No Butcher in the cement stairwell foyer. Noise from the stairs above—Cooper flattens himself against the wall. Running footsteps ascending, ascending, and the sound of the fire escape door bouncing open and closed—the third floor. Cooper starts up. The handset squawks again.

He thumbs the button, brings the radio to his face as he takes the stairs two at a time, exertion making his breathing messy. “CP1, inside the hospital, repeat, inside the hospital. No visual, target is running loose and he knows the location. S1, secure area, P1—”

“S1 to CP1, you’ve got people coming your way.” Dewey’s voice crackles from the radio interference inside the building.

“Copy that—P1, deploy into the hospital. Eyes out for a WM, six feet, black jogging suit, blond hair in a ponytail, green-and-orange ball cap. He’s gone up to the third floor—”

“P1 to CP1, support is nearly at the building, I say again, men will be going floor to floor—”

“CP1 to P1, tell your men to watch themselves inside, there’ll be civilians everywhere.”

“Roger that. Hang tight, CP1.”

Cooper reaches the third-floor door, flings it open, another corner check. He’s in a hallway. His breaths are heaving. Shiny linoleum and white walls, too many doors—a service area, no foot traffic. Sweat stings in his eyes. Which way? Right, left—he sees a flash of black, cornering far down on the left. He sprints in that direction, keeping his weapon free.

Corner check at the T-junction—which way? His memory replays the flash of black motion. Left. He turns left again into the empty corridor. Doors on either side. Stay in the middle, weapon extended. Farther down, a set of blue flap doors. Rear check shows nothing. Gun close to his chest, he thrusts through the doors.

An empty corridor. Big, light-filled windows at the end, showing views onto the service-side grounds of the hospital. No movement, no swinging doors. Zero. Like the target has disappeared into thin air. Fuck.

He raises the handset. “This is CP1, I’m in a west-side corridor, third floor. No visual. No visual on the target. I got—”

Sound behind has him spinning fast.

A surgeon has just come out of one of the service areas, bumping the door open with his butt. A blue paper surgical cap, blue gown over his clothes, no mask yet. The guy’s hands are high, fingers open, blue latex gloves, newly gloved for surgery. Brown hair, older, too old—Cooper clocked those details immediately—and a look of horror that the barrel of Cooper’s Model 13 is pointed right in his face.

“Heyyy…” The surgeon blinks, swallows hard. “Uh, look. I got—”

“You’re a doctor here?” Cooper doesn’t lower his weapon yet.

“Yes.” The surgeon answers and nods at the same time. His breath comes out shaky. “Dr. Clive Ross. Sir, I’d appreciate if you could put that gun down. I can help you. I’ll do everything I can—”

Cooper releases his breath slowly, lowers his weapon. “Dr. Ross. My apologies. I’m Special Agent Cooper, with the FBI. We’re pursuing a suspect here in the hospital, and when I saw you…”