Lady in White: Legacy

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nurse

Thursday, March 28, 2019

0200

"Anna, can you stop doing that?"

Anna blinked, looking at Kristoff in confusion. "What?"

Kristoff stared at her blankly. "Humming."

"Sorry," Anna mumbled, cheeks turning slightly red. "I . . . I kind of didn't realize I was doing it."

"Hmm." Kristoff shifted his weight as he leaned against the wall of the elevator. Isaacson stood against the opposite wall, his lips pursed with concern, while Anna and Anderson stood in the center of the small cab. Scratching his chin, Kristoff glanced at Anna again. "Was that 'Pinball Wizard,' Lieutenant—"

"Oh, shut up!" Anna turned away, her face feeling now as if it were aflame. "Of course, the medical unit is on the third floor. Nothing can be easy for us—"

Stephenson's voice suddenly crackled in Anna and Kristoff's ears. "Ok, Kristoff, bro. I'm looking at, like, a whole crapload of guards with really big guns on the west side of the medical floor."

Kristoff brought his hand to his ear. "Let me guess: That's the end where they're holding Elsa, isn't it?"

Stephenson's fingers flew across his keyboard. He leaned forward as he analyzed the multiplicity of camera feeds emanating from the monitor. "Uh, yeah." He frowned as something else caught his eye. "And, like, not to be the bearer of bad news and all, but, like, the guards you guys knocked out downstairs are all talking to each other and stuff. And they don't look too happy—"

"You'll be happy to know," Ryder's voice cut in, "that I've just texted my contact, and she's told me you have the green light to create the diversion we discussed. She'll be there waiting for you in Elsa's room, but you have to go now."

Anna glanced at Kristoff, a worried look on her face. "What do you think? Do you think it will be enough to get them to leave long enough for us to—"

Ryder cut in again. "That's up to Stephenson here, now, isn't it?"

"Hey, bro!" Stephenson sounded sincerely offended. "I told you, I got this—"

Kristoff winced as the elevator came to a sudden stop. A recorded, feminine voice emanated from the speaker in the cab's ceiling. Arrival. Level Three. Medical.

"Do it, Stephenson," Kristoff said as the elevator doors slowly began to open, fingers pressed against his earpiece. "Do it now . . ."

". . . okay? Hey, do you hear me? C'mon, give me something, please!"

Elsa's eyelids opened slowly, her vision nothing but purple spots dancing in a sea of blurriness. She tried to speak, but all she could produce was a series of low groans.

The sound of a pair of hands clasping one another in delight filled her ears. "Oh, thank God! You're awake! I've been trying to get you back among the living for nearly an hour now."

Elsa grimaced as she felt a hand touch her brow. "How do you feel?" the voice asked.

Elsa tried to answer, but her tongue merely rolled about her mouth of its own accord. "Wh– . . . Wh– . . . Whazagonon?" she finally managed to ask.

Through the haze that was her sight, the Lady managed to make out the face of a young woman with hazel skin, dark brown hair, dressed in nurse's scrubs. The young woman smiled broadly. "Okay. That's a start."

As Elsa tried to sit up, the nurse moved to the monitors beside the bed, frowning as she read the display. "Hmm. Not going down fast enough." The young woman ran a hand through her hair as she glanced at the IV line running into Elsa's wrist. Withdrawing her cell phone from her scrubs pocket, she scowled as she analyzed her text messages. "Not enough time. Not enough freaking time . . ."

The next thing Elsa knew, the nurse had quickly sanitized her hands and drawn the curtain around the bed shut. She hovered over Elsa's wrist, an apologetic expression upon her face. "Okay. New plan. Sorry I have to go so fast, but . . . well . . ."

Before Elsa could react, the nurse ripped the tape holding the IV line in place off her hand. Tossing it aside, the young woman hastily, yet carefully, withdrew the needle from the Lady's flesh, quickly sanitizing and bandaging the area. "How are you feeling now?"

Elsa looked at the young woman, eyes still glazed over, pupils dilated. "Ow . . ."

