Rows of empty glass observation rooms lined the walls.

In the center of the ward stood a single, illuminated bed surrounded by medical monitoring equipment.

A figure lay under a white sheet.

Beside the bed sat a woman in a dark tactical jacket.

Her hands were cuffed to the metal frame of the chair.

“Mara,” I whispered.

She raised her head slowly.

Her left eye was swollen shut, and a dark bruise ran down her jawline.

But her right eye was clear, and it flared with sudden panic.

“Natalie,” she rasped, her voice dry. “It’s a trap.”

I ran toward her, my boots slamming against the tile floor.

I reached her chair and grabbed her cuffs, inspecting the lock.

“Where is he?” I asked, looking at the bed.

The sheet on the bed was empty, piled to look like a body.

“He’s not here,” Mara said, her breath coming in quick gasps. “They moved him ten minutes ago.”

“Who?” I asked, pulling a bobby pin from my pocket and working it into the cuff lock.

“Voss,” she said. “He knew you were coming.”