Alex Kratovsky sat upright in a hospital bed, his eyes baggy from lack of sleep and his lips cracked from lack of drink. The doctor hadn't seemed terribly concerned about the possibility of malnourishment or psychological trauma. Alex was practically trembling with fear when they first brought him in, and he hadn't eaten all day. Maybe he'd feel more relaxed if they at least allowed him to maintain a decent blood sugar level. When Alex had finally managed to articulate his concerns that someone dangerous was out to get him, the doctor referred him to the hospital's psychiatrist, who in turn referred him to the hospital's pharmacy for a prescription of something or other. Probably a benzodiazepine, or some other happy pill that would make the whole world a happy place. These nurses, doctors, and hospital staff didn't give a damn about him. They just wanted their shift to end so they could take their paycheck and go home to their soft beds where they would sleep, eat, have sex, and watch television for the rest of the day. Alex spent most of his time working, even when he wasn't "at work", as the people here liked to say. At least they hadn't forced him to wait around for hours on end, like they had done last year when he'd broken his collar bone.
"Some hospital", Alex mumbled aloud.
The patient sleeping in the bed on Alex's left twisted his head in response to the sound, but Alex didn't care. He wanted to get out of this place, even though his home was probably a ransacked disaster area by now. He scratched the stubble of his fleshy cheek, and realized suddenly that he hadn't even shaved in days. He probably smelled terrible, too. No wonder the nurses were so quick to leave him. They probably thought he was some homeless maniac. Maybe that wasn't so far from the truth.
"Alex Kratovsky? How are you feeling, sir?"
Alex turned to face the doctor, some new face he'd never seen before. He was not altogether thrilled to see a new face at the foot of his stiff hospital bed, but this guy looked different. He seemed very professional, and spoke with an authoritative British accent.
"Not so great. What's a guy gotta do to get some food around here?"
"I'll see what I can do. But I must warn you, this is one of the worst restaurants in the city. I'm afraid you'll find the menu and the wait staff to be very disappointing".
The doctor let out a sigh of discontent while flipping through the pages of his clipboard, like some kind of snobby restaurant critic. Alex chuckled. He couldn't even remember the last time he allowed himself to laugh. It felt like years.
"Before the maître d' arrives, I just need to ask you a few questions".
"Sure", Alex replied. He found himself strangely cooperative now, but why not? This was an unusually charming doctor, who didn't treat him like a cheap chunk of stew meat in an abattoir. The deadpan humor reminded him of his GP back home.
"The circumstances of your injuries. Can you tell me more about them?"
"Oh. Well, not really. I mean, I told the other doctors about the car that hit me from behind. It sped off right after the collision. I guess it was just an accident, but-"
"But, what? You can tell me anything, Alex".
Alex told him. He wasn't sure why. Something about the icy blue of his eyes just pierced right through the fog of fear. This man was clearly powerful, intelligent, and kind. It was rare to find someone who carried all three of these qualities, especially in this horrible place. If Alex had been born a woman, he would have probably been sexually attracted to this man. The guy probably got more than his fair share of action.
But Alex hadn't been born a woman. He was a man, and that burden meant he would never know the lighthearted, playful nature of feminine creatures. Not unless he managed to acquire his own woman, of course, but he was fairly certain that he was destined to die alone in a sea of crumpled paper and candy bar wrappers. A sad, lonesome death for poor Alex.
Just not in this place, hopefully. At least, not yet.
"And these men have threatened you in the past?"
"Yes, several times over the past month. They call me at home, sometimes when I'm sleeping. I figured they were just trying to scare me, but they kept getting worse. The most recent one told me I should 'keep my eyes on the road when I'm driving'. I wrote it off as some stupid metaphor, but then I got rear-ended by a big white van the next day. The other doctor said I should be glad I survived, and that I should assume it was some accident. Bullshit. I wouldn't be surprised if he was on their payroll, actually".
"On whose payroll, exactly?"
Alex grinned, obviously bemused that the good doctor was letting him go into such detail about what would surely be dismissed as paranoia or delusions of persecution.
"You ever hear of the Emerald Hawk?"
