Chapter 2 - SparrowEmergency power returned seventeen seconds later.
That should have been my first warning.
My second was the grin on Derek Walsh’s face.
“Special delivery for the rookie,” he said.
I had been at Harbor Point Medical Center for exactly nineteen days.
Nineteen days of being called rookie.
Nineteen days of having my charts double-checked by nurses younger than me.
Nineteen days of pretending I didn’t notice people whispering about the strange thirty-two-year-old woman who had somehow appeared in their emergency department with impeccable trauma skills but almost no social-media footprint.
My badge said:
MAYA REED, RN
That was all they knew.
That was all I wanted them to know.
Derek leaned against the nurses’ station, arms folded across his navy scrubs.
“You said you wanted trauma experience.”
“I didn’t say I wanted an audience.”
Behind him, Melissa Grant quickly lowered her phone.
Too late.
I had already seen the camera lens pointed at me.
A second nurse, Kyle, pretended to be checking medication orders.
He was recording too.
I said nothing.
That was another habit I had learned somewhere else.
Notice everything.
React to nothing.
The gurney rolled around the corner.
The patient was enormous.
Six-three, maybe two hundred twenty pounds, even after whatever blood he had lost.
A hospital gown hung loosely from his shoulders. His left arm was bandaged from wrist to elbow. Fresh sutures crossed his ribs. Purple bruises disappeared beneath the neckline of the gown.
A jagged cut ran along his temple.
His chart identified him as:
COLE MERCER, 38
Under communication requirements, someone had written:
PROFOUND HEARING LOSS. ASL PREFERRED.
Derek handed me the tablet.
“Have fun.”
“What happened?”
“Boat accident.”
“That isn’t in the chart.”
He shrugged.
“Ask him.”
Several nurses laughed.
Cole Mercer watched us.
Not casually.
Not nervously.
He watched the way a man watches exits.
His eyes moved over every person in the hallway.
Door.
Window.
Medication cart.
Security camera.
Hands.
Feet.
Threats.
My stomach tightened.
I knew that look.
Derek stepped closer.
“Here’s the problem, Rookie. Mr. Mercer doesn’t like cooperating.”
Cole’s eyes snapped toward him.
“He ripped out an IV upstairs,” Derek continued. “Refused medication. Nearly broke an orderly’s wrist.”
“He was restrained?”
“No.”
“Psych evaluation?”
“Pending.”
“Neurology?”
“Pending.”
Derek smiled.
“Guess you’re up.”
I looked at Cole.
Cole looked back at me.
His expression was blank.
But there was violence under the blankness.
Not uncontrolled violence.
Controlled violence.
That was worse.
I moved closer slowly.
“Mr. Mercer?”
No response.
Of course.
I raised my hands.
My American Sign Language was rusty.
I signed:
My name is Maya. I am your nurse.
His eyes sharpened.
Behind me, someone whispered, “Whoa.”
Derek hadn’t expected that.
Cole signed back.
You know ASL?
Enough.
His mouth almost moved.
Not quite a smile.
I checked his chart.
Blood pressure elevated.
Heart rate 118.
Temperature normal.
Oxygen acceptable.
I pointed toward his IV site.
May I look?
He nodded.
As I approached, he suddenly stiffened.
Every muscle in his body locked.
His eyes moved over my shoulder.
I didn’t turn.
Instead, I watched his pupils.
Something had frightened him.
Not me.
Someone behind me.
Cole raised his right hand.
Three fingers together.
Thumb folded.
Wrist turned inward.
Then two quick movements.
Stop.
Observe.
Unknown contact behind.
My blood went cold.
It was not ASL.
It was not military sign language taught in public handbooks either.
It belonged to a much smaller world.
A world I had spent six years trying to forget.
Before I could stop myself, my right hand moved.
Two fingers to my chest.
Palm down.
Rotate twice.
Then point toward the hallway mirror.
Contact reflected. Two persons. No immediate weapon.
Cole froze.
So did I.
For three endless seconds, neither of us breathed.
He stared at my hands.
Then at my face.
The joking behind me continued because nobody understood what had just happened.
But Cole understood.
His expression changed.
The injured patient disappeared.
The exhausted deaf veteran disappeared.
What remained was an operator.
His hand moved again.
Slowly this time.
Identify unit.
I immediately dropped my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I said aloud even though he couldn’t hear me.
His stare hardened.
He signed in ASL.
Who are you?
I swallowed.
Your nurse.
His expression said he didn’t believe me.
Neither did I.
Because seven years earlier, people had called me something else.
They had called me Sparrow.
And the hand signal Cole Mercer had just used had been created for twelve people.
Nine were dead.
Two had vanished.
And one was standing in Harbor Point Medical Center pretending to be a rookie nurse.
Behind us, Derek chuckled.
“Looks like she’s already screwing it up.”
Cole’s eyes moved toward him.
Then back to me.
He slowly lifted one hand.
This time, he used ordinary ASL.
They are filming you.
I nodded.
I know.
Why?
They want me to fail.
Cole looked at Derek.
Then at Melissa.
Then at the phone sticking from Kyle’s pocket.
He signed:
Do you want them to?
Something dangerous woke inside me.
I smiled.
No.
I reached for the blood-pressure cuff.
Cole let me.
The entire department watched as I checked his wounds, changed his IV, reviewed his medications, and calmly stopped him from pulling away during a neurological exam.
Nobody laughed after the first ten minutes.
Nobody except Derek.
He still thought he was watching a rookie nurse get lucky.
He had no idea Cole and I were having two conversations.
The one everybody could see.
And another beneath it.
Near the end of the exam, Cole tapped twice against the metal rail.
A coded rhythm.
I knew that too.
Compromised location.
My fingers tightened around the chart.
I signed beneath the sheet where nobody else could see.
Why?
Cole stared directly into my eyes.
His next signs were precise.
Boat accident was not accident.
I felt my pulse rise.
He continued.
Someone followed ambulance.
Then:
Someone inside hospital is helping them.
I glanced toward the nursing station.
Derek was still smiling.
Melissa was still holding her phone.
Security cameras watched every hallway.
Cole touched his chest.
Then pointed at me.
They know me.
His hand paused.
Now they may know you.
Before I could answer, every light in the corridor went out.
A woman screamed.
Emergency lamps flashed red.
Somebody shouted for backup power.
And in the darkness, Cole Mercer grabbed my wrist with terrifying strength.
He pulled me close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek.
Then he formed one final signal against my palm.
A signal I had not seen in seven years.
HUNTER INSIDE.
My blood turned to ice.
May you like
Because only one person had ever used that warning.
And I had watched that man die.
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