she didn’t use either in the last half-hour. He doesn’t know we’ve got her.”
“Silver lining.”
“We’ll get McQueen’s location out of her. We will.”
Tears in the corners of Bree’s eyes, Eve noted. She wasn’t the only one fighting to pull it together.
“We will. And we’ve got her coms. Make sure EDD starts on them asap.”
“We can take it from here.” Laurence stepped up to her. “We’ll work the van, the electronics, the duplex. You get checked out. That was some kick-ass driving, Dallas. Kick-ass.”
“Yeah.”
“Your lip’s bleeding some.”
She swiped at it, looked at the smear on the back of her hand. “Just smacked it on the air bag. I’m good.”
Blood, she thought, studying the smear. Blood on her hand, blood in the van.
Blood didn’t lie.
She got to her feet, waved Bree aside. “I’m okay. Just need to walk it off.”
She walked to the car as if to study the damage. Roarke knew her; she knew him. As she expected he’d had a field kit stowed in the trunk.
Don’t think, she ordered herself, just do. Just do it.
She took out swabs, used one on the cut on her lip, capped it. Hands steady, she marked it, pocketed it.
She moved through the cops, around the MTs who’d just arrived to work on the suspect.
She stared at the blood on the wheel. Head wound, she thought dully. Always plenty of blood with a head wound.
She used the swab, capped and marked it.
After a few calming breaths, she walked back to where the MTs worked. “What’s the damage?”
“She’s got the head laceration, probably concussion,” the MT told her. “Contusions on her chest and arms, and a couple ribs either broken or cracked. Internal injuries likely. We’ve got to get her in.”
“I’m riding with you. What hospital?”
“Dallas City. If you’re coming, you’ve got to come now. We’re about to load her.”
“I’m coming.”
She stepped aside, took out her ’link.
“That was fast,” Roarke began, then stopped, smile dropping away. “You’re hurt.”
“Just a couple bumps from the air bags. I wrecked the car.”
“Typical,” he said, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What happened?”
“Later. We have her. It got fucked, but we have her.”
The shakes wanted to start again, and the heat began its next roll over the ice.
“She’s being transported to Dallas City Hospital. I need you there. I need you to . . . I need you to come there. I didn’t get the address.”
“I’ll get it. Eve, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t, not now. I’m not hurt. It’s not that. Roarke, I need you to come.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Now or never,” the MT called out.
“I have to go.”
“Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. I’m on my way.”
Eve slid the ’link into her pocket, climbed into the back of the ambulance.
She sat, studied the face of the unconscious woman.
Open your eyes, damn it. Open your eyes and look at me again.
Because, she admitted, she hadn’t been wrong. It hadn’t been shock, not from the crash. She knew McQueen’s latest partner.
And it was just another nightmare.
But the woman didn’t wake up, not on the short ride to the ER. Eve kept pace with the medicals, one foot in front of the other, and saw her prisoner’s eyelids flutter, heard her moan as they rushed her down and through to a treatment room.
“Outside, please.”
Eve gave the doctor in charge, a young, harried black man in scrubs, one glance. “She’s in my custody. I stay.”
“Keep out of the way.”
She stepped back, but watched every move while the doctors, nurses, MTs rattled off in their strange language, transferred the woman to the table.
She moaned again.
“What’s her name?” the doctor called out to Eve.
“Which one? She’s got a lot of them.” She nearly gave him the one flashing like neon in her mind, then thought better of it. “Try Sylvia. It’s current.”
“Sylvia. We’ve got you now. Look right here. Can you tell me what day it is?”
“It fucking hurts! Make it stop. Give me something.”
“Just hang on now, we’re going to take care of you.”
“Give me something for the goddamn pain, you fuck.”
“Classy,” Eve said mildly. “She’s an addict.”
“Keep that fucking cunt of a cop away from me. She tried to kill me.”
“She’s lucid.” The doctor cut his eyes toward Eve. “Is she on anything now?”
Eve kept her eyes on the bruised, bloodied face. “Can’t say, probability high.”
“What did you take, Sylvia? How much did you take?”
“Fuck you. I’m dying. She tried to kill me. Give me something.” She lashed out, tried to claw at the doctor’s face.
“Strap her down,” he ordered.
Dispassionately, Eve watched the struggle, listened to the screams, the curses. One of the nurses moved over to her.
“Would you step outside with me? Just outside. She’s secured, and believe me, Doctor Zimmerman can handle her. We’ve got to get her stabilized, access the injuries.”
With a nod, Eve stepped outside the door, but faced the porthole window, continued to watch.
“Do you know what she might have taken?”
“Not at this time. They’ll bring in the contents of her purse, whatever she had at her residence, in her vehicle. You’ll have to run a tox yourself to determine. She’s dangerous,” Eve added. “She’s to be under guard at all times. She is not to be allowed any communications, and must be kept in restraints.”
“What the hell did she do?”
Eve glanced over, saw Annalyn and Bree coming at a fast clip. “These officers will tell you what you need to know.”
“What’s her status?” Bree demanded. “Has she said anything?”
“Nothing helpful. Ask the nurse re status.” Eve went back to watching.
She’d live, Eve thought. She’d damn well live because there were questions to be answered.
Machines and scanners on her now, Eve noted, taking pictures of what was inside her. She’d stopped screaming and turned on the tears.
“Messed up, but not critical.”
Eve nodded at Annalyn’s interpretation of the nurse’s rundown. “EDD’s scanning the duplex for alarms and trips. When they clear it, we’ll go in, take it apart.”
“What about her coms?”
“Last communication was a text.” She pulled out her notebook.
“Gives us some time. Any chance of a trace?”
“If he contacts her, we’ll trap and trace. They’re working on the code she used to send. I don’t know