"I'm afraid I haven't. Sounds like an endangered species".
Alex scoffed, licked his lips, and offered his explanation in a slightly hushed voice.
"It's the opposite, actually. The Emerald Hawk has been getting stronger these past few years. Nobody knows much about them, or even that they exist. But anyone who does know them is very much aware of what they're capable of".
"So it's some sort of gang, then?"
Alex sat upright in his bed. Discussing this matter openly, with an intelligent human being, was comforting and disconcerting at the same time.
"If the Emerald Hawk is a gang, Mickey Mantle is in little league. They're big guys. Lots of money, lots of power, very highly organized. Like I said, most people don't even know they exist".
"Very interesting", said the doctor, a thoughtful expression playing upon his hard features. Alex hadn't seen such restrained, controlled emotion since he was a little tike, living near the naval base with his father. Most of the faces he met there demonstrated either happiness or hostility. The doctor expressed neither of these.
"Any idea how to get in touch with them? If they are, in fact, responsible for this mess".
"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don't know for sure that it's them. I've been pretty freaked out by the whole damn thing, as you can imagine. Maybe at this point I'm just imagining things, and it was all a coincidence. I don't know".
"I suppose you should be grateful these people don't want you dead. That's something."
"Really? How do you even know? I mean, if they had no problem slamming a huge van right into-"
"If they are as dangerous and organized as you say, they wouldn't make mistakes. I think this was an act of intimidation, not assassination."
"Yeah, you're probably right. Jesus, I can't even believe this shit. I just want to go home and get a good night's rest".
"This hospital is very secure, especially at night. Even a family member wouldn't be able to enter your room at night without a staff escort."
"I guess so. Maybe I'll be able to sleep better here, then. They said they wanted to keep me overnight, anyway. I hope my insurance is-"
"It's only money", said the doctor in his clipped, British voice. "Your life is what's important. Get some rest, and we'll deal with the details tomorrow".
"Alright. Does that mean I'll see you tomorrow?"
"I'm afraid I can't promise you that, but you're in good hands here. We're busy all day long, but we look after our patients. Even the ones who scorn our wine selection".
Just like that, he left.
Alex smirked. Why couldn't there be more doctors like that guy? He seemed very experienced, and Alex felt much more relaxed after having spoken with him. Easily the best doctor he'd ever dealt with.
He closed his eyes and relaxed his head against the cheap hospital pillow, and for the first time in days, dreamed of pleasant things without any interruption of fear.
Amanda Chesterfield's shift was over, and she was glad. She was still inside the hospital, but she'd gathered her things and had only to say goodbye to her co-workers before beginning the long drive home. Her legs throbbed slightly, and the knowledge that she would be able to sit down in just a few short moments made the tension in her forehead simply melt away.
"See ya tomorrow, Mandy", came the insect-buzzing of Dr. Feldman's voice behind her.
"Yeah, see ya then", she replied without turning or breaking pace.
It had been over a month since her first day on the job, and everywhere she went, people seemed to treat her like a child. She'd considered dyeing her hair a darker color, but ultimately decided it was her petite figure that was giving everyone, both patients and staff, the impression that she was somehow more innocent and ignorant than the other nurses.
This was a pervasive and frustrating falsehood that Amanda did not find easy to deal with. She was just as competent and smart as any of the other nurses, if not more so. As an intern in Chicago, the staff eventually warmed to her and respected her opinions without any hint of patronization.
This hospital was such a mess.
"Hey, Mandy. Ready to hit the traffic?"
Amanda paused at the corridor, taking the cup of cold water that one of the friendlier nurses offered to her.
"Thanks, yeah. I heard it was supposed to be really thick tonight".
"Great. I still need to grab dinner for my boy on the way home".
Slowly she sipped at the water, which tasted crisp and cold. Amanda hadn't even realized how thirsty she was, and she found herself emptying the plastic cup with just a few quick gulps.
Satisfied, she tossed the cup in a nearby trashcan and breathed the hospital air, which no longer bothered her nearly as much-
"Excuse me", muttered a deep voice behind her.
Amanda shifted her weight to allow the gentleman to pass. She felt foolish for blocking the closet entrance, especially when so many doctors were turning in for the night.
"Thank you", came the voice again, and a large hand brushed over her elbow as a strange doctor with blue eyes navigated through the usual obstacles blocking the hospital hallways. Most doctors seemed to shove their way through the halls, rushing without any concern for the organic status of a hallway obstacle. She'd been bruised on her shoulder from a heavily built doctor during her first week. People here could be so rude sometimes. Still, this man moved with a slower, more deliberate pace than Amanda had seen in any of the other doctors. His facial features also seemed more dominant than any doctor she'd encountered in this hospital before. Such powerful, coordinated movements were suggestive of athletic talent. He reminded her of a hockey player she dated a few years back. That guy had been a total ass, though. This guy was something else.
"Mel, who was that? That doctor that just passed through?"
"I don't know and I don't care". Mel stirred her pale coffee with a thin red straw, more for the relief of stress than the improvement of its flavor. Amanda found her fellow nurse's indifference to be somewhat troubling, yet strangely understandable, particularly at this time of day.
"Alright. I'm headed out".
"Drive safe, girl. Lotta crazies out there".
"No kidding", Amanda said as she waved goodbye and headed for the building's exit. The cold night air stung her ears almost instantly, but at least she didn't have far to walk. This weather was something she wasn't sure she could ever get used to.
She found herself clutching her bare elbow. That doctor had such warm hands. Hands like an athlete. Athlete's hands?
The parking lot felt suddenly vacant and quiet, despite the colorful rows of cars. Amanda hoped she would bump into the tall doctor again sometime, if only to learn his name.
Bond could have been more cautious during his infiltration of the hospital, but the entire organization had been a wreck. Understaffed and overworked employees seemed commonplace in this city, and Bond couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the selfish greed of these American employers came back to bite them in the ass.
Still, he wasn't here to conduct an in-depth analysis of social reform. It had been almost disappointingly easy to enter a hospital room, don a disguise, accomplish his goals, and return that disguise upon leaving the hospital without receiving so much as a suspicious glance. It didn't matter. Bond was an exceptional infiltrator, and he knew it was only a matter of time before this mission strained his skills to their limit.
Or beyond.
Bond was relatively unconcerned for his personal safety at the moment. He'd learned everything he could from the poor man, and a follow-up visit to Alex's personal living quarters had yielded something even more striking. Small bottles of clear fluid labeled "X0-335" lined the bottom drawer of his nightstand. A cursory inspection might have been very discouraging to the casual investigator, since the bedroom was an obscene manifestation of the knowledge and fear that cluttered Alex's restless mind. Bond had been very thorough, and the strangely-labeled bottles had been the only outstanding item in Alex's home. He took only one bottle, the one left slightly askew and appearing to already be half empty, which made it less likely to be missed. It appeared to have nearly two ounces still remaining, and this was satisfactory. Laboratories at MI6 could identify fluids based on very small samples, and Bond didn't want to risk compromising his cover so early on in the mission. With only a single bottle missing from the case, a second interloper could not safely assume that someone had beaten them to the punch.
Bond had a feeling that there were many interlopers passing through Alex's apartment, even at this very moment. He stared at the LCD before him in the darkness of his hotel room, drumming his fingers on the thick wooden table. Bond was normally a quiet, patient agent, although self-control had not been one of his strengths. Ever.
Certainly not compared to the other agents employed by MI6, anyway.
A flicker of white snapped Bond's attention back to the center of the laptop monitor. System match. Alex Bryant Kratovsky. Useless data, mostly. Apparently, Alex had been hospitalized at the age of six for an asthma attack, and had been in and out of hospitals ever since. Even with such familiarity, he probably never enjoyed visiting the place. Bond couldn't blame him.
Like many people, Bond despised hospitals. They were a necessary evil, though. Just as Bond considered himself to be a necessary evil, at times. He never pretended to uphold noble principles of morality, but he never considered himself altogether evil. His personal attributes and professional skills earned him a colorful cornucopia of reputations, some more appropriate than others. Even among the exceptional agents that operated within MI6, Bond was not prone to compare his abilities to those of his fellow agents. He simply defied convention, and people who tried to study him were often reluctant to accept his unique status among humankind.
