Born A Hero

“I’m sure you understand we seldom have a call for this kind of medic,” Gordon replied tersely, “but I know someone back home in California who would be outstanding. Her name is Dr. Katherine Remson. I’ll give her a call and see if she’s available.”

“Tell her we’ll pay anything she asks, only for God’s sake, get her here as soon as you can. God willing, if that baby is pulled out alive, we don’t want to lose her simply because we don’t have the proper personnel.” Andretti’s voice sharpened. “No matter what happens politically, we must keep these people alive.”

A haze of smoke and weariness permeated the hotel suite’s center room as five somber-faced men sprawled on chairs and couches. Clothes were rumpled, eyes stung, stubborn jaws sported a day’s growth of bristly whiskers, and throats were raw from too much smoke and talk. No one had even considered sleep. Gallons of coffee had been brewed and drunk while they worked out a strategy in this chess game between sworn enemies. Living on adrenaline and caffeine was second nature now, though it had been months since they’d been tested.

“Damn, these all-nighters used to be more fun,” Eddie Ramsey grumbled.

“Everything used to be more fun,” Richard said. “Let’s face it, guys, we’re getting old.”

“Speak for yourself,” Caleb declared as he poured himself a cup of fresh coffee from the carafe Jonathan had just set in the middle of the table. “Me, I’m in my prime.”

“In your dreams, Stone,” Gordo retorted.

After pacing the room, Jonathan lowered himself awkwardly into a chair. His hip was giving him fits, but he’d been reluctant to take the medication that dulled his mind along with the pain. “You guys can blow smoke all you want,” he said as he unfolded his napkin, “but me, I’m ready to admit I’ve had it with field work.”

“Amen, brother,” Richard muttered.

“Okay, hotshots. If we give up the field, who’s going to take our places?” Cal challenged.

“Funny you should ask,” Gordon told him with a grin. “I’m seriously considering asking Elliot to handle the medical end in Montebello.” He paused. “According to the Medics Without Limits scheduling clerk I rousted out of bed a couple of minutes ago, he’s taking R and R in Spain as we speak. Depending on transport, he could be on scene in a matter of hours.”

Jonathan regarded him with thoughtful eyes. “You think he can handle this kind of assignment?”

“I know he’s rock steady in the OR, which is what’s desperately needed in Montebello at the moment. How he would react under more extreme mission conditions is another question. Maybe the best thing is to take it one step at a time, see how he handles this, before talking to him about joining us.”

The room fell silent as the others considered. Coffee cups clinked against saucers for a good five minutes before Jonathan broke the silence. Although the Noble Men had no official leadership hierarchy, as the man who’d gathered them together into a cohesive force, he was considered the group’s de facto commander.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” he stated, his drawl more prevalent than usual, a sign of weariness they all recognized. “In fact, I’ve been toying with the idea of bringing Jack into the mix now and then. Provided he’d be interested.”

“Hell, we’ve all been thinking about bringing our boys into the fold,” Eddie declared, glancing around the table with eyes habitually attuned to the smallest flicker of emotion in friend and foe alike. “Me, I don’t mind admitting it’s something in the nature of a dream for me, the thought of working closely with my boy.”

“Maybe it is time we gave this some serious thought,” Richard mused aloud. “This thing in Montebello could be a good testing ground, at least for Gordo’s boy and maybe some of the others.”

“Then we’re agreed—Elliot gets a call?” Gordon asked, his emotions tangling despite the calm deliberately layered into his voice.

“Agreed,” Jonathan said immediately.

“Works for me,” Cal said as he refilled his cup. The others chimed in with various comments, all of which were affirmative.

Gordon excused himself to make the call. He only hoped to hell he wasn’t asking more of his son than Elliot could bear.

Elliot wasn’t dead. He knew that because some sadistic SOB was presently pounding a dull railroad spike into the cavity behind his eyeballs.

He opened his eyes slowly, then winced at the sudden glare of daylight filtering through ancient venetian blinds. The .44 was on the pillow next to him. Still fully loaded.

