“What’re you looking for?” Avery asked.

“A chart. I need to know what they’ve given her. And what dose.”

“The charts are electronic,” Avery said. She gripped Peyton by the shoulders. “Look, if you’re going to wake her up, you’ve got to do it right now. Okay?”

Peyton exhaled heavily. Her hands and eyes were steady, betraying no hint that she was nervous, but Desmond could sense her fear. It was as though he knew her well—could read the emotions she kept hidden, the feelings strangers couldn’t see. Desmond wished he could take the weight off Peyton’s shoulders, but he could only watch. Her next actions could save Hannah or end her life. If she brought Hannah out of sedation too quickly, it could be deadly.

Peyton pulled out drawers, read labels on vials, and tossed them back one by one until she found what she needed. She loaded up a syringe and stuck it into the IV. Slowly, she depressed the plunger, watching Hannah. She kept one hand on the young woman’s wrist, monitoring her pulse.

Beyond the door, boots echoed in the corridor.

Avery froze.

Desmond turned.

Hannah stirred, sucked in a breath, and let out a low moan.

The footsteps stopped.

Avery moved to the corner of the room, behind the door, and motioned for Desmond to join her. Peyton ducked down behind the bed.

Desmond heard men’s voices in the corridor, speaking German. Something about gathering the samples.

Hannah’s eyes opened. They went wide at the sight of Desmond and Avery, dressed like her captors, guns at the ready.

She opened her mouth to scream, but Peyton sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and covered the younger physician’s mouth with her hand. Peyton held her other index finger to her own lips.

The beeping of the pulse monitor was the only sound in the room. As the beeps got faster, Desmond felt his hands start to sweat.

The footsteps outside resumed. They were moving away—except for a single set, which moved toward them.

Avery motioned for Hannah to get off the bed. Peyton reached up, disconnected the IV, and pulled Hannah down beside her.

Avery let her rifle slide out of her hands so that it hung by the shoulder strap. What’s she doing? Desmond wondered.

At that moment, the leads connected to the monitor slipped off Hannah. The beeping machine changed to a droning flat line just as the door creaked wider and a semi-automatic rifle peeked through.

Avery drew a fixed-blade black combat knife from a sheath on her leg. It was about eight inches long with a rubber handle. As soon as the man’s face cleared the door, she sprang up and stabbed the blade into the man’s neck.

He gurgled as she guided him to the floor, his eyes wide in disbelief. Avery had severed his windpipe and spine in one lethal, extremely precise blow.