Catherine stared at the flashing red light on the desk. The ringing was loud enough to make her ears ring.

She shoved the silver pocket watch back into the hidden compartment of the drawer and slammed it shut. She took a deep breath, forcing the air down into her tight lungs. She smoothed the front of her shirt and picked up the receiver.

"Dean Clarke speaking," she said. Her voice was ice.

Static crackled through the phone. Then, a deep, rough male voice spoke. "Clear the VIP hallway. Now."

Catherine gripped the phone tighter. "Excuse me? I am the Dean of this hospital. Public medical resources will not be restricted for private security."

A low chuckle came through the speaker. "This is Clinton Barlow. I handle security for the Sinclair family. You will clear the hallway, Dean Clarke. That is not a request."

Catherine's stomach dropped. The name hit her like a physical blow. Her fingers turned white around the plastic receiver. She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. She did not say a word. She placed the phone gently back on the base, cutting the line.

She stood up, walked to the window, and looked down through the blinds at the private driveway below.

Three black Chevrolet Suburbans roared into the hospital's private entrance. The tires squealed against the pavement.

Down in the VIP lobby, Dr. Evan Reed was holding a paper coffee cup. He jumped when the SUVs stopped. Hot coffee splashed over the rim and burned his hand.

Eleanor pulled him behind a marble pillar.

The door of the middle SUV opened. Clinton Barlow stepped out. He wore a black tactical suit. His heavy boots hit the ground with a dull thud.

The faint scar on Clinton's cheek caught the gray Boston light. His sharp eyes scanned the ceiling, locking onto every security camera in the area.

Five armed guards poured out of the other vehicles. They formed a human wall between the cars and the glass doors, pushing back a few confused patients.

"Who do these rich guys think they are?" Evan whispered, rubbing his burned hand.

Eleanor slapped her hand over his mouth. "Shut up, Evan. That's the Sinclair family's chief of security. He's dangerous."

Clinton stopped walking. He turned his head slowly and stared directly at the pillar where Evan and Eleanor were hiding. His eyes were like knives.

Evan stopped breathing. He pressed his back flat against the cold marble.

Clinton sneered and looked away. He walked through the sliding glass doors into the VIP lobby. His boots echoed loudly in the empty space.

The front desk nurse stood up, her hands shaking. "Sir, I need to see your-"

Clinton did not look at her. He slammed a solid black access card onto the scanner. The machine beeped green.

He walked straight to the private elevator reserved for the top floor.

The metal doors closed. Clinton pulled a small black device from his pocket. He swept it around the elevator walls, checking for listening bugs.

Satisfied, he pressed his earpiece. "Boston security is locked down," he said in a low voice.

A cold, authoritative male voice replied through the earpiece. "Good."

Just one word. Clinton stood a little straighter.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open on the VIP floor.

Clinton stepped out.

Catherine was walking down the hallway toward him, holding a metal clipboard.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on above them. Catherine looked down, raising the clipboard just enough to hide the lower half of her face.

Clinton stopped. His eyes narrowed. He stared at the woman in the white coat. Something about the way she walked made the hairs on his arms stand up.

He shot his thick arm out, blocking her path. The sudden movement created a rush of cold air.

"Why are you in a cleared zone?" Clinton demanded.

Catherine forced her feet to stay planted. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her throat. She slowly raised her head. She gave him a look of pure, arrogant disgust. She shoved her ID badge right into his chest.

Clinton looked at the name. Dr. Catherine Clarke. He frowned. The suspicion was still heavy in his eyes, but he could not find a crack in her expression.

"If your men interfere with my medical equipment again," Catherine said, her French accent thick and dripping with poison, "I will have the police remove you."

Clinton blinked. The accent threw him off. The arrogance was entirely wrong. He dropped his arm.

"My apologies, Doctor," he said stiffly. He stepped aside.

Catherine kept her chin high and walked past him. She did not look back.

She turned the corner and pressed her back against the wall. Her shirt was soaked with cold sweat. She peeked around the edge of the drywall.

