Page 52 of Pursuit of Her

Beyond the partially open door, voices carried from the corridor.

"Vigilante suspect secured. Critical but stable. Commissioner Brooks wants security doubled until?—"

"Commissioner Brooks has been removed from duty pending investigation," another voice interrupted. "Commissioner Sutherland is handling this case directly now."

"What about Captain Morgan?"

"Being treated for hypothermia on the fourth floor. Under observation but not custody. Sutherland wants her statement once the doctor clears her."

Reagan processed this information through the morphine haze. Eve was alive four floors above her. Separated but safe. And Brooks had already fallen; the evidence exposure at the gala had worked, even if she herself had been captured.

She'd known the risks when she began this mission ten years ago and accepted the possibility of capture or death as inevitable costs of justice. But that was before Eve had reentered her life.

The voices in the corridor continued, Detective Martinez now visible through the doorway as Reagan's vision cleared.

"How long until she can be transferred to the detention center's medical wing?" Martinez asked a doctor who stood reviewing charts.

"At least forty-eight hours, possibly longer," the doctor replied. "She suffered severe trauma. Gunshot wound, blood loss, hypothermia. Moving her prematurely could kill her."

"She killed four people, Doctor. Forgive me if her comfort isn't my priority."

"My concern is medical stability, not comfort, Detective."

Reagan closed her eyes, conserving strength while cataloging her condition. Gunshot wound to the upper chest, surgical intervention evident from the bandages and drainage tubes. Blood loss was significant enough to require transfusion based on the hanging bags. Hypothermia treated but lingering weakness in her extremities. Estimated recovery time: substantial. Estimated time before transfer to police custody: minimal.

She needed to move. Now.

A nurse entered, checking Reagan's vitals and adjusting medication with efficient movements. When she leaned close to check the IV line, she whispered so softly Reagan nearly missed it. "Seven minutes. Code blue. Third floor."

The nurse's eyes met Reagan's briefly—communication passing between them without words. Not hospital staff. Network. Sophia Gresham, her hair changed, features subtly altered with makeup, but unmistakable to Reagan who had worked with her for years.

Reagan gave the barest nod. An extraction plan was already in motion.

She assessed her surroundings with trained precision despite the pain clouding her focus. Standard hospital room, door partially open, officer visible in the hallway. Monitoring equipment, IV lines, drainage tubes—all tethering her to the bed as effectively as the handcuffs.

Sophia moved around the room, making small adjustments to equipment, creating the appearance of routine care while subtly preparing for what would come. A monitoring lead loosened here, an IV connection prepared for quick detachment there.

"How is Captain Morgan?" Reagan managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sophia leaned closer, checking bandages while responding. "Mild hypothermia. Underobservation. She's been asking about you." A pause. "She contacted us."

So Eve had reached out to Reagan's network. Even separated, even after everything, they remained connected.

Martinez stepped into the room, her presence commanding immediate attention. "Any change in her condition?"

"Stable for now," Sophia replied with professional detachment. "We're monitoring closely."

Martinez approached the bed, studying Reagan. "Reagan Shaw. Decorated detective presumed dead for ten years, only to resurface as a vigilante killer." She leaned closer. "Four executions, Shaw. That's a life sentence, minimum."

Reagan met her gaze without flinching, though each breath sent fresh waves of pain through her chest.

"The network is exposed," Martinez continued. "Brooks is in custody, and Fairchild is facing federal charges. Whatever crusade you thought you were on is finished."

"Justice isn't a crusade," Reagan replied, each word requiring conscious effort. "It's a necessity."

Martinez's expression hardened. "Justice happens in courtrooms. What you did was murder."

A commotion erupted somewhere in the distance—raised voices, hurried footsteps. Then the hospital PA system crackled to life. "Code Blue, third floor east wing. All available medical personnel respond. Code Blue."

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