50
I ran over the vast expanse of lawn.
I saw more as I drew nearer. A gauzy white glow bled across the institution's position. From the housing estate crammed next to the hospital. On the other side, a nature reserve. Where form took control. Shrubs and vines, weeds, and wildflowers swamped the structures of an established ward.
Even at this hour and deep into winter, I heard wildlife. The squawk of Canada geese, the chirp of smaller birds, starlings, goldfinches and redwings. Trees twisted, rose, and spread above the ancient buildings of the original clinic. Still intact, but hollowed out and half collapsed.
Most of the walls, in whatever condition, stood immersed in greenery, thick and rampant. Under the lights, the structures long abandoned. The yellow colour made them look ill. Along the high fences were signs saying DANGER! KEEP OUT! and NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY.
I turned my attention back to where I headed. Every night light worked. Lamps perched on top of the enormous gate segregating the approach to the hospital. Whether you came by foot or car, tried to get here by boat, it wasn't important. There was only one choice.
A white-haired man in his early sixties, dressed in a security uniform, was on guard at the automatic glass doors. He held up a hand in protest as I approached.
He went for his baton. But he was too slow. Not battle ready. I hit him full on with my shoulder and knocked him backwards off his feet.
People leaving the hospital stood shocked. I ignored them. A grey-haired female volunteer with a clipboard and pen stopped me from making any further progress.
If the security guard showed bravery, this woman remained confrontational.
"Can I help?" Her tone was dismissive.
"Clarissa Briggs."
She referred to her notes.
"Do you know what ward is?"
"No, I don't."
"Next of kin?"
"No, a friend."
"I'm afraid I can't divulge that information."
"She's in danger!" I told her.
She appeared indifferent.
"From whom?"
"A Russian assassin," I blurted out.
"And who are you, James Bond?" she mocked.
"He is not an actual person," I said with impatience. Nor is Jason Bourne or Ethan Hunt. But I am. If you don't tell me what department Clarissa Briggs is, a patient. You will have her blood on your hands."
The old-woman appeared affronted.
But then she must have seen truthful desperation in my eyes.
"Level Three," she whispered, "Rendlesham Ward."
"Thank you."
I headed for the elevators, noticing a small crowd helping the stunned security guard to his feet.
Took the stairs.
Taking two steps at a time, I was panting by the maternity department. I kept going. Tripped twice in my haste, but I made it.
The room was on the left. I barged in, unannounced. Mia Malkova leaned over the hospital bed, pressing a pillow over Clarissa's face.
Clarissa put up a good fight. Swinging her fists. Connecting a few times with Malkova's arms, shoulders, and chin. But the assassin was strong.
I lunged head first across the mattress and brought the Russian woman crashing to the floor. Landing in an entangled heap. I wanted to prevent her from getting the upper hand.
Her hands were at my throat. Pressing hard with her thumbs.
Blood pumped in my head and ears. The hiss of compressed air escaping under high pressure. Behind the eyes. Shooting lines. Flashes of colour intensify by the moment.
What saved me in those first few seconds was the early awareness of blind panic and shocked paralysis. It left me with one thought.
I reached up and fractured her little fingers. Heard the knuckles splinter over the roaring in the ears. Then I broke the ring finger, and she let go.
Scrambling to our feet, and Mia leaned back and kicked out, trying to contact my balls. I grabbed the foot and twisted hard. She yelled out again, staggering away a few paces.
The damage to the knee and ligaments, irreversible.
But she was tough, still coming for me. Limping. Face full of unquenched rage.
Her good hand went to her rear pocket and pulled out a knife. She hobbled on one leg. Swinging the weapon back and forth. A double-edged three-inch blade. Holding the hilt with two workable fingers and a thumb.
Despite the injuries, she ran at me. Knowing what she wanted to do. In no doubt to the outcome of her calculated action. She attacked me sideways so that my foot couldn't cause damage. With the right hand at the full stretch of her arm.
We circled each other as depraved and starved predators. Interrupted by Malkova's lunges and my intermittent countering. In one attempt to gain the upper hand, the tip of the knife cut through the sleeve of my jacket. Making a superficial wound.
Life stood still as the cat-and-mouse game continued. What appeared an eternity between each lunge was only thirty seconds.
With high-intensity scream, she attacked again. Attacking straight. It got me off guard. The blade curving upwards in a wicked arc and aimed for a point just below the breastbone.
The injuries inflicted took their toll. Mia was slower. I grabbed and clamped her dagger wrist. Chucked myself backwards. Stiffening a leg under her. I pulled downwards. Sent her rocketing over me.
Twisting, I stood up, but the need for haste was gone.