Nothing had changed. He still wanted to die. So why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? His dad’s voice, that’s why, shouting in his head. Remember this if you never remember anything else, son—as long as he has breath in his body and blood in his veins, a real man never surrenders.

A real man? Hell, Elliot had ended up crying himself to sleep like a two-year-old terrified of monsters in the night. The inside of his eyelids felt raw, and he was pretty sure he must have swallowed sandpaper while he slept. One arm was numb, and his gut was full of greasy eels.

Slowly he rolled to his back, then waited out a sudden rush of nausea. He figured he could make it down the hall to the can before his stomach revolted—as long as no one was foolish enough to get in his way.

It took some doing, but he managed to sit up and get his feet on the floor without upchucking. He’d just braced one hand on the night table and was working up his courage to push himself to his feet when the cell phone next to his hand suddenly rang.

Something resembling cymbals crashed in his head, and he let out a pitiful groan. Damn thing, why hadn’t he tossed it after buying the bottle? What does a dead man need with a cell phone, anyway?

He was giving serious thought to smashing the miserable thing before the conscience he’d never quite wrestled into silence kicked him into answering.

The smell of chlorine and sex swirled around their heated bodies. His mouth was hot on hers as tension built to a feverish pitch inside her. Her soft, eager moans mingled with the soft humming of the filter behind the pool house wall. Strong, skillful hands lightly stroked the sensitive curve of her inner thighs, sending warm ribbons of mindless pleasure swirling through her naked body.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice thick and urgent.

“Yes, oh yes, Elliot. Please love me, please. I want you….”

His broad chest radiated heat as he pressed her deeply into the thick cushion of the pool house lounge. The hair covering his pectoral muscles rubbed against her small breasts. Awash in pleasure, she writhed, desperate to find relief from the sweet pressure in all the private places inside.

“Spread your legs for me, Katydid. Let me inside you.” His voice was harsh, his breathing labored. His dear face was taut with strain, his eyes dark with an almost savage need.

“I love you,” she cried as he plunged into her, rending intimate flesh and ending her innocence.

The phone by the bed was ringing. Kate jerked awake to discover her fingers clutching the pillow, her breath coming in harsh gasps. A quick glance at the clock had her letting out a heartfelt groan. Not quite 6:00 a.m., it was far too early to be waking on the last day of her vacation.

She was definitely not on call, so it couldn’t be the clinic. Heaven help the person on the other end if this was a telemarketing call. Accustomed to phones ringing at all hours, she took a moment to clear her throat and focus her mind before sitting up to reach for the receiver.

“Dr. Remson,” she said crisply.

“Katherine, this is Gordon Hunter. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Shock rendered her speechless for a full second before she found her voice. “Uh, no, not at all, Dr. Hunter. Is…is something wrong?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Before she could give voice to the questions already jamming her head, he went on. “Are you near a TV set?”

“Yes, why?” She glanced at the small set on her dresser.

“Turn on CNN and then we’ll talk.”

“Just a sec.” She fumbled for the remote control device on the Mission oak table by her bed, then switched on the set and surfed quickly to the right channel. An instant later stark images of a scene reminiscent of the Oklahoma City bombing filled the screen. Her breath caught as the camera panned to a shot of a tiny pink sneaker half buried under a mound of debris.

As she stared at the shifting images, a hole opened in her stomach, and her heart picked up speed. “Oh my God, Doctor, what happened?”

“A bomb went off in a popular restaurant in the center of Montebello’s capital city of San Sebastian della Rosa. It appears a number of people having breakfast were buried. No one knows for sure how many.”

Kate watched in horror as rescue workers in hard hats and surgical masks dug frantically through what appeared to be a mountain of rubble.

“Montebello? Isn’t that one of those islands in the Mediterranean near Saudi Arabia?”

“Yes, it’s next to Tamir, where the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries met a few years back.”

“Wasn’t Montebello pro-West during Desert Storm?”

“Indeed. As a matter of fact, I have some investments there, and King Marcus Sebastiani is an acquaintance of mine. He called to ask my help in locating surgeons to help treat the victims the rescue workers think will be pouring in soon—including several children, I’m told. I was hoping you’d be available to help.”

