Chapter 3

"I'm standing here because I'm sick of watching people in this building treat a hospital like their own cash machine and treat patients like cattle," Noah said. "Somebody has to show every patient you've kept in the dark what's actually going on behind these walls, and it's going to be me."

The whole corridor went still. Even Robert was caught flat-footed.

And the families who'd been standing there for the entertainment of it — their faces changed completely. The president's own grandson turning on his own house. That single fact settled the question for them. There was rot in this hospital, and now it was proven.

A few of them, worked up, started pushing forward. Their bodies made a wall across the last few steps between me and the doors.

"He's the president's grandson. No wonder he's got the nerve."

"We can't let this crook in there to destroy the evidence."

Noah's introduction had detonated the corridor, and the shouting came from every direction at once.

"Don't let him in!"

"That's right — wait until the police have looked at it!"

"We paid for this place. We didn't pay to be killed for somebody's money."

It came in waves and it very nearly went over the top of me.

I pulled in a breath and forced the fury back down.

"Officer, I understand your job," I said. "You have my word. The second I'm out of that room, I'll walk to your car with you. Investigate anything you want, any way you want, and you won't hear a word of argument out of me.

"But right now I need you to hold order and let me go save him. That's my job. Protecting people's lives is supposed to be yours."

Maybe it was how I said it. Maybe it was that last part.

Whitaker traded a look with his partner and nodded.

"All of you, calm down. Step back, please." His voice carried, and it carried authority. "We'll have eyes on him the entire time. Nothing is going to happen in there. You need to trust us on that."

The crowd gave way to the uniform, grudgingly, and opened a gap wide enough for one man.

The way through was right there in front of me.

I didn't hesitate. I moved.

And as I came level with Noah, a step from the corridor that led to the table, a sharp cut of air tore straight through the noise. All I caught was a dark shape at the very edge of my vision.

It was a stainless-steel chair, lifted over Noah's head and swung with everything he had at the back of my skull.

I got my right arm up on instinct.

The crack was short and clean, and the pain went off behind it like a charge. The chair came down and slammed against the floor and screeched away across the tile.

For one second the corridor was completely silent.

Arthur Grant broke it. He was coming toward us fast with a knot of administrators behind him and a face like slate.

"Marcus, why are you still out here?"

Then he saw the crowd, and he saw the look on Noah's face, and he understood the whole thing in an instant.

He covered the last of it in two strides and slapped his grandson hard across the face.

"You worthless idiot. Who told you to come down here and make a scene? Apologize to Dr. Hale."

Noah staggered sideways and stared at him, and there was nothing in his eyes but hurt and confusion.

Arthur didn't even register it. He turned to me, urgent.

"Dr. Hale, the patient first. Go, he can't wait." And then, because the administrator in him never fully shuts off, he added, "A save like this one puts us on the map. We bring him through and it's the making of this hospital."

Every face in that corridor was pointed at me. All of them clearly assumed I'd swallow it — take the pain, think about the bigger picture, and go do the operation.

Slowly, with my left hand, I lifted my right.

It had already started to swell. I held it up in front of him.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Grant.

"I can't do this one."