PART 5
Behind him stood two more men, both rigid with the kind of control that means something inside is close to breaking.
Denise came out of her office before I could answer.
“Visiting hours ended at eight,” she said.
The tall man didn’t blink.
“I understand.”
Denise lifted her chin.
“Then you understand you can come back tomorrow.”
He looked at me instead.
“Ma’am,” he said again, “Marcus has no family listed. We are his emergency contact in every way that matters.”
Denise rolled her eyes.
And that was the first mistake she made in front of Navy SEALs.
“Military or not,” she said, “you don’t get to storm onto my unit and rewrite hospital policy.”
The tall man’s jaw tightened.
I stepped forward.
“Denise.”
She snapped her head toward me.
“You are off the clock.”
“He is critical,” I said. “If these men are command-approved contacts, we verify and document.”
“We do not bend rules because three uniforms show up after midnight.”
The SEAL reached into his jacket and removed a sealed envelope.
He held it out to me.
Not to Denise.
To me.
“Ma’am, this was to be delivered only if Petty Officer Kim became incapacitated.”
Denise’s eyes narrowed.
“Why are you giving that to her?”
The SEAL looked at Denise like she was furniture blocking a fire exit.
“Because the instruction says Rebecca Martinez.”
The hallway went silent.
My hand stilled before I took the envelope.
My name was typed across the front.
REBECCA MARTINEZ, RN — AUTHORIZED MEDICAL ADVOCATE.
I opened it.
Inside was a one-page directive signed by Marcus Kim three months earlier.
If incapacitated within the Hampton Roads medical network, request Rebecca Martinez, RN, formerly attached to Navy Special Operations Medical Response Team Night Harbor, as patient advocate until command legal arrives.
I felt the air leave my lungs.
May you like
Night Harbor.
A name I had not heard spoken aloud in years.
