“You really are different,” he said.
“I’m tired,” you snapped. “That’s different enough.”
The rear door of the SUV opened.
Your breath caught.
A man stepped out slowly.
Not the wounded stranger.
Older.
Silver hair.
Broad shoulders.
A scar running from his left ear to his jaw.
He looked like someone who had spent his life standing close to danger and somehow made danger nervous.
“Sofia Rivas,” he said.
You hated the way your full name sounded in his mouth.
“I’m calling the police.”
“You can,” he said. “But if you do, the man who tried to kill Mr. Lujan tonight will know where to find you before breakfast.”
The street seemed to go silent.
A bus hissed at the corner.
Someone shouted two blocks away.
A siren wailed in the distance.
But all you heard was that sentence.
The man who tried to kill him will know where to find you.
You forced yourself to breathe.
“Why would anyone come after me?”
The older man looked toward the hospital in the distance, then back at you.
“Because Mr. Lujan told you his name.”
“No, he didn’t.”
The man’s jaw tightened.
“You know it now.”
A chill moved through you.
The name.
Lujan.
You had heard it before.
Not in the ER. Not from a patient file. Not from coworkers.
From the news.
From whispers.
From old police reports.
From the kind of stories people lowered their voices to tell.
Mateo Lujan.
Owner of nightclubs, restaurants, security companies, construction firms, and a dozen businesses that always looked clean on paper. Rumored crime boss. Untouchable. Dangerous. The kind of man reporters called a “businessman” when they were afraid of lawsuits and “mob-connected” when they were not.
And you had stitched him closed in Cubicle 4 with your bare hands.
You stepped back.
“No,” you whispered.
The older man nodded once, as if your fear was reasonable.
“My name is Elias,” he said. “I work for him. He asked me to bring you somewhere safe.”
“I am not going anywhere with you.”
“He expected that too.”
“Then he’s smarter than he looks.”
Elias looked almost amused.
“Usually.”
You pulled your phone out.
Your hand shook as you unlocked it.
Elias did not stop you.
That scared you more.
Men who were afraid of police tried to stop women from calling them. Men who were not afraid simply waited.
“You have ten seconds to leave,” you said.
Elias glanced toward the black SUV.
Then he said, “Your grandmother’s name is Mercedes Rivas. She lives at St. Anne’s Memory Care in Oak Park. Room 214.”
The phone nearly slipped from your hand.
Your vision sharpened with rage.
“If you touch her—”
“No one is touching her,” Elias said quickly. “That is exactly the point. Someone followed you from the hospital. Not us.”
You stopped breathing.
Elias continued, “We intercepted them near Roosevelt Road. Two men in a gray Charger. They had photos of you, your building, and your grandmother’s facility.”
The sidewalk tilted beneath your feet.
“No,” you said, because sometimes the first word after terror is denial.
Elias reached into his coat slowly and removed a phone.
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