Page 4 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal

“I thought so,” Cal replied, his grin widening.“Your donation of half a million dollars has secured you a prime table and significant face time with key hospital staff.”

Atticus nodded, his mind already calculating angles and approaches.A public venue would limit Mitchell’s options if he was already tracking the doctor.“Good.I’ll make contact, assess her knowledge.”

“And then?”Eden asked, the question hanging in the air like smoke after gunfire.

Atticus looked at each member of his team in turn, these people who had become his family in the aftermath of devastation.They’d followed him into hell more times than he could count.Now he was asking them to follow him into something potentially more dangerous—a personal vendetta against one of the most powerful men in Washington.A man with connections throughout the government, with resources that dwarfed their own, with the ability to destroy them all with a single phone call.

He didn’t need to ask if they were with him.The question would have been an insult to their loyalty.

“And then we begin dismantling Senator Mitchell’s life piece by piece,” Atticus said, his voice carrying the quiet certainty of absolute conviction.“Until he understands exactly what he took from me.From us.”

No one spoke for a long moment.Then Max leaned forward, his massive hands flat on the table, the simple gold band on his left hand catching the light.

“For Jane,” he said simply.

The others nodded, a silent pact renewed.

“For Jane,” Atticus agreed, the ghost of his wife’s smile flashing in his memory.“And for Anna.”

He turned back to the screen, to the photograph of Senator Warren Mitchell smiling at some political function, completely unaware that the countdown to his destruction had officially begun.In that moment, with absolute clarity, Atticus knew he wouldn’t rest until Mitchell had paid for Jane’s death in full measure.

Some debts could only be settled in blood.

“Let’s get to work.”

ChapterTwo

Sabrina Wells had spent her entire adult life learning to coexist with chaos.As a trauma surgeon, she thrived in the liminal space between order and disaster.Blood and bone, muscle and sinew—the human body was a marvel of engineering, and when it broke, she was the architect who rebuilt it.

Tonight, however, chaos had traded its surgical scrubs for a cocktail dress.

The hospital’s annual charity gala transformed Dallas Memorial’s normally austere grand lobby into a glittering fantasy of crystal chandeliers and ice sculptures.Wealthy donors circulated through the space like exotic fish in an aquarium—the women draped in designer gowns and heirloom jewels, the men in tuxedos tailored to disguise expanding waistlines.The air smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and money—lots of money.

Sabrina smoothed a hand down the midnight blue silk of her dress, a rare indulgence for a woman who lived in scrubs and sensible shoes.The dress hugged curves she typically concealed beneath lab coats, dipping low in the back to reveal more skin than she’d shown in years.At thirty-eight, Sabrina had dedicated herself to medicine with single-minded focus, leaving little room for serious relationships, much less marriage—a choice she rarely regretted, except on particularly lonely nights.She kept herself fit, but still felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the suspicions that had consumed her for the past three months.

“You’re working too hard.”Chief of Surgery Richard Maitland appeared at her elbow, champagne flute in hand.“This is a party, Sabrina.You’re allowed to enjoy it.”

“I’m enjoying it,” she protested, touching the stem of her own barely sipped champagne.“I’ve smiled at so many potential donors my face hurts.”

“Yet you keep scanning the room like you’re expecting trouble.”Richard’s astute gaze missed nothing, a useful trait in a surgeon but occasionally irritating in a friend.“What’s going on with you?You’ve been on edge for weeks.”

Sabrina considered her answer carefully.Richard was her mentor and advocate, but even he would think she’d lost her mind if she shared her suspicions—that a US senator was funding illegal bioweapon research, that four patients who’d died in her ER had been victims of experimental testing, that the CDC and NIH had been unusually silent about her inquiries.

“Just professional paranoia,” she said lightly.“I’m waiting for my phone to buzz with an emergency alert.You know how it is—the minute I relax, we’ll get a multicar pileup.”

Richard nodded, accepting her explanation.“At least try to enjoy yourself until then.You’ve worked hard on this event, and it’s a triumph.The new trauma wing is almost fully funded.”

He took a sip of his champagne before adding, “Oh, and the board was impressed with your work on the joint oversight committee.Three new clinical trials approved, and you managed to get additional safety protocols added without the pharmaceutical companies throwing a fit.Not many trauma surgeons have your eye for research applications.”

Sabrina gave a modest shrug, though the acknowledgment pleased her.Her dual role as surgeon and committee member had been controversial when she’d first pushed for the position three years ago.

“Someone needs to bridge the gap between the researchers and the clinicians,” she said.“Most of our patients aren’t textbook cases that fit neatly into clinical trial parameters.”

“Which is precisely why you’re valuable on the committee.You see the potential risks before they materialize.”Richard glanced across the room at an approaching donor.“Speaking of which, Mrs.Harrington is headed this way.I’d better intercept her before she corners you about naming the pediatric wing after her late husband again.”

“Go,” Sabrina urged, grateful for the reprieve.“I’ll make the rounds to the east wing donors.”

She made her way to the edge of the room, finding momentary sanctuary beside a towering ice sculpture of the hospital’s logo.The chill emanating from it cooled her flushed skin, providing welcome relief from the press of bodies.

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