had a powerful effect on her. She fell back against her seat and jerked her head around to face him. “Y-you’re Jack Coburn? Prove it.”

Out of all the passports and IDs in the black duffel bag, not one had his name printed on it. But he had something better. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew the crumpled letter. He held it out to her, and she snatched it from his hand.

She smoothed out the single sheet of paper against the steering wheel, and Jack coiled his muscles in case she went for the horn. She didn’t.

Her brow creased as she scanned the letter. “I wrote this…to Jack Coburn. But I’ve never met him before, so how do I know you’re Jack?”

He lifted his shoulders, the gun dangling from his fingers, the barrel pointing to the floor of the car. “I don’t know how to prove it to you. I got it straight from an Afghan boy, but I couldn’t bring him with me as a character reference.”

The woman, Lola, curled her slim fingers around the sheet of paper, crumpling it into familiar lines. “What are you talking about? You need someone else to tell you who you are?”

Okay, time to play the pity card, and maybe she won’t scream bloody murder and escape from the car.

Massaging his temple, he dropped his eyelids, peering at her through slits. “Yes, I do. You see, Lola Famosa—” the name rolled off his tongue “—I can’t remember a damned thing about myself or what I was doing in Afghanistan, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with you and this guy Gabriel you wrote about in your letter.”

Was Gabriel her husband? Jack studied Lola’s profile with its firm chin at odds with the pert nose, and the long black lashes that blinked in confusion. If so, Gabriel was one lucky guy…or not. Where the hell was Gabriel, anyway?

She swung around suddenly and jabbed her finger in his chest. “Are you putting me on? What are you doing here? Why did you choose this method—” she waved her hands around the interior of the car “—to contact me? Once you located me, you couldn’t leave me a note at the hospital? You had to go skulking around the morgue?”

The morgue? Jack let that one pass. “The reason I have amnesia is because someone pushed me off the side of a mountain and then left me there to die. When I made it back to the town, the Afghan boy, Yasir, found me. He told me I was some kind of spy. I’m thinking maybe I can go directly to the U.S. Embassy or somehow contact the CIA, but I suspect neither of those august institutions would be thrilled to find me alive.”