The young woman chuckled to herself. "Well, you reacted to that, at least. That's a start. After the dosage of sedatives being pumped directly into your bloodstream . . ." She shook her head. "I tried to bring you off them as gradually as I could, but we don't have enough time for that, unfortunately." She pulled her phone out again. "Oh, for the love of . . ." She brought her phone to her face, thumbs moving rapidly across the phone's screen as she texted. "Good to go," she muttered to herself as she read aloud the text she was composing. "Send them in."

Elsa blinked, her head swirling. "I . . . feel . . . terrible."

The nurse put her phone back in her scrubs pocket. "Yeah, you're going to feel like that for several hours, I'm afraid. I wouldn't try any serious exertion, like walking, if I were you till your body's had a chance to recover." She peered through the curtain, frowning as she saw the guards outside the room still standing at their posts. "Come on, Ryder," she muttered. "What's taking you so long?"

"I . . . Ryder? You . . . You know Ryder—"

"Easy there," the nurse said, pressing her hands firmly on Elsa's shoulders, forcing the Lady back into the bed. "I'm trying to help get you out of here, but you're only going to make it harder for all of us if you try to fight me on this. And believe me, you are getting out of here, one way or the other, because if we get caught . . ." A shudder ran down the young woman's back. "Well, that's not even an option. I am not going in the Chair, I'll tell you that much."

Elsa groaned, the information the young woman was sharing with her barely making sense to her drug-addled mind. I know her voice, she thought to herself. Who . . . Who is she? "The . . . Chair?" she managed to choke out.

The nurse's hands clenched involuntarily at the mention of that word. "Yeah. The Chair. That's Director Remington's personal contribution to the field of interrogation. I've never seen anything like it." She closed her eyes, horrible memories stirring in her mind. "I drew the short straw on that one when I first got hired here, so I've had dto be present during interrogations to monitor the vitals of the people she's put in that thing. Grown men who swear to God they'll never talk, reduced to quivering messes begging for death after less than an hour in it." She opened her eyes once more. "You can't hide anything from the Chair, Elsa. And Remington's a sadistic . . ."

The nurse cleared her throat. "Anyway, that's why we have to get you out of here. And why I have to get out of here, for that matter. Once they find out I've helped Remington's prize escape, I'm as good as dead anyway. Believe me, if it hadn't been Ryder who asked . . ."

She smiled to herself as she saw that Elsa had fallen asleep once more. "Or if it hadn't been you they'd captured . . ." She glanced at her watch. "Dammit to hell, Ryder. What is taking you so long?!"

Roberta Remington—M.D., licensed psychiatrist, and director of counterintelligence research for the Eastern European bloc—sat at the desk in her living quarters, eyes fixated upon the screen of her laptop. She cast her gaze upon the report she had spent the past few hours writing, occasionally erasing blocks of text, the clicking sound of her fingers against the keys filling the air as she revised the paper again and again and again until, by her standards, it was perfect.

Satisfied at last, she brought the laptop's screen down until it closed against the keyboard. Rubbing her eyes, Remington took a sip from a cup of coffee that had long since turned cold. You should be asleep, she chided herself as the bitter cold liquid coated her tongue. Her eyes briefly glanced at the suitcase resting on the bed. You've got a big day ahead.

Sleep had never been something Remington had felt much need for, in spite of the multiple lectures she had received from her doctors over the years warning her that she would be lucky to make it to 50 at the rate at which she worked herself. The coffee most certainly didn't help, Remington conceded; she couldn't remember the last time she had consumed less than ten cups in a given day. Still, in her line of work, sleep was a luxury she could ill afford. Not when, Remington reminded herself, the lives of millions of blissfully unaware souls hung in the balance.

I wonder, she mused, what it's like to not know that every second of the day there are men all over the world just waiting for the opportunity to kill you simply for being an American.

Shaking her head, Remington rose from her desk and moved to the Keurig brewer on the kitchenette counter. Wordlessly, she filled the device, savoring the delectable odor of roasted coffee beans as the brewer dispensed her beverage—dark roast, extremely strong, black as midnight, just the way she liked it. Considering the other vices she could indulge—alcohol, recreational drugs, sex—Remington was doing quite well for a woman in her position. At least, that's what she told herself—in her own professional opinion, of course.

