Hunter Hunted, Jack Gatland [good story books to read .txt] 📗

knew that this had to build with time. This was too fast. And what was worse, if it came out that they had slept together before Kendis and Peter filed for divorce, this would give Peter a far greater advantage in any court proceedings.

He was an idiot for doing this.

His phone, currently in his trouser pocket halfway across the room vibrated, the faint buzzing audible in the quiet morning. Declan looked to the clock beside the bed; it wasn’t even six in the morning. Calls before six were never good.

Climbing carefully out of the bed so as not to awaken Kendis, Declan pulled on his boxers and knelt beside the trousers, pulling out the phone. It was Anjli, but it had already gone to voicemail. Now awake, he pulled on his shirt and socks, hearing the faint ding of a message on his phone, informing him he had a new voicemail. Connecting to it, Declan sat on the floor of the bedroom for a long minute as he silently listened.

It was another minute before he disconnected the call and texted one simple line back.

On my way

This done, he looked back to Kendis, still asleep. He couldn’t wake her with this news; he’d explain later. And, pulling on his trousers, he made his way out of the bedroom carefully, closing the door silently behind him, gathering his discarded clothing, often entangled with items that had been discarded by Kendis and pulling them on as he paused by the front door.

There was a photo on the side cabinet, one of Kendis and Peter at some event. Maybe their wedding, or some kