Flash Marriage To The Alpha Colonel

The shift dragged on. Caroline spent the afternoon monitoring Petersen's vitals, watching the numbers on the screen like a hawk. The reduced sedation made him restless. He tossed and turned, muttering things she couldn't quite hear. She was adjusting his oxygen mask when the door swung open. Caroline's head snapped up. A man walked in. He was wearing a white doctor's coat, a surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. He had a stethoscope draped around his neck and a clipboard in his hand. He looked like every other doctor on the floor. But something was wrong. Caroline's hand froze on the oxygen mask. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the man from head to toe. It was a habit she had never been able to break-observing the details that others missed. The coat was too big. The sleeves hung past his wrists, the fabric bunched up around his shoulders. Doctors usually had their coats tailored, or at least fitted. And the cuffs were frayed, the white fabric slightly yellowed at the edges. Not the crisp, pristine white of a hospital setting. Then she looked at his feet. He was wearing running shoes. Not the standard-issue Crocs or Danskos that every doctor and nurse wore for twelve-hour shifts. They were dark, scuffed sneakers. And there was a smudge of mud on the left toe. Mud. In a sterile ICU. The final detail that set her teeth on edge was his hands. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a syringe. His movements were wrong. There was a stiffness in his wrist, a tension in his fingers that didn't belong. Experienced doctors were relaxed, their motions fluid from years of practice. This man's grip on the syringe was awkward, almost forceful, and it sent a chill of pure instinct down her spine. Every alarm in Caroline's head went off at once. "Can I help you?" she asked, keeping her voice calm and professional. She stepped slightly away from the bed, putting herself between the man and Petersen. The man looked up, his eyes crinkling above the mask. "Dr. Adler sent me," he said, his voice muffled. "I'm here to administer the new antibiotic." "I wasn't informed of any new orders," Caroline said. She glanced at the chart at the foot of the bed. "Which department are you from?" "Infectious disease," he replied smoothly. "We were consulted on the case this morning." Caroline nodded slowly. She reached for the chart, pretending to check it. "I'll just verify the order with the pharmacy." She pressed the call button on the wall. It was the silent alarm, a direct line to the security desk. She didn't take her eyes off the man. "That won't be necessary," he said, taking a step toward the bed. "I'm already behind schedule." "Hospital policy," Caroline said, her voice firm. "I have to verify all new medications." The man's eyes changed. The crinkle at the corners vanished. His gaze hardened, turning flat and cold. He moved fast, faster than a doctor should, raising the syringe toward the IV line. Petersen's eyes flew open. He saw the man and tried to sit up, but the pain kept him pinned to the bed. Caroline didn't think. She reacted. She grabbed the metal medical cart next to her and shoved it as hard as she could. The cart crashed into the man's side, sending syringes and gauze pads flying. The metal instruments clattered to the floor, the noise deafening in the quiet room. The man stumbled, the syringe slipping from his grasp. He spun toward Caroline, his eyes blazing with fury. "He's not a doctor!" Caroline screamed at the top of her lungs. "He's an assassin! Guards!" The man lunged for her, but the door burst open. The two MPs rushed in, their weapons drawn. "Freeze! On the ground!" one of them shouted. The fake doctor realized he was trapped. He looked around wildly, his eyes darting between the guns and the window. Then his gaze landed on Caroline. She was standing by the bed, unarmed, her chest heaving. She was the closest target. He moved like a snake. In a flash, he was behind her, one arm wrapping around her throat in a vice grip. She felt the cold steel of a scalpel press against her neck, the blade biting into her skin. "Back off!" he roared, spittle flying from behind his mask. "Drop your weapons, or I slit her throat!" The MPs hesitated, their guns still raised but their fingers off the triggers. Caroline's heart hammered against her ribs. The man's arm was crushing her windpipe. She could feel the scalpel trembling against her skin, a sharp sting telling her he had already drawn blood. She couldn't breathe. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. "Let her go," a voice said from the doorway. It was cold, calm, and absolutely lethal. Caroline managed to turn her head a fraction of an inch. Jarrod Romero stood in the doorway, his gray eyes fixed on the man holding her. He didn't have a weapon drawn. He didn't need one. The look on his face was enough to make the air in the room drop ten degrees. "I said back off!" the killer screamed, pressing the blade deeper. A warm trickle of blood ran down Caroline's neck. Romero didn't blink. He took a slow step into the room, his hands loose at his sides. "You aren't leaving this room with her. That is a fact. The only question is whether you leave this room alive." "I'll kill her! I swear to God!" "Then you die next," Romero said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And it won't be quick." The killer's grip tightened. He started dragging Caroline backward, toward the door that led to the stairwell. "Get out of my way!" Romero held up a hand, stopping the MPs from advancing. He stepped aside, clearing a path to the door. But his eyes never left the killer's face. Caroline's lungs were burning. The room was tilting. She tried to dig her heels in, but the man was too strong. He hauled her through the door and into the stairwell. The heavy door swung shut behind them, cutting off the light from the ICU. The stairwell was dimly lit, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. "Move," the man hissed in her ear, pushing her toward the stairs. "Down. Fast." Caroline stumbled down the first step, her legs shaking. She could hear the door above them bang open. Boots on concrete. Romero was following. The killer looked back over his shoulder. He saw Romero descending the stairs, fast and silent, gaining on them. They reached the first landing. The killer spun around, his back to the railing. He looked down at Caroline, his eyes wild. Then he shoved her. Hard. Caroline gasped as she felt herself falling backward. The steps rushed up to meet her. She threw her arms out, trying to grab the railing, but her fingers closed on empty air. The concrete steps were hard. The edge of the stairs was sharper. She was going to hit her head. She was going to break her neck. She closed her eyes, bracing for the impact. It never came.