Children? She thought of that tiny sneaker and her heart sank at the damage falling debris could do to delicate bones. Oh God. Of course she wanted to help, provided she could juggle her responsibilities as the children’s clinic chief of staff.

Quickly she ran through a mental checklist of the surgeries she had scheduled for the next two weeks. None were critical, nor were they so complicated she would hesitate to turn them over to her associates. Of lesser importance were a staff meeting next week and a routine appointment with the clinic’s accountant. Both were easily postponed.

“I’m available,” she declared finally. “I’ll have to make arrangements with my associates to cover for me for the next two weeks, but the clinic staff is terrific at improvising.” She took a fast breath. “Sarah and I just got back around midnight last night from a week in Baja, and I haven’t unpacked more than my toothbrush. Provided I can get reservations, I can leave sometime today.”

“Don’t worry about reservations. I took a chance you’d agree and made your travel arrangements for you. A car will pick you up at nine-thirty, and one of the king’s planes is already on its way to San Francisco Airport. It will be landing at SFO at ten-thirty, and after a quick refueling, will return to San Sebastian immediately. Weather permitting, you’ll be in Montebello before the sun sets.”

“You must have been fairly sure I’d say yes,” she muttered, more than a little awestruck.

Relief was audible in his voice. “Let’s say I was hopeful. You’ll be met and briefed when you land.” There was a momentary pause before he added softly, “Bless you, Katie Remson. I know a lot of desperate people in Montebello will be very happy to find out you’re on your way.”

As Gordon hung up, his conscience reared its ugly head. A man who believed in fair play would have told her that Elliot was even now in another of the king’s personal planes.

Believing in his children’s right to privacy, Gordon had never let on to either Kate or Elliot that ten years ago he’d seen her leaving the pool house at dawn, her face streaked with tears. The same pool house from which Elliot had emerged a few minutes later, his face white and his expression grim. For days afterward, Elliot had lashed out at everyone like a badly wounded animal. Helena was sure he’d somehow hurt Katie very badly.

Gordon had a gut feeling Helena was bang on this time. Until the morning in question, Kate had routinely joined them for family celebrations. Indeed, both he and Helena loved the girl like a second daughter. After that morning, however, on those rare occasions when Elliott came home for a visit, Kate invariably had “other plans.”

Sorry, Katie, he told her silently as he gave a thumbs-up to the weary men watching him with bloodshot eyes. Personal feelings don’t mean squat when children’s lives are at stake. Still, Gordon couldn’t help saying a quick prayer that neither of these decent, caring people would end up getting hurt again….

Chapter 4

King Augustus Hospital, Montebello’s only full-service medical center, was located near a pretty man-made lake in the newer section of the sun-washed capital city. Constructed of pink granite quarried on the western end of the island, the imposing structure was shaped like a three-story X. Each of the four “legs” angled out from a central core that, in every sense, acted as the heart of the satisfyingly modern complex.

In the twenty-four hours since walking through the front doors for the first time, Kate had become quite familiar with the layout of the hospital.

After the initial rush of victims, the injured arrived singly now or in groups of two or three, as the rescuers removed the debris piece by piece in order to prevent a cataclysmic shifting. Although the top floor of the building had pancaked down, they believed there were pockets in the rubble where people could survive for more than a few hours, possibly even days.

This afternoon’s victims had included two children—a ten-year-old girl with internal injuries, and her four-year-old brother, who had a collapsed lung and multiple fractures. While other teams had tended to their parents, Kate finished one procedure, then rescrubbed and regowned to assist with the other. Both children were now in recovery. Until she felt confident they were in no immediate danger, she intended to stay close.

The two local teams she’d worked with so far had been enormously efficient and skilled—as well as welcoming and supportive. Many of them hadn’t left the hospital since the first batch of victims had been brought in the previous day. So far Kate hadn’t detected an erosion in performance or efficiency, but tempers were beginning to fray as stress and fatigue gradually nibbled away their aplomb.

