Nathan ended the call. He turned toward Harv. “She’s being taken to Sutter’s emergency room in critical condition.”

“I’m sorry, Nathan.”

“Can you handle our guys when they arrive from San Diego? Get them set up?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Will you call the bell desk and make sure there’s a cab ready at the curb?”

“No problem.”

“I’m sorry to dump this on you, Harv.”

“I got you covered. Go.”

* * *

Special Agent Bruce Henning’s expression turned dark as Nathan strode into Sutter’s emergency room. The man was no longer immaculate, far from it. He looked like he’d been dragged by rope down a dirt road.

“What the hell are you doing here, McBride. All of this is your fault!”

“Where’s Holly?”

Henning didn’t answer.

Nathan took step toward him. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs in ICU. Hey, where’re you going?”

“I don’t have time for you, Henning.”

“You can’t go up there.”

“Watch me.” He approached a nurse who was running toward the ER doors.

“Where’s ICU?” Nathan asked.

“Third floor.” The nurse pushed through the dual swinging doors. Nathan had a brief look inside. Doctors. Nurses. Blood.

“Damn it, McBride. Wait.”

“You coming, Special Agent Henning?”

The fed stepped into the elevator. “You’ve got a lot of nerve barging in here like this.”

“Save your resentment for someone who gives a shit.”

“I should arrest your sorry ass.”

Nathan squared with him. “You’re welcome to try.”

At the third floor, the elevator chimed and the doors opened to a horrific scene. Directly ahead the nurse’s station was abandoned. Several dozen gurneys containing the wounded lined the perimeter of the room. The floor was tracked and smudged with blood. What was normally a quiet place had been transformed into battlefield triage unit. Physicians, paramedics, and nurses were hovering over the injured, and from the look of things, many of them critically. It was plainly evident there weren’t enough doctors and nurses to deal with the situation. The moans of pain sounded forlorn and eerie. A uniformed officer stationed just inside the room looked ashen, his expression grim. He stepped toward Nathan and Henning, but when the FBI man flashed his badge, the officer turned away.

On the far side of the room, a doctor leaning over a wounded woman looked over his shoulder and yelled, “I need help over here.”

No one came. Clearly, no one was free.

Nathan sprinted over. “What do you need?” He looked at the woman’s arm where a twelve-inch gash had laid it open, exposing muscle and tendons. The skin surrounding the wound was charred and blistered. Blood was pooling on the sheets of the gurney.

“Who are you?” In his mid-fifties and balding, the doctor wore protective goggles over rimless eyeglasses. Nathan towered over him by a good twelve inches.

“I’ve got field-medic training, tell me what you need.”