Clinton was standing in front of Cassidy's door, typing a code into the keypad.

The heavy door hissed as the pressure seal broke. Clinton pushed it open and stepped into the VIP suite.

The room looked like a war zone. Expensive toys were scattered across the floor. The screen of a tablet was shattered into pieces near the sofa.

Cassidy Sinclair stood on the wide windowsill. She was seven years old, wearing a hospital gown that was too big for her. Her bare feet gripped the marble edge. She held a heavy glass vase in her small hands, aiming it at the two nurses standing near the bed.

The nurses looked terrified. One held a tray with cold food. The other held a small cup of pills.

Clinton waved his hand. The nurses quickly left the room, closing the door behind them.

Clinton unbuttoned his suit jacket. He unclipped his holster and placed his gun inside the wall safe near the door. The metal locked with a loud click.

He walked toward the window. His heavy boots crushed the broken glass of the tablet. It made a terrible grinding sound.

Cassidy raised the vase higher. Her knuckles were white. She bit her lower lip so hard it looked like it might bleed.

Clinton did not stop. He pulled a chair to the center of the room and sat down. He spread his legs and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Jumping from the second floor won't kill you," Clinton said, his voice flat. "It will just break both your legs. Then you'll be stuck in that bed for months."

Cassidy froze. The threat confused her. The anger drained out of her face, replaced by a sudden rush of tears. Her lower lip trembled.

Clinton sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a squashed caramel pop. The cheap plastic wrapper was wrinkled and faded.

He tossed it onto the carpet. "Take your pills, and you get the garbage candy your nutritionist hates."

Cassidy stared at the candy. She swallowed hard. She looked at the vase in her hands, then back at the candy.

She slammed the vase down onto the sofa cushions. She jumped off the windowsill. Her bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud.

Clinton stood up fast. He grabbed her around the waist before she could step on the broken glass. He lifted her easily and dropped her onto the center of the hospital bed.

Cassidy snatched the plastic cup of pills from the bedside table. She threw them into her mouth and swallowed them dry. She started coughing violently, her face turning red.

Clinton patted her back. His hand was huge and rough, but the pats were gentle. He ripped the wrapper off the caramel pop and shoved it into her mouth.

The coughing stopped. The sweet taste of caramel filled her mouth. Cassidy's tense shoulders dropped. She leaned back against the pillows.

Clinton looked at her pale face. Her eyes looked exactly like Helen's. A sharp ache twisted in his chest.

"Am I going to be locked in this white box forever?" Cassidy asked around the candy. Her voice was small and broken.

Clinton looked away. He bent down and started picking up the broken pieces of the tablet. He didn't want her to see his face. While his eyes were averted, Cassidy's small hand darted out. Her fingers closed around a sharp, sturdy metal screw attached to a piece of the shattered casing. She quickly hid it under her thigh, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Cassidy leaned over the edge of the bed. She grabbed the back of Clinton's shirt. She pulled it hard.

"When is my dad coming?" she asked.

Clinton's hand stopped moving. A sharp piece of glass sliced deep into his index finger. Blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the carpet.

He grabbed a tissue from the table and wrapped it tight around his finger.

"Mr. Sinclair is in Europe," Clinton said. His voice was completely empty of emotion. "He is handling an important merger."

The light in Cassidy's eyes died. She let go of his shirt. She rolled over, turning her back to him, and pulled the blanket over her head.

Clinton stared at the small lump under the covers. There was nothing he could say. He threw the bloody tissue and the glass into the trash.

The radio on his belt beeped. A red light flashed. A guard's voice came through the speaker. "Sir, emergency call from Europe. You need to take this on a secure line."

Clinton walked to the bed. He pulled the metal guardrails up. They locked into place with a loud clack. It sounded exactly like a cage closing.

He walked to the door and looked back at the bed. He hit the dimmer switch on the wall, dropping the room into shadows.

He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged.

A guard handed him a black encrypted phone. Clinton looked at the caller ID. His jaw tightened.

