When he reached the Mercedes, he could tell it had rolled, probably multiple times. The windows were cracked and spider-webbed, the roof depressed and dented. Although he was fearful over what he’d find, Gage used all his might to wrench the driver’s door open. And there, behind the limp airbag was the lifeless body of Katja Vogel.
She was tilted unnaturally toward the center console. A trickle of dried blood ran from her mouth. Katja was pale.
Gage touched her neck.
Cool but not cold.
He thrust his head into the car, putting his right ear to her mouth. She was breathing. He didn’t hear any sort of rattle from her lungs.
Careful not to touch her, Gage examined her face and body. Other than abrasions from the front and side airbags, she appeared intact. He grasped her left hand and called her name.
There was no reaction.
Gage pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, prepared to call 112.
He halted himself.
Had this been an accident? Or was it deliberate? Had someone tried to kill Katja?
You’re playing with a life here, Gage. Stop waiting around. Every second counts.
He reasoned with himself.
If she’d been coming home when she’d predicted she would, she’s been this way for ten to twelve hours.
Last night was cold, but not below freezing. She’d made it all night, in the car, in low temperatures, with what I assume is a head injury. At first blush, she seems stable.
He tested her pulse on a quarter minute. Sixteen beats times four was sixty-four. The rhythm felt normal. Gage lifted her eyelid, watching her pupil. It constricted upon being exposed to light. This was good. He examined Katja and her surroundings for more blood or vomit—a common side effect of concussion. He found none.
Without moving her head, he carefully felt her scalp, easily locating a hematoma on the left side of her skull. It wasn’t incredibly large but was big enough to help him cement his triaging of a concussion.
Shutting his eyes and whispering a prayer, Gage phoned Boris the attorney. Thankfully he answered.
“Boris, are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Listen carefully. This is a matter of life or death,” Gage said, his voice a scalpel. “Call the concierge medical service used by the Vogels. Tell them to keep this absolutely quiet. No emergency radio calls. Got it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Damn you, listen to me! Do you understand what I just said?”
“Yes. Yes, I understand.”
“Pay them a big bonus. Do whatever you have to do—but they cannot call anyone.”
“Okay, why?”
Gage told him—told him everything. He stated that he was monitoring Katja and reiterated the wreck’s location three times, making Boris repeat everything back to him. For good measure, Gage promised to take a screenshot of their location and text it to Boris.
Then Gage hung up the phone, sent the screenshot, and waited. He grasped Katja’s hand.
Peering up the steep hill, Gage hoped they could somehow keep this quiet.
For the remainder of the time, he continued to check Katja’s pulse and breathing. Both remained steady.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Two hours and twenty-two minutes later, Gage and Boris exited the emergency area of the St. Vincenz-Krankenhaus in Limburg, Germany. Limburg was located 44 kilometers to the northwest of Katja’s automobile accident. Just as he’d been instructed to do, Boris had convinced the highly compensated concierge medical service to send an ambulance to the site of the wreck without reporting it. Other than that, he told them very little. In fact, in order to get them to comply, he’d misled them, creating a story about one of the Vogels having been injured in a hiking accident. Due to the widely reported stories of their parents’ deaths, the injured daughter wanted the accident to remain private. When the paramedics arrived, Gage called them down the hill after telling them not to make an emergency call.
This was not an easy request. It nearly ended with Gage getting into a physical confrontation with the male paramedic. Thankfully, by that time, Boris had arrived. He produced a document showing the original contract between the Vogels and the concierge medical service. Karl Vogel had set up the contract. Typical of healthcare relationships for celebrities or the ultra wealthy, the concierge medical service was there to provide the highest levels of care, with the utmost of privacy. After seeing the contract, the lead paramedic complied with the gag order.
That settled, everyone pitched in to get Katja up the hill once she’d been thoroughly secured and immobilized. The paramedics were directed to take her to Limburg and to report her as an “Erika Mustermann,” the German equivalent of a Jane Doe. Boris remained with her the entire time, eventually speaking to a hospital administrator in an effort to make sure the hospital didn’t reach out to the polizei in an effort to learn her identity—a task that would have been relatively simple via her fingerprints.
In the end, Boris agreed the family would pay cash for the visit. This more than satisfied the bookish administrator. She instructed the staff to give “Erika Mustermann” the highest level of care and, once she’d departed critical care, a private room on the hospital’s top floor. They could worry about her identity at a later date.
Even in a strict, law abiding country such as Germany, cash is still king.
A team of doctors had whisked “Erika” away, diagnosing her with brain trauma and, far less concerning, a severely broken clavicle along with probable broken ribs. She was currently undergoing a battery of CT scans.
Boris was satisfied the hospital would do their part. As he would soon find out, the remaining task of keeping this quiet would be far more difficult. He and Gage stood outside as clouds gathered.
“Katja has to die,” Gage said to Boris, handing him a Styrofoam cup of
