Page 87 of The Desperate Warrior

“It was an accident,” he shouted as the veins in his neck writhed. “Enough of this.” He stood and came towards her. She noticed his gait and the slight drag of his left foot, the familiarity of his brown, soft-leather shoes. Everything snapped into place. The night of the cooking class, Asher had told her about damaging his ankle. She’d known there was somethingshe was supposed to glean from the nightmares, but she could never pinpoint what it was. Why couldn’t she have connected the dots sooner? Before it was too late.

“Steve Randall didn’t ram his car into mine. It was you.”

He smirked. “I knew everyone would think it was Randall because of the timing. Worked out nicely.” He frowned. “It was just too bad that the ambulance showed up when it did. Otherwise, this would’ve already been over. No worries,” he said practically. “I’m about to even the score.” He loomed over her.

What was he going to do? Strangle her with his bare hands?

He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a syringe. It contained a milky-white liquid.

“Propofol,” she squeaked. He was a doctor. He’d drugged her. Of course he would go this route.

“You certainly know your meds,” he said with a dry chuckle. He uncapped the syringe slowly as if savoring the moment. “You might remember that I waited until dark to get here so your neighbors would be none the wiser. I spotted the cameras on the front porch. After you drift off to Neverland, I’ll take a look at your security system and will remove any trace of my visit. No one will ever know that I was here. Everyone will think you died of an overdose. A nurse recovering from surgery.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

Tears blurred Jules’s vision. “Please don’t.” She knew she should try to fight, but she was trapped in a body that was too sluggish to cooperate.

“I like you, Jules. I really do. You’re smart, beautiful, and fun to talk to. For a moment there, I thought I might actually fall for you. That we could put the past behind us and move forward.” Anger masked his face. “But you chose someone else. Pity.”

He sat down beside her and pointed the needle at her skin.

“Don’t,” she moaned.

“Time to rest now.”

She heard the front door burst open. And then came the pop of a gun. Asher’s body jerked before he slumped to the floor.

Brock rushed to her side. “Jules,” he shouted, slapping her cheek. “Wake up.” “You’re here,” she murmured groggily. He’d done the impossible and come for her. How? How did he know she was in trouble?

“I’m here.”

Before he could say more, Asher rose from the floor and jabbed the syringe into Brock’s arm.

Brock flinched. “What the—?” He jerked the needle out of his arm and threw it down.

Asher fell back to the floor.

“Oh my gosh,” Jules gasped. Her foggy mind roared back to life as adrenaline surged.

“What’s h—happening?” Brock slurred as he stumbled and collapsed onto the couch, where he slumped against her.

“No, no, no.” Jules fought through the haze. “Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes. “Brock,” she screeched. Exerting all of her effort, she raised her hand and tapped his face. “Please, stay with me.”

Luke rushed into the room. When he saw Asher on the floor and then Brock, his eyes went wide with panic. “What the—what happened? I parked the car and told Brock to wait for me so I could help.”

“No time,” Jules rasped. “Call 911. Now!” She forced her tongue into action. “You need to get Brock on his side. He’s been injected with propofol. We have to keep him breathing.”

Luke pulled out his phone and called.

Jules, still dizzy and disoriented, tried to hold on with everything she had.

She could only hope and pray that Brock would do the same.

Chapter 22

The hospital room was quiet except for the soft beep of the heart monitor and the occasional murmur of voices in the hallway outside. Everything was too quiet. It was grueling to sit here and wait for Brock to wake up.

Jules sat hunched in the chair beside his bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. It struck her how strange and surreal all of this was. She’d spent years working in hospitals before transferring to the surgical center. This room—this experience—should be familiar, clinical, routine. But nothing about this was normal.

Everything she’d learned, every bit of her training had all flown out of her brain the minute she stepped into this room and saw Brock lying in that bed.

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