He cursed under his breath and walked quickly toward the fire stairwell at the end of the hall.

He did not see Catherine standing in the dark alcove near the ice machine, watching his every move.

Clinton pushed the heavy metal fire door open. It slammed shut behind him, cutting off the bright lights and the security cameras of the hallway.

He stood in the dim stairwell and unlocked the encrypted phone. The harsh blue light from the screen lit up his face. The message was clear: European authorities were raiding the Geneva office for antitrust violations.

Clinton dialed the emergency line. "Initiate Protocol B," he said quickly. "Burn the secondary files."

He hung up.

The fire door creaked open.

Clinton spun around. His hand dropped to the small knife hidden at his lower back.

Martha Holloway stood in the doorway. She was wearing a gray maid's uniform. She was empty-handed and out of breath, as if she had been running down the hallway searching for him.

Clinton let go of the knife. His muscles relaxed slightly, but his eyes stayed hard.

Martha gasped. She clutched the doorframe for support, her chest heaving.

Clinton stepped forward, his expression sharp. "You shouldn't leave the room, Martha. The protocol says no blind spots."

Martha's eyes were red. "She threw up. Her gown is ruined. I buzzed the nurses' station for warm water and towels, but no one came."

Clinton's face softened for a second. He set his hand down on the cold metal railing and rubbed his forehead.

Martha stepped closer. She kept her voice low. "When is he coming back, Clinton? When is Mr. Sinclair going to look at his own daughter?"

"Don't question his schedule," Clinton snapped. "He has thousands of employees relying on him."

"Money doesn't hold a child when she's crying!" Martha hissed. "She is terrified. She needs her mother."

The word hit Clinton like a bullet. He stepped into Martha's space, backing her against the cold cinderblock wall.

"Do not say that word in this hospital," Clinton growled.

Martha lifted her chin. She did not look away. "If he hadn't backed Helen into a corner, she wouldn't have left. He broke this family."

"She chose to jump on that boat!" Clinton yelled, his voice echoing in the stairwell. "She abandoned her kid!"

"She had no choice and you know it!" Martha yelled back.

The silence that followed was deafening. The only sound was the low hum of the air conditioning vent above them.

Clinton stepped back. He leaned against the metal railing. He pulled a crushed pack of Marlboros from his pocket. He put a cigarette between his lips but didn't light it.

"You're right," Clinton whispered. "The kid is drowning in this family."

Martha sighed. She wiped her wet eyes with the back of her hand. "Just call him. Tell him to call her."

Martha reached for the door handle.

Suddenly, the radio on his belt screamed. A high-pitched alarm echoed off the concrete walls.

"Sir!" a guard yelled through the static. "Vitals monitor disconnected! The room is empty!"

The unlit cigarette fell from Clinton's mouth.

He lunged forward and shoved the heavy fire door open with massive force. The metal edge caught Martha off guard. She cried out in pain as the sudden impact threw her off balance, sending her stumbling hard against the concrete wall. She dropped to her knees on the landing, dazed.

Clinton didn't look back. He sprinted down the hallway. His boots slipped on the polished floor. His mind flashed with images of rival families and kidnappers.

He reached the VIP suite. Two guards were standing by the door, looking panicked. Clinton shoved them aside. His bandaged index finger throbbed as he jammed the override code into the keypad.

He kicked the door open. It hit the wall with a loud bang. He pulled his knife and stepped inside, ready to fight.

The room was empty.

The bed rails were still up, but the metal locking pin that held the top rail in place had been pried loose—the sharp edge of the screw from the shattered tablet casing still jammed into the mechanism.

A pillow was stuffed under the blanket to look like a body.

Clinton ran to the window. It was locked.

He spun around and looked up. The metal grate of the HVAC vent on the ceiling was pushed aside. A small piece of blue hospital fabric hung from the sharp edge of the metal.

Clinton grabbed his radio. "Lock down the building!" he roared. "Nobody gets in or out! We lost her!"