Page 74 of Undercover Shadow
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I closed her eyes gently, the way Idris had taught me to honor the dead. When I stood, Tag was there, ready to catch me if I fell.
We passed MacLeod on our way out. Renegade had him secured with zip ties, but the fight had gone out of him completely. I stopped in front of him. His eyes met mine—broken, desperate, seeking something I couldn’t give him.
“Is your wife involved in this?”
He shook his head. “She knows nothing. I kept her out of it. My daughter too. Isla’s in Norway, doing research. She has no idea what her father has done…” His voice cracked. “What will happen to them?”
“That’s not for me to decide,” I said, stopping myself from pitying him. He’d made his choices, and he’d pay the price.
Tag’s hand found the small of my back. “We need to keep moving.”
He stayed by my side as we made our way down the spiral stairs, each step jarring injuries I hadn’t noticed yet. My wrists were raw from the zip ties. No doubt they bore angry red marks that would turn purple by morning. My throat ached where someone—Dalgleish most likely—had grabbed me. The injection site on my neck throbbed with each heartbeat.
Through the corridors, we passed MI6 response teams sweeping the castle. They’d arrived just minutes after we’d stopped the countdown. The gala guests were being evacuated, most of them oblivious to how close they’d come to being at ground zero for a global catastrophe.
“Agent Nassar needs medical attention,” Tag barked at a passing operative.
“Medical staging area is just off the main room, sir.”
Tag changed direction, guiding me through unfamiliar hallways. My vision blurred at the edges as the sedatives fought their way out of my system.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled.
“You’re not,” Tag said, his arm tightening around me. “You were drugged, beaten, and nearly—” His jaw clenched, and he stopped himself.
The room we entered had been transformed into a field medical station. Vanguard sat on one of the antique settees, holding an ice pack to his head while a medic checked his pupils.
“Nightingale!” He started to stand but swayed.
“Sit down, Morse,” the man attending him ordered.
“Is he all right?” I asked.
“Concussion, but he’ll live,” the man replied. “Now, let’s look at you.”
Tag helped me onto an examination table they’d set up. Another medic—a woman with kind eyes and steady hands—began her assessment while Tag hovered, refusing to move more than a foot away.
“Bruised ribs, two, maybe three.” She pressed gently, and I hissed. “Gashes on wrists, contusions on throat, arms. What did they inject you with?”
“Midazolam, I think. Maybe something else. I was unconscious for at least thirty minutes.”
She shone a light in my eyes, checking pupil response. “Any nausea? Double vision?”
“Some nausea. Vision’s a bit fuzzy.”
“We’ll run bloods to be sure, but it looks like you’re metabolizing it normally.” She turned to Tag. “She needs rest, fluids, and observation for the next twelve hours. No strenuous activity.”
Tag’s hand found mine, and he nodded.
“Nightingale.” Viper’s voice came from the doorway. She entered with Typhon at her side. They must have come directly from London the moment my beacon activated.
I tried to stand, but the medic pressed me back down. “Stay put.”
When Viper approached, her composure cracked momentarily, but she quickly recovered. “Your beacon activated at twenty-one forty-seven. We mobilized everything we had.”
“What in the bloody hell happened?” Typhon said, his voice gentle despite the curse.
