She checked her Glock, and felt a rush of relief at the feel of its plastic grip; there was no way she could have lost it between the car and her father’s room, but she suddenly had to be sure. Her system was flooded with adrenaline, as though she had been dropped without warning into a Priority Level 1 situation; her Operator side had asserted itself completely and was surveying the small room. There was a single door, which was good for access control, but bad for extraction if that became necessary; she had no idea why her dad was saying he wasn’t safe, but she had to trust him and assume the worst. She had to assume the Night Stalkers were on their way to the hospital right now to finish him off.

Kate pulled her radio from her belt and keyed in the Blacklight emergency frequency. She pressed SEND and held the handset to the side of her head.

“Security,” said a voice. “Code in.”

“Randall, Lieutenant Kate, NS303, 78-J.”

“Hold for authorisation.”

There was a moment of agonising silence as her voiceprint was checked against the Department’s database.

Come on! she shouted, silently. Come on, for God’s sake!

“Authorised,” said the voice. “What’s your emergency, Lieutenant Randall?”

“I need an immediate civilian extraction,” she said. “From Lincoln General Hospital to the Loop. Civilian’s name is Pete Randall.”

“Reason for transfer?”

“His life’s in danger,” said Kate. “He has information on the Night Stalkers that will be valuable to the Department.”

“I’ll take it to the Security Officer for approval.”

“Do it quickly, please.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said the voice. “I’ll call you right back.”

“Good,” said Kate, and pressed END. She backed into the corner of the room, her gaze alternating between her father and the door. The entire hospital suddenly felt threatening; every person that passed the window in the door seemed like a potential threat, every distant voice sounded dangerous.

The door opened and Kate jumped. Her hand flew to the Glock at the back of her jeans, her heart racing, as a nurse in a white uniform appeared.

“Everything all right in here?” she asked.

“Fine,” said Kate. “Leave us alone, please.”

The nurse rolled her eyes. “Sorry I spoke,” she said, and backed out of the room.

Kate glanced at her sleeping dad, then darted to the door and checked the corridor in both directions. She saw nothing suspicious: doctors, nurses, men and women in civilian clothes, who were presumably visiting patients, as she was.

The radio buzzed into life.

“Randall,” she said, holding it to her ear.

“The Security Officer has approved your transfer request, Lieutenant.”

Kate closed her eyes.

Thank you, Angela, she thought. Thank you.

“Good,” she said. “Do you have an ETA for the extraction team?”

“The current ETA is forty-eight minutes,” said the Operator.

Jesus.

“That’s the best they can do?” she asked.

“That’s what I was told, Lieutenant.”

“OK,” she said. “That’s fine.”

“Are you with the civilian?” asked the Operator.

“Yes.”

“Can you stay with him until extraction?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Kate.

Kate checked her watch for the thousandth time. She had never known time to pass so slowly; it was as though some kind of cruel temporal anomaly was occurring inside Lincoln General Hospital.

The nurse walked past the door again, peering through the window as she passed, her eyes narrow. It was the fourth time since Kate had ended her radio call with the Loop; it was clear that her continued presence on the intensive-care floor was beginning to attract attention.

She checked her watch again. Eleven minutes to go, providing the ETA hadn’t changed. She checked the Glock. Still there.

What was worrying her most was not the potential arrival of the Night Stalkers; she did not really believe that vigilantes would attempt to kill a patient in a hospital in broad daylight and even if they did, she was confident she would be able to handle them. What was worrying her was her inability to be proactive until the extraction team arrived to help her. She was in plain clothes, and could not, under any circumstances, identify herself as a Blacklight Operator; to do so would break one of the most fundamental rules the Department had. And even if she did, if she decided to ignore the rule, she could not prove it; her ID card was in the pocket of her uniform. All she could do was wait.

Her radio buzzed and she raised it to her ear.

“Randall,” she said.

“Extraction team ETA seven minutes,” said the Security Operator. “Four minutes ahead of schedule. Hospital staff have been briefed to expect a patient transfer.”

“What’s the cover story?” asked Kate.

“Pete Randall is an undercover policeman working for the Lincolnshire narcotics unit,” said the Security Operator. “He was shot by members of a drug gang, and needs to be moved to a secure location immediately.”

“OK,” said Kate. “That’s good.”

“Extraction will be via Lincoln General’s rooftop helipad. Staff and security have been advised not to interfere.”

“Understood,” said Kate, and ended the call. She checked her father, saw his chest gently rising and falling, then opened the door a fraction, and peered out.

She froze.

Standing at the nurse’s station were two uniformed police officers.

Kate stared at them, her eyes widening, then ducked back as the nurse pointed down the corridor, seemingly directly at her.

Shit, she thought. Six minutes. Shit.

Kate backed along the wall away from the door, drew her Glock, and waited. She fought to control her breathing, taking slow breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, and counted in her head.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

The handle turned. She fought back a surge of adrenaline as the door opened slowly towards her, shielding the policemen from view. One stepped into the room, his attention on the bed and its occupant. If he looked to his left, he would see her, but he didn’t. The second appeared next to his colleague, and Kate moved. She stepped to her right, kicked the door shut, and raised the Glock as the two policemen spun round, surprise on their faces that quickly turned to shock as their eyes found the pistol.

“Not a sound,” she said. “Back up, both of you. Do it now.”

The policemen raised their hands and retreated towards the corner of the room, their faces pale. When their shoulders touched the wall, she took a step forward.

“Pull those over,” she said, nodding at a pair of plastic chairs beside her father’s bed. “Only one of you move.”

One of the men nodded, and slid slowly along the wall. He picked up the chairs, and carried them back to the corner.

“Put them against the wall and sit down,” said Kate. “Hands beneath your legs.”

The two men did as they were told, and stared at her as she stepped forward, and read the name badges on their uniforms. “Officers Sudbury and Woodford,” she said. “Tell me why you’re here. More importantly, tell me who sent you.”

“What do you mean, who sent us?” asked Sudbury. “This man is the victim of a serious crime.”

“What crime?” asked Kate.

“Attempted murder,” said Woodford. “He was shot by suspected Night Stalkers, and we’re the investigating officers. Who the hell are you?”

Kate felt a chill run through her. “How do you know it was the Night Stalkers?” she asked, ignoring his question. “This man was pulled out of the canal with a gunshot wound. He’s the only one who knows who shot him.”

The men glanced at each other, then Sudbury smiled at her. “Ever heard of CCTV?” he said. “We recorded a black van leaving the area within the likely timeframe, similar to one used in previous Night Stalker attacks. Our sergeant sent us to take a statement from the victim.”