She glanced at her watch as she took a long, slow sip of piping hot liquid. Her career in counterintelligence had inevitably led to her engaging in and authorizing actions that most people would find abhorrent, if not blatantly immoral, and she had long since abandoned any pretense of holding herself accountable to any moral code other than "the ends justify the means." And yet, she found herself uncharacteristically questioning her actions over the past forty-eight hours. Is this really necessary? Are we . . . Am I really going to—

The sound of an alarm blasting across the comm speaker on the wall by the door to her quarters caused Remington to spill her coffee onto the counter. Cursing under her breath, the director made her way to the door, thumb angrily depressing the button on the comm. "What the hell is going on?!"

"We have a situation, Remington."

Remington scowled as she recognized the voice on the other end of the line. "Colonel Reynolds," she responded. "To what do I owe the pleasure of being rudely awoken at this time of night?" She snorted derisively, making certain the sound was directed precisely into the comm's speaker, so Reynolds could hear.

A small smile of satisfaction formed on Remington's lips as Reynolds responded, each syllable dripping with venom, his contempt for having to report directly to a civilian evident in his voice. "My sincerest apologies, ma'am," he said. "Far be it from me to disturb your beauty sleep, but if I were you, I'd be checking out Lab D on the security cams."

Remington's satisfied smile vanished, replaced with an expression of abject horror. "Not D Lab!" she hissed. "That's where we have the samples from—"

The director raced across the room to her laptop, quickly flipping the device open. "Come on, come on!" she muttered under her breath, willing the device to come to life. She punched in her access code, jaw dropping in disbelief as she pulled up the window displaying the base's central surveillance system. "Shit!"

D Lab was on fire before her eyes, thick plumes of black smoke pouring across the camera, obscuring her vision. Remington practically sprinted back to the wall-mounted comm. "Why in God's name is nobody putting it out, Colonel?! Do you have any idea what we've been working on in there for the past—"

"Need I remind you, ma'am," Reynolds replied, coolly, "that you made it quite clear that you, and only you, have the authority to order base personnel to act when it involves research conducted under your supervision." The colonel sounded almost thrilled as he spoke, Remington noted. "Perhaps," Reynolds continued, "if you weren't such a control freak, I could have—"

"Goddamn you, Reynolds!" Remington spat. "Get your men in there now and put out that fire, or so help me, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Reynolds inquired. "Put me in that Chair of yours?" He laughed. "We'll see how the Joint Chiefs feel about that, putting an American citizen and military officer in that monstrosity—"

Remington slammed her fist against the wall in frustration. She wanted so desperately to unleash a string of expletives toward Reynolds, ranging from insinuations regarding his sexual orientation to the size, or lack thereof, of his reproductive equipment. Instead, she closed her eyes, willing herself to calm down. Breathe. Just breathe. Calm. I am in control. I am in control . . .

"Colonel," she finally responded, opening her eyes. "Pull every one of your men on Medical off their current assignments and redirect them to D Lab immediately. I want that fire extinguished ASAP and the samples from the asset saved. I will meet you there shortly. Do you understand?"

"Of course, ma'am," Reynolds responded. "My men will have it taken care of in short order—"

Remington turned off the comm, cutting the colonel's response short. "Smug, arrogant prick." Sighing, she moved to her closet, retrieving a navy woman's suit from the rack. As she removed her nightgown, she glanced toward the images on her laptop. Your men had better act fast, Reynolds, or so help me, when I'm through with you, you'll be begging for the Chair as opposed to what else I'll do to you . . .

"Look!"

From the cramped confines of the storage closet, Anna gestured toward the crack in the slightly-open door. "They're . . . They're leaving!"

"Let me see."

Kristoff shoved Anna out of the way, holding his breath as his own eyes confirmed Anna's assessment. "Good work, Stephenson," he whispered, hand pressed against his ear. "How long do you think we have?"

"Well, let's see, bro. I'd guess 'bout five minutes for them to get from this side of Medical to Lab D on the other end of this floor, thirty seconds to realize I've made them look like complete morons, and about three minutes for them to make their way back, pissed off that they were tricked."