It was going on 9:00 p.m. Initial uncertainty and adrenaline had kept jet lag at bay, but now her body clock seemed set to a time halfway between San Francisco and San Sebastian. On those few occasions when she’d been able to carve out time to nap, her body remained obstinately wide-awake. At other times, when she desperately needed to be alert, she found herself fighting drowsiness.

This morning she had been wide-awake at 4:00 a.m. Arturo hadn’t complained when she’d gotten him out of bed to drive her to the med center, but during the twenty-minute journey he’d shot her several long-suffering looks.

A young female aide wheeling an elderly woman toward the elevator smiled shyly as Kate approached. “Are you on your way home at last, Doctor?” she asked with a charming diffidence Kate had never noticed in the States.

“Soon,” she replied, returning the smile. Provided she could find the energy to summon Arturo from wherever it was he went while she worked, then make it to the car.

When she’d been a resident, she’d become accustomed to thirty-hour shifts. The last four years of semiregular hours had spoiled her, she decided, as she pushed open the door to the lounge.

Expecting to find the stress-relieving, often ribald bantering and chatter that seemed to be a universal characteristic of medical types everywhere, she was surprised to find the lounge all but empty.

Its only occupant was a trim, freckled-faced woman in pale blue scrubs, who glanced up from fixing herself a cup of tea when Kate entered. Petra McGee had sparkling sky-blue eyes, short crinkly curls the color of sun-splashed copper and, despite her tiny five-feet-nothing frame, energy enough for two people.

According to the bios they’d exchanged during a shared—and hasty—lunch earlier, the elfin registered nurse had joined Medics Without Limits three years ago after a painful divorce. She’d been working with Elliot for half that time. Kate had been tortured by curiosity about the depth of their relationship, then furious that she’d spent even a moment wondering about that part of his life.

As far as anyone knew, she and Elliot had met for the first time on the night she arrived. Whenever they chanced to meet—at a hasty orientation meeting held by Dr. Andretti early this morning, in the intensive care unit later and in the corridor outside the OR suites—he’d simply nodded without speaking. Since that was exactly what she had demanded of him, she failed to understand why it irritated her no end when he ignored her.

“Mind some company?” Kate asked when Petra hailed her with a grin.

“Lordy, no,” the nurse replied in the rapid-fire, clipped accent of a Brooklyn, New York, native. “Actually, I was terrified I was going to be stuck with my own company.”

“I didn’t realize your team was working tonight,” Kate commented as she filled a paper cup with black coffee.

“Our shift officially ended an hour ago, but triage got a heads up from the field that there’s a strong possibility of another victim or two. The four of us voted to stay so the local people could get home to see their families.”

“Any idea how many are still trapped?” Kate asked, resting the cup on the sofa’s arm.

Petra offered her a somber glance. “No one seems to know. The last report I saw on the tube said there might have been upwards of thirty people already at work on the floors above the restaurant. The way those floors pancaked down…” Her voice trailed off. Both knew how grim the odds were against surviving crushing injuries.

Terrorism was an obscenity, Kate thought with a rush of pure cold anger. Those who practiced it were no better than the most heinous murderer, no matter how tightly they wrapped themselves in the mantle of patriotism.

“Any leads on who planted the device?” she asked. King Marcus had addressed his subjects—and the international community—at noon today, but she’d been in surgery and hadn’t been able to listen in.

“Not that I’ve heard, but I haven’t had much time to check the news, either.”

“Arturo, my chauffeur, told me this morning the king had ordered increased security at the airport and the cruise line terminal.”

“I heard the same thing. It helps some, but every time I walk into the hotel, I can’t help thinking how easy it would be to put a bomb in a suitcase and just leave it by one of the pillars.”

A cold shiver ran down Kate’s spine. Don’t think about that, she told herself sternly as she shifted her gaze to the TV screen. Though the sound was muted, the images spoke for themselves. Not since Oklahoma City had so many media types gathered in one small space. Like a swarm of hungry termites, Kate thought, taking tiny sips of the still-steaming coffee.

Immediately after the explosion, city police had cordoned off a two-block radius, allowing only emergency personnel, government officials and a pool of media types beyond ropes of yellow tape very much like the kind used in the States.