He'd always been different. A "loner", they called him as a child. Although little James Bond was far more likely to put someone else in a hospital than to end up in one himself. On a good day, at least.
A few keys were tapped, and Bond haphazardly began a different search. He exhaled gently.
Bond lifted the cool glass in his hand, admiring its angular patterns. The room's dim lighting made it a bit trickier, but it didn't matter. Bond was unusually comfortable with wounds involving broken glass, even before working for MI6. It didn't mean he couldn't admire glass in its pristine form.
Patience was required for people with his occupation; even so, he often admitted to himself that patience was not his greatest strength.
Cut by glass.
Little Jamie Smith, with her long white dresses. Bond had only been a child at the time, but he still couldn't help glancing her way every so often. She read stories to the younger children, and although Bond usually pursued recreational activities of a more physical nature, his eyes were often drawn to that girl in white. She was easy to spot since she was the brightest shape in the tree's shade, always reading softly to the tiny children, who leaned forward with an almost religious reverence for her. She had several years on him, but there was just something about her expression whenever she looked his way-
Emerald Hawk. No matches found. Damn.
One of the largest boys often lurched in front of the smaller children, prodding at little Jamie Smith every so often. Teasing her, not really a threat, at least not in Bond's preadolescent eyes. It had been Jamie's tears that really set him off, though. Bond believed that the boy's relentless meddling had been largely the result of wild hormones that weren't kept in check by the child's negligent parents. He was no more than a year older than little Jamie, but Bond assumed they were both at least three years older than he'd been at the time. Bond never knew that boy's name, and made no effort to find out. James knew only that his pulse quickened at the sight of him. There was no recognition of fear, though. If he had been afraid, he would have surely thought twice before delivering that swift kick to the boy's knee after several minutes of particularly aggressive taunts against Jamie.
If James recognized fear as a boy, he might have hesitated before using an angular glass shard to defend himself when the boy proceeded to charge him like an enraged bull. The boy was much larger than Bond, taller and of greater physical strength. He looked like a large, ugly monster more than a boy, especially in that moment. Bond was athletic as a boy, but lean and thin rather than strong and stout. No one would have expected that the larger boy would have spent the rest of his evening sobbing uncontrollably while strangers weaved stitches through his broken flesh and repaired the damage done by Bond's swipe of almost frightening precision.
Bond had been severely penalized after the incident, and the wealthy mother of the larger boy ensured that the brute received careful, royal treatment from then on. Bond didn't care. He knew he had won. So did the larger boy, who never ventured near the tree of storytelling, even months after the incident. Everyone seemed to watch Bond more carefully, too.
Especially Jamie Smith. The very next day, Jamie went through the trouble of leading him to a secluded area and kissing him on the mouth for nearly a full minute. Bond was too young to fully appreciate the gesture, but she seemed to warm to him and Bond never saw tears on her rosy little cheeks again. That was good enough for him.
He clutched the glass firmly between his fingers, lifting it to his nose. It was empty, but still fragrant from the cognac.
The intensity of his captor's eyes suddenly sprang to mind. Wild, yet focused. Like a tiger. Like a bloody cat, stalking a gazelle, waiting for the moment most prudent to strike. Bond found that such fierce women often made for exciting bedfellows. Even if they often tried to kill him afterwards.
A thin smile spread across his lips. Unfortunately for such predators, Bond was not the gazelle he appeared to be.
He shut the lid of his laptop down with a firm click, and sat on the corner of the bed. This room had been surprisingly well-kept for a hotel of this size. Furniture crafted from wood, sturdy enough to use as a weapon. An expensive television set, which Bond would not make use of. A small refrigerator, with reasonable capacity, although Bond preferred ice for the chilling of wine.
He pressed a hand against the mattress. A bit on the soft side, but at least it was clean. He expected he would sleep well for the night. That was good, because he needed to stay sharp for tomorrow. He wasn't tired just yet, though.
And he still had one more errand to run.