"Great." Kristoff frowned. "Not as much time as I would have liked—"

"I'm not a freaking miracle worker, Kristoff dude!" Stephenson protested. "The more shit I mess with here, the greater the odds they'll find out I'm in their system. And if they find out, I'm gonna have to bail, know what I'm saying—"

"Got it." Kristoff turned to Andersen and Isaacson. "You two, stay here. Anna and I will be back as fast as we can, and then we're bailing before they can catch us. Ryder, your contact knows we'll meet her in Elsa's room, right?"

"Yes, for the millionth time." Ryder sounded exasperated. "Although, I didn't have time to give her a physical description, so she might be a little bit jumpy—"

"Come on!" Anna hissed, grabbing hold of Kristoff's arm, pulling him into the hallway. "Less talking, more walking! You heard Stephenson." She pulled her phone out from her pocket, frowning as she looked at the time on the display. "We don't have a lot of time here!"

"I know," Kristoff muttered as the pair made their way down the now abandoned corridor. "Help me find it," he whispered. "Stephenson says we're looking for room MD-304.

"Do you really think Stephenson's distraction worked?" Anna whispered, their footsteps echoing down the eerily quiet hall. "I mean, Elsa's got to be priority number one around here. Do you think . . ."

Her words trailed off as they arrived before room MD-304. Lying on the ground outside the slightly-open door were the unmoving forms of two guards.

"Jeez!" Anna whispered as Kristoff knelt beside the motionless soldiers. "What . . . What happened to them?"

"They're not dead," Kristoff observed, shaking his head grimly. "They're breathing just fine." His eyes fell upon a pair of syringes next to the bodies. He reached for one, holding it up before his eyes. "If I had to guess, I'd say Ry's contact beat us to the punch here."

"Fantastic!" Anna responded. "So, where are they?"

Kristoff rose, his eyes moving toward the door. "Give you three guesses on that one, Anna."

"Great!" Anna groaned, rubbing her eyes. "And Ryder said they were 'jumpy'!" She folded her arms, looking Kristoff straight in the eye. "After you, 'Captain.'"

Kristoff sighed. "Oh, now you want to be outranked. I see how it is—"

"Excuse me for not wanting to end up with a needle in my neck, thank you very much!" Anna threw up her hands. "Fine! We'll go in together."

The two very, very carefully pushed open the door, moving slowly, deliberately. "Hello?" Anna whispered, heart racing as she pressed forward into the dimly-lit room. "Elsa? Ryder's friend? It's us. We're here—"

Without warning, something threw itself onto Kristoff's back, pinning him against the wall. Anna shrieked involuntarily as Kristoff let out a loud grunt of pain. His hands moved to the pair of arms wrapped around his throat, the pressure they were exerting slowly draining oxygen from his lungs. Roaring, he spun around, slamming the whatever-it-was on his back against the wall, his efforts rewarded with a painful shout. The figure fell to the floor, dazed. Before it could move again, Anna was at its side, a pair of medical scissors she had found on one of the shelves pressed against the figure's throat.

"Don't move!" Anna ordered, hoping against hope she sounded more commanding than she felt. "I'll do it! I mean it, I will! Don't . . . Don't make me!"

To Anna's surprise, the figure—a young woman with coffee-toned skin, brown hair, dressed like a nurse—laughed. "I'm going to kill you, Ryder," she said, shaking her head. "Of all the people you send do this job . . ."

Kristoff groaned as he reached down, offering the young woman his hand as he recognized her face. "Was that really necessary? You know, the whole jumping on my back and trying to strangle me thing?"

"Oh, come on, Bjorgman," the young woman said, taking Kristoff's hand. "Just like when we were kids, don't you remember?"

Anna blinked, confused. "Wait . . . Wait a minute. You two know each other?"

"That's right, sweetie," the young woman said, smirking. "Bjorgman and I go way, way back."

Kristoff sighed. "All right. Enough, now." He turned to Anna. "Anna, this is Ry's sister . . . Maren."

AN: I apologize for the delay in updating. Life has been very . . . busy of late. Thank you for your patience. More to come!