The high-profile buzzards had arrived, she thought with a grimace as she watched a glossy blond female reporter in trendy safari togs speaking earnestly into the camera. In the distance the mound of rubble that used to be a modern, four-story office building provided an obscene contrast to the journalist’s bright-eyed freshness.

Cold-hearted bloodsuckers, Kate thought, averting her gaze.

After kicking off her surgical clogs, she carefully set her cup on the table in front of her, then bent forward to massage one cramped instep with fingers so tired they were nearly numb.

“I read someplace that the world always looks bleaker when you have sore feet,” she muttered as she dug her fingers into the painful knots.

“You should get some of these Wellies,” Petra suggested, dropping her gaze to the calf-length, green rubber boots she and the rest of the Medics Without Limits favored. “They have nice thick soles and good arch support.”

“Aha, and here I thought you Without Limits types were going for the rugged, outdoorsy look.”

Petra laughed, but there was a hint of somberness in her eyes. “Actually, Elliot started wearing them in Kosovo because he got sick and tired of cleaning the blood off his leather boots after a surgical marathon.”

Kate grimaced. “When were you in Kosovo?”

“During the worst of it, in fact. The working conditions were abysmal, to say the least. One wing of the hospital where we set up shop took a direct hit the day before we arrived. They’d rigged up a gas-powered generator that kept running out of fuel, usually at the worst possible times. Late one night Elliot had to shanghai a couple of ambulatory patients to hold flashlights so we could finish.”

Petra turned to fill a cup with hot water from one of the urns. “On our last day there, our X-ray tech was killed only a few feet away from me.” Her face tightened as she dunked the teabag in the cup. “His name was Eugene, but we called him Bubba because he had this grits-and-molasses Alabama accent. His wife had just had twins, and he’d been scheduled to leave for home the next day.”

Kate’s stomach clenched. She’d seen the horrific images of war and carnage on TV and felt sympathy for the victims. What she hadn’t done—what she knew she could never do—was face that kind of horror herself.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured truthfully. “Was he a close friend?”

Petra nodded sadly. “We’d been together for nearly three years. The kind of work we do tends to bond a team together very much like a family.” Her lips curved. “Sometimes I think I’m closer to Hans and Elliot than I am to my own brothers.”

Kate was lifting the cup to her mouth when the door opened and Elliot walked in, wearing rumpled scrubs and a grumpy expression. His hair was a tousled thatch of silver and wheat, and his jaw was shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. He looked tough and bitter and unapproachable.

Kate had almost gotten used to the way her heart leaped whenever she happened to run into him. The rush of heat to her cheeks was annoying.

The tired smile he offered Petra disappeared the instant he caught sight of Kate. Instead of greeting him, she mimicked the curt nods he’d given her earlier. His jaw clenched briefly.

After they exchanged greetings, Elliot turned his back and concentrated on the soft-drinks machine. Though she wanted to look away, Kate found herself riveted by the ripple of muscles beneath the cotton scrubs.

Elliot had always been superbly fit. A natural athlete, he’d played football in high school and rugby at Stanford. His body had always been strong, his legs long and powerful, his chest heavily muscled. But now her practiced eye noted substantially more hard-packed muscle and steely sinew on that frame of long bones and the wide, deep chest.

According to Sarah he’d worked for three months on a shrimp boat in Alaska during the year he’d spent traveling after Candy’s funeral. It had been hard, dangerous work under miserably cold conditions. Just what he’d needed to take his mind off his loss. Kate hadn’t seen much of him after he’d returned to finish medical school.

In fact, she’d seen him only once before in the last ten years—and that was because she’d dropped in one Sunday morning on her way to the hospital to leave a birthday present for Helena, only to find him sitting at the breakfast table. He hadn’t seemed any happier to see her than she’d been to see him—which was not at all.

Not then. Not now.

She gave some thought to excusing herself, before she remembered that she was in control of the choices she made in this lifetime, not Elliot Hunter—or anyone else. So…she would finish her coffee, then check on her patients. Just as she’d planned, she reminded herself as she took a sip of the black-as-pitch coffee.

“Heard any more from triage?” Petra asked as Elliot took a bottle of juice from the machine.