Intensive Care Crisis. Karen Kirst

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       ONE

      Jacksonville, North Carolina

      Someone was harming her patients.

      Audrey Harris was determined not to let anything happen to the force-recon marine currently in her care. Not only was Sergeant Julian Tan her neighbor, but he was also in her father’s unit. Fortunately, the recovery room where she worked had only three patients this morning, and they weren’t scheduled to receive more until after lunch.

      She reassessed the IV lines and inspected the dressing on his lower arm.

      “My team,” he murmured, shifting restlessly beneath the thin sheet. “Have to reach them.”

      Audrey winced. His team was gone, their deaths the result of a training exercise gone horribly wrong. Julian had escaped with several broken bones in his left arm and wrist. The first surgery—performed a month ago, at the time of the accident—had been a success, but he’d had an allergic reaction to the stitches. They’d had to go back in and replace them.

      His head lifted from the starched pillowcase. “Where are they?” he demanded in a thick, slurred voice.

      “You’ve had a surgical procedure and will feel groggy for a while. As soon as the anesthesia wears off, I’ll take you to post-op.” Typically, those nurses would retrieve him, but she wasn’t letting him out of her sight.

      His eyes, shimmering like copper pennies in a fountain, narrowed in confusion. “I’m in the hospital? Where are the others?”

      She’d been on shift when he’d been brought in with the marines who’d initially survived the helicopter crash. While she hadn’t been assigned to him, she remembered he’d responded poorly to anesthesia and woke disgruntled.

      Audrey wished he didn’t have to relive the news of his fellow marines’ deaths. Coming around to the other side of the bed, she laid her hand on his shoulder.

      “Julian, is the anti-nausea medicine I gave you working?”

      He pinched the bridge of his nose.

      “Are you feeling sick to your stomach?”

      When he didn’t answer, she clicked off the overhead light. “Try and rest, okay?”

      She started to move away. His uninjured hand clamped over her lower arm, preventing her from leaving.

      “Who are you?”

      The strength in his grip surprised her. Not because of his physique—he was hewn from steel, it seemed, his body the military’s version of a living weapon—but because he was still suffering the effects of powerful medication.

      Audrey covered his large, calloused hand with her own, trying to reassure him with her touch. “Audrey Harris. We live in the same apartment complex.”

      Julian’s face remained blank. Even fully alert, she doubted he’d remember her. He wasn’t the sort to flirt and make small talk, like some of the single male residents. When he wasn’t off saving the world, he went about his daily life with single-minded focus. She passed him sometimes on his way to the apartment’s gym and indoor pool.

      The squeak of rubber soles on the polished tiles heralded her coworker’s arrival. “How’s our wounded warrior doing?”

      Chasity Bateman’s sparse eyebrows lifted at the sight of their joined hands. Audrey separated herself from his hold and pulled aside her friend and fellow nurse.

      “He’s out of sorts, and who can blame him?”

      “Good thing he has a pretty nurse to distract him from his troubles.” Stray blond curls peeked out from her surgical cap.

      “I don’t date patients.”

      “You don’t date anyone. That’s the problem.”

      Audrey glanced at the bed. His eyes were closed, his spiky lashes forming dark crescents against gold-dust skin. Julian Tan was a striking man. Short, sleek brown-black hair framed proud, angular features offset by a generous mouth. He was strong and handsome, but intense and private. In their one exchange, when her father had introduced them, she’d gotten the impression that few people were allowed into his personal circle.

      “A handsome, intriguing guy like him could be the one to make you finally forget about Seth.”

      Grief pinched her—less potently than in the past, which troubled her. “I can’t forget.”

      Chasity nudged her. “There’s no crime in having a little fun. Seth wouldn’t begrudge you that.”

      “Shouldn’t you be with your patients?”

      The recovery area in their modest-size hospital consisted of a single, long room with beds lining both walls and an aisle in the middle. There were privacy curtains, but none were currently in use. Near the entry doors, two women occupied beds opposite each other. Both were quiet.

      Too quiet?

      “What happened last week was a fluke, you know,” Chasity said, picking up on her sudden anxiety.

      Audrey tugged on the ID card hanging around her neck, then allowed it to snap back into place. “A fluke? Alex Shields had an allergic reaction that could’ve killed him. Wanda Ferrier came in for outpatient surgery but wound up staying five days because she was given the wrong dosage.” Her heart pounded with remembered dread. “Someone stole my log-in, Chasity, and deliberately set out to harm my patients.”

      Her friend was unable to mask her skepticism. “I know it’s hard to accept that we’re capable of mistakes, but we all get busy and distracted.”

      “This isn’t a case of simple carelessness. I’m being made to look incompetent.”

      All because she’d done the right thing. In recent weeks, she’d noticed inconsistencies between the supply list and the actual supplies in their stockroom. More serious was her suspicion that an Onslow General employee was diverting narcotics and other medicines. She’d spoken to a handful of her coworkers in the surgical unit, but they hadn’t had useful information to share. So she’d taken her concerns to the charge nurse. Veronica “Iron Nurse” Mills had promised to look into the matter. That was when the mishaps started. Audrey could only conclude that the thief was attempting to discredit her.

      The swish of a door interrupted their exchange, and in walked the taskmaster who ruled the department with an iron fist. Veronica was tall for a woman and of an indiscriminate age. Her brassy yellow hair was styled in fat sausage rolls reminiscent of a bygone era. She wore her uniforms starched and was never seen without her trademark fire-engine-red lipstick. Since Audrey’s transfer from the ICU to surgery eighteen months ago, she’d gotten the impression that Veronica disliked her more than anyone else. And since she was displeased by most everyone and everything, that was saying something.

      Her broad nose pinched at the sight of them. “Heather’s gone home with a fever. You’ll have to spend the rest of your shift in СКАЧАТЬ