Dark Guardian. Jan Hambright

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      OLIVIA STARED INTO FOG as thick as her Grandma Edna’s gravy. She couldn’t see five feet in front of her as she shone her flashlight down at the cobble drive leading up to the gatehouse.

      It was like a bad rerun; worse the second time around. The only saving factor was, if she couldn’t see, she couldn’t be seen.

      She reached the gatehouse and found the gate wide open. Moisture coated her sweatshirt, its dampness reaching clear down to her bones. She shivered as she pushed through the gate, aiming for the shadow of the clinic she could almost make out in the mist.

      She planned to use the same window to enter, if it hadn’t been closed and locked. The thought put a measure of worry in her head. What if she couldn’t get the file?

      Olivia shook off the notion as she reached the right side of the building. She hurried along the side and around the back corner, pausing only once to get her bearings.

      Breathing deeply, she pulled the earthy scent of the fog deep into her lungs.

      Pushing on, she scaled the fire escape and climbed through the window she’d used before. Relief worked through her. Things were going so easily.

      Too easily?

      She straightened and pulled her Taser out of her tool bag. This time, she’d come prepared to defend herself. From whom or what, she didn’t know, but she didn’t plan to lose an entire hour of her life again in some unknown scenario.

      Weapon ready and flashlight showing the way, she pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway. She reached the staircase and took the steps two at a time. Breezing through the sitting area and the dining room, she didn’t slow until she reached the swinging door that led into the kitchen.

      Easing it open, she mentally prepared for the stench of oil and bleach. She stepped through the door and let it swing behind her.

      She hurried through the galley and down the stairs, anxious to get in and get out. The door into the storage room stood open. She pulled up short and shone her light around the interior.

      “Damn.” The place had been cleaned up. Even the towering metal shelves were in the upright position, not an easy task judging by their size. Certainly whoever had put the place back together knew there’d been some kind of fight down here. Had they increased security?

      A zap of caution jolted her and she instantly listened for any sounds of pursuit.

      Nothing.

      Stepping into the room, she reached for the light switch and flipped it on, surprised that even the bulbs had been replaced, but she didn’t extinguish her flashlight this time.

      Easing along the rows, she found the one where she’d discovered the file box she wanted. Raising the light beam to the uppermost shelf, she searched for the box. It was gone.

      Dread shot holes in her resolve. Was it possible whoever had been in the room that night took the information? Was it possible someone knew what she was after?

      About to give up, Olivia glanced down, the edge of her beam flicking over a file box on the lowest shelf.

      Her heart rate kicked up. She dropped to her knees and reached for the box. She swallowed and put her Taser down on the floor, then the flashlight.

      It was her lucky day…night, she decided as she pulled the lid off the box. The light penetration from overhead was negligible and she picked up the flashlight, sticking it between her teeth and aiming it into the box as she flipped through the files one by one.

      They weren’t alphabetized, something that would have saved her time.

      Silently, she repeated the names on the files until she reached the one with “Morgan, Ross A” printed on the tab.

      Olivia’s breath clogged in her lungs, whether a result of the dusty files or the emotion choking her throat, she wasn’t sure, but one thing was for certain, she’d found what she was looking for.

      Slowly, she opened the file and pulled the flashlight out of her mouth, focusing its beam on the faded typewritten pages, paper clipped to the inside of the manila folder.

      There was the standard information—height, weight, blood pressure, pulse rate, patient I.D. She studied the sketch of a human foot with three small dots on it in a triangular pattern. Frustrated, she flipped up the first page of the three-page file, looking for the doctor’s notes, the diagnosis, anything that would tell her what sort of treatment he’d received in the clinic.

      Her eyes focused on a paragraph written in long hand. It was barely legible, but she muddled through, soaking in the information.

      The patient has irreversible brain damage, which appears to be nonresponsive to treatment at this time. I administered a 200cc dose of NPQ, but the patient remained in an unresponsive state. At this time, we have done everything we can for him.

      This couldn’t be all there was to Ross’s file. There had to be more.

      The click of the light switch startled her. She quickly closed the file and raised her flashlight beam toward the door, determined to meet the threat head-on this time.

      With her free hand, she slid the file into her tool bag and looped it over her shoulder. Picking up the Taser, she stood up, prepared for battle.

      The door slammed shut.

      She jumped, watching in horror and awe, as an eight-foot desk skidded past on its own and jammed against the door, trapping her inside.

      Terror exploded in her body. She bolted forward.

      Was she losing her mind?

      Panic took hold of her. She lunged for the desk and tried to shove it away from the exit. It wouldn’t budge. Some unseen force held it in place.

      The hiss of a match somewhere in the room sent a shot of terror into her heart.

      The unmistakable odor of sulfur filled the air.

      She watched in shock as a pile of papers in the corner of the room ignited and flames raced up the wall.

      Caustic smoke filled the enclosed room, invading her lungs, burning her eyes. Her throat squeezed shut.

      Dropping to the floor next to the desk, she pulled the tool bag off her shoulder and yanked off her sweatshirt. Digging into her bag, she took out the bottle of water she always carried and doused the sweatshirt.

      Holding the wet cloth to her nose as a filter, she stood and tried again to push the desk out of the way, but it was useless.

      Reality choked out any hope she had left as she began to feel the dizzying effects of the toxic smoke.

      Sinking down onto the floor, she conserved her strength for another attempt.

      If she didn’t get out in the next minute, she was as good as dead.

      Chapter Three

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