Dr. Raymond Holt said it loud enough for the whole station to hear, the way he said most things, as if volume were a form of proof. Clare Mercer didn't flinch. She kept her eyes on the chart in front of her, pen steady, expression flat. Behind her, two other nurses traded a glance that had become a kind of shorthand between them over the last two months. Again.

The air in the trauma bay turned electric.

"Nurse Mercer!" Holt yelled, his face turning pale. "Are you insane? Stand down! These are federal officers!"

"They aren't federal agents, Dr. Holt," Clare said calmly, placing her body directly between the lead man and Maya’s gurney. "Department of Defense security personnel do not wear commercial tactical boots with non-standard civilian tread. They don't carry customized SIG Sauer P226s in concealed shoulder rigs without badge clips on their belts. And they certainly don't attempt to move a critical trauma patient without an attending flight surgeon present."

The lead agent’s posture shifted instantly. The artificial friendliness evaporated, replaced by the lethal stillness of a trained killer. His hand twitched toward his jacket lining.

Behind Clare, Odin rose to his feet. An eighty-pound mass of muscle and fury stood right beside Clare, his jaws hovering inches from the agent's throat.

The agent froze, his fingers stopping an inch from his holster. He stared into Odin’s yellow eyes, then looked at Clare, realizing in a single horrifying second that he wasn't dealing with a civilian nurse.

"Who the hell are you?" the agent growled under his breath.

"I'm the nurse who is keeping this girl alive," Clare replied coldly. "And if you take one more step toward this gurney, my dog will tear your arm out of its socket before you can clear leather."

"This isn't over," the agent whispered. He slowly backed away, giving Odin a wide berth, gesturing to his partner. "We'll be waiting outside."

They turned and walked briskly back out through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, disappearing into the torrential October rain.

Holt sank against the counter, drenched in cold sweat. "Mercer... what the hell was that? You just threatened federal officers!"

"They weren't feds, Holt," Clare snapped, her voice leaving no room for argument. "They were mercenaries. Now get off your rear end and help me transfer her to OR Three before her spleen completely ruptures!"

Five minutes later, Maya Vance was being rolled down the secure surgical corridor, flanked by Clare and Odin. As the heavy double doors of the operating suite clicked shut, Clare turned to Priya, who had followed them down the hall with a tray of fresh IV bags.

"Priya," Clare said quietly, pulling her colleague into an empty alcove. "I need you to do something for me, and I need you never to speak of it to anyone."

Priya’s eyes were wide with terror and adrenaline. "Anything, Clare. Jesus, what is happening?"

Clare pulled the small steel cylinder off Odin’s collar and handed it to Priya. "This is an encrypted tactical beacon. It requires a specific frequency to activate. Take it up to the roof helipad, unscrew the cap, press the red contact switch inside, and leave it on the railing."

"What does it do?" Priya asked, her hands shaking as she took the cylinder.