Jessica Andersen - Covert M.D.

Frowning, he took the visitor’s chair beside Nia and focused his attention on the men. “My superior has been in direct contact with your administration. I expect you to grant me all of the necessary access and let me run my own investigation. In exchange I’ll provide you a written report of my findings once a week. Is that clear?”

There was dead silence in the office as the balance of power shifted neatly into Rathe’s hands—which had been his intention. He needed to take control of the situation right away.

When he was in charge, nobody made mistakes. Everyone lived.

But he could feel Nia fuming at his casual dismissal of what she’d seen in the loading area. The aggravation poured off her in waves. He could smell it coming from her skin, like the memory of—

Like the memory of a mistake. A betrayal.

A lost opportunity.

“Gentlemen?” Rathe forced his voice to sound level when it would have—what? Cracked? Faltered? Impossible—he was a grown man. Things like that didn’t happen to him. That was for kids such as Nia. “Do we have an agreement?”

Logan Hart, who looked like a kid himself, frowned, but his boss, Talbot, smiled with a glint of respect in his eyes. He held out his hand a second time, this time in affirmation. “We have an agreement, Dr. McKay. We would be fools not to take advantage of your expertise.”

In his peripheral vision, Rathe saw Nia curl her lip. Surprisingly, he had to fight a kink of amusement.

But this was no laughing matter. It was an investigation, and if her little stunt down in the subbasement was any indication, she was going to be a hell of a lot of work to baby-sit while he went about his business.

The director leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Basically we’re stumped. Transplant patients who would’ve survived a year ago are dying, and there are gaps in our supplies that suggest theft, but nobody’s seen anything.” He spread his hands. “I brought this to the head administrator’s attention, and he called you.”

“What sorts of supplies?” Rathe asked.

At the same time Nia said, “Are there connections among the dead patients?”

Logan Hart grinned at her, and a dimple appeared in his cheek. “Good question. They’re all rare type.”

Rathe shrugged. “If they’re rare tissue type, then they probably waited longest for their transplants and had the worst prognoses. You may just be seeing a blip. Let’s focus on the supplies to start with. What’s been disappearing?”

Nia frowned but didn’t argue.

Talbot pushed a bulging envelope across the desk. “There’s a list in here, along with your ID badges and supporting information. Jack Wainwright picked your cover stories. I hope you’ll find them acceptable.”

Rathe could have sworn Talbot was laughing at him but wasn’t sure why. He opened the envelope, shook out its contents and glanced at Nia’s information before passing it to her. She would be posing as a transplant specialist visiting the hospital to observe Boston General’s procedures, and give a short lecture series. Perfect. She wouldn’t have to dissemble much to maintain her cover, which was good. She didn’t have the experience he did at sliding into new roles. Chameleonlike, he could assume any cover, pass himself off easily as any of a number of people, such as…Rathe glanced at his packet.

“A janitor? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Nia lifted a hand to stifle a snicker. When Rathe glared at her, she managed to straighten her face before she said, “It’s perfect. You’re working the night shift, so you’ll be able to watch the loading docks and see what comes and goes. So far, that’s our best lead….”

She was right, damn it. But Rathe also knew she was thinking that working the day shift, when he was off, would give her time to do some digging on her own. To prove herself.

He knew, because he’d once been like that himself. He’d learned his lesson the hardest way possible, and he’d be damned if he’d let Tony French’s daughter find herself in the same situation.

So he nodded. “You’re right. Working the night shift will give me plenty of time to help you with your end of things.”

She scowled back. “You’ll need to sleep sometime, McKay.”

“Not necessarily.” He scooped their IDs into the envelope. “I don’t sleep much.” He nodded to the transplant doctors, who were following the exchange with rapt attention. “Gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”

Rathe didn’t miss the frown Nia directed at him, nor did he miss noticing how Logan Hart held her hand a moment longer than necessary when they shook.

Kids will be kids, Rathe told himself fiercely, and the words echoed in the voice of Nia’s father. Though Rathe had shrugged off his experiences as an on-loan medic in the war-torn country where the two had met over a transfusion, the place had marked Tony. Not long after, Tony had retired from the Army to hunker down in the suburbs with his wife and daughter while he waited for the nightmares to fade.

Rathe hoped they had in the end.

Trying to ignore the tug he felt in his gut when Nia laughed at something Logan Hart said, Rathe spun on his heel and left the office. He never should have come back to the States.

At least when he was abroad, it was easier to forget that he’d slept with his best friend’s daughter.

He stalked down the hall, away from the woman and the memories. But he didn’t go far. He had a feeling she was going to find every possible opportunity to place herself in danger during this assignment.

Hell, it’s what he would do in her situation.

EIGHT HOURS LATER, still annoyed that Rathe hadn’t waited around after their meeting so they could plan their case and divvy up the responsibilities, Nia stalked to the garage where she’d parked her car. She couldn’t wait to get back to the swanky apartment building that had been donated to Boston General for use by visiting scientists and patients’ families.

She’d spent the day going over the notes and familiarizing herself with the setup. Slick and well organized, Boston General’s Transplant Department boasted twenty beds and enough high-tech gadgets to satisfy even Nia—especially since she had designed a few of them herself during her two years in grad school.

“Brilliant,” they had called her, when in reality she had simply been bored. Bored by the classwork, by her fellow students, and by the city itself. She had longed for faraway places that could be reached only by overgrown paths, for adventures like the stories her father had told her. Stories with titles like, “The Time Rathe Was Adopted by Cannibals” or “The Time Rathe Saved the Congo.”

Those stories had stopped the day she announced to her parents that she wanted to join HFH when she grew up. Come to think of it, so had Rathe’s visits, for the most part.

In the damp garage, Nia missed the car door lock and dropped her keys to the pavement beside her silver Jetta. She bent and retrieved them, and was surprised to find her throat tight with the memory.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she murmured as she unlocked the car and slipped inside its interior, which smelled of leather and hospital disinfectant. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for me.”

But her father’s plans and hers had diverged a long time ago, even before he got sick.

She backed the Jetta out of her hospital parking slot and drove the vehicle out of the garage, shielding her eyes against the reflected glare of headlights in the rear-view mirror. “Geez,” she muttered over the classic rock on the radio, “I know it gets dark early this time of year, but are the high beams really necessary?”

The headlights followed her out of the garage and down Washington Street, where she merged slowly with the rest of the “rush” hour traffic.