Page 81 of Savage Justice

“The chopper is due back in ten minutes. Magda will need to refuel, then you can be off.”

“How long will it take to get there? Is there any news?”

“Megan is with him and says he’s out of surgery and stable.”

It’s good news, or it should be, but her grave expression sends a chill down my spine. “What are you not saying?”

“I’m—”

“Is he going to be all right? What else did the doctor tell you?”

“He’s very poorly, Molly. You need to understand that.”

“He might not survive. Is that it?”

“Molly, we need to prepare—”

I drop to perch on the step, my head in my hands. “Prepare for the worst? That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what people say when… Please, he can’t die. He just can’t…”

Cristina is spared the need to dredge up further platitudes by the whine of the returning helicopter. She lays her hand on my shoulder and reaches for my holdall. “Come on, let’s get you on board.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

Magda glances back over her shoulder at me. “Just over an hour. There’s a helipad in the hospital grounds.”

I nod. “Did you see him? When you were there?”

“No. Sorry”

“Do you know what happened?” I should have asked Cristina, she’s more likely to have the details, if there are any to be had.

“Some sort of incident…”

I’d worked that much out for myself. I fall silent. There’s nothing to do but wait.

We touch down in the hospital grounds, and I’m out of the helicopter before the rotors stop spinning.

“The main entrance is that way,” Magda calls out to me. “Ask at reception and…”

The rest of what she might say is lost as I race over the gravel parking area, heading for the main door to the private clinic. I burst through and rush up to the counter.

“I’m here to see Nico Hanssen,” I blurt. “He’s been stabbed.”

The nurse behind the counter never turns a perfectly coiffed hair. I guess stab wounds must be an everyday occurrence round here.

She consults her desktop monitor then bestows her bland, professional smile on me. “Can you tell me who you are, please?”

“Molly. Molly Lowe. I’m his…”

While I’m working out what might be the best description of my claim for a right to be here, she treats me to that plastic grin again.

“You’re on my list. Take the lift to the second floor. He’s in room eight.”

“Is he…? Can you tell me how he is, please?”

She checks her computer again. “You’ll need to speak with the clinician treating him, Miss Lowe.”

That makes sense. “Where can I find the doctor?”

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