Having no idea of the dimensions or layout of the room behind the door, he had only one plan of attack. Go in hard and fast, shoot anyone standing.

This was wrong.

Not his intention, but the scenario.

His mind was screaming at him that he was walking into a trap.

He felt that the second he burst through that door he’d be confronted by a dozen armed troopers who would open up on him like a firing squad.

Let them try. He’d kill them all anyway.

He took in a deep breath, settling himself.

Used his left hand, the knife palmed in it, to twist the doorknob.

Then he threw the door open and followed it inside with a lunge. He was wearing Kevlar and could trust the armor to stop any return fire while he chose his targets.

Except there were none.

The room was empty of FBI commandos.

He checked a second time.

No one.

At the far end of the long, narrow room was a bed. Someone was swaddled in blankets tucked up high under the armpits. Arms lay flat to each side, intravenous tubes hooked up to bags and electronic monitors. Bandages covered much of the head—funny, because he hadn’t shot her in the head. Maybe Alisha had banged her skull on the floor as she’d fallen down and had required surgery. He could just see a couple of locks of corn-colored hair peeking from under the bandages. An oxygen mask covered the mouth and chin. A table had been wheeled alongside the bed, and a tray with a water jug and an empty tumbler was turned so it extended across the person’s middle. A small wall-mounted TV screen had been positioned so that the patient could watch without having to sit up.

He couldn’t clearly see the figure in the bed, but the hair was the correct color.

He slowly closed the door behind him.

Walked forward.

With each step he took, that trickle of unease he’d experienced earlier intensified.

He looked at his gun. Redundant for the time being. He tucked it into the holster on his utility belt. Transferred the knife to his right hand.

He was twenty feet away from the patient and closing.

Her face was hidden by the mask and by the bandages but even so she looked different than he remembered. Maybe it was the lack of makeup that made her skin look so pale and waxy.

Ten feet from the bed he paused.

“Alisha . . . it’s me, babe.”

The woman in the bed didn’t stir.

Had her unconscious mind grown accustomed to the droning voices on the TV?

“Alisha.”

He moved the final few feet and stood at the foot of the bed.

“Honey, it’s me.”

Then he ripped back the blankets.

The knife was forgotten as his mind tried to make sense of what he found.

“What the hell is this?”