Chapter 23: Extraction
Elena didn't argue when I explained the plan.
"Twelve minutes," she said, checking the clock on the dashboard. "Shift change at 11:47, full coverage restored by midnight. That's your window."
"Fifteen. The oncology wing has more staff than the schedule shows."
"Thirteen. Don't push it."
We'd parked at the hospital's north side, in the lot reserved for maintenance vehicles and body transport. The entrance here was discrete, unmonitored by external cameras, connected to the patient floors through a service corridor the public never saw.
"If something goes wrong?"
"I leave. You're on your own." Elena's voice carried no apology. "We agreed—the operation matters more than any individual. Even you."
"Especially me, if I'm compromised."
She almost smiled. "You're learning."
The service entrance was locked, but locks were designed for human strength. I applied pressure at the right angle, felt the mechanism give, slipped inside without leaving marks. The corridor beyond smelled like industrial cleaner and the particular staleness of institutional air.
The night nurse at station 3-C was my first target. Young, absorbed in paperwork, her attention focused on charts rather than her surroundings. I approached from her peripheral vision, waited until she looked up, caught her eyes.
"You're having a quiet night. Nothing unusual has happened. No visitors after 10 PM."
Her expression went slack, the resistance minimal. She nodded once and returned to her paperwork, the encounter already fading from her memory.
The orderly restocking supplies in the hallway was more alert—the kind of man who noticed details other staff missed. His resistance was stronger, pushing back against the glamour with stubborn mental defenses. But it held.
"You haven't seen anything worth reporting tonight. Take a break. Get coffee."
He walked toward the staff lounge without question, leaving the corridor clear.
The security guard at the auxiliary exit was reading a magazine, barely paying attention to the monitors beside him. The glamour took hold easily.
"Your shift is quiet. The cameras haven't shown anything interesting. You won't remember this conversation."
Eleven minutes gone. Marcus was waiting when I opened his door.
He'd dressed in the civilian clothes I'd provided—jeans, a plain shirt, a jacket that hung loose on his cancer-depleted frame. His hospital gown was folded neatly on the bed, placed with the deliberate precision of someone who'd spent years maintaining military quarters.
"Ready?"
"More than I've been ready for anything since I enlisted."
I helped him stand. His weight against my arm was negligible—vampire strength made the support effortless—but the tremor in his muscles reminded me how fragile he still was. Three weeks of deterioration had stolen most of his physical capability.
The corridor was clear. I guided Marcus toward the service exit, my senses scanning for unexpected interference—heartbeats, footsteps, the mechanical sound of doors opening. Nothing moved. The glamours held.
Elena had the car running when we emerged. Marcus stopped at the door, tilting his face toward the night sky.
"I want to feel the wind," he said. "While I still know what feeling means."
Elena and I exchanged a look but said nothing. Some requests didn't need justification.
The drive to Monroe took forty-five minutes. Elena maintained speed limits, avoided main roads, took routes I didn't recognize until she explained—surveillance-blind paths she'd mapped during her decade of hunting these parishes.
"So this is the candidate." She glanced at Marcus in the rearview mirror. "The soldier."
"Marcus Webb. Twelve years Army, deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, honorable discharge after the cancer diagnosis."
"You sure about this?" The question was directed at Marcus, not me.
"More than I've been sure about anything since I enlisted."
"Dying makes people desperate. Desperate people make bad decisions."
"With respect, ma'am, I've been making decisions under pressure for most of my adult life. This isn't desperation—it's assessment. Your boss is building something worth building. I want to be part of it."
Elena was quiet for a long moment. Then something in her posture shifted—the slight relaxation of someone who'd received an acceptable answer.
"We'll see."
The Silver Dollar's back entrance opened to the reinforced basement. I helped Marcus down the stairs while Elena locked up above. The panic room I'd constructed months ago—silver-lined walls, reinforced door, emergency supplies—had been converted for tonight's purpose.
The coffin waited in the corner. Blood bags lined the shelf beside it. Medical equipment borrowed from the hospital stood ready for monitoring. Everything was prepared.
Except me.
I realized, standing in that basement with Marcus leaning against my arm, that I'd never felt less ready for anything in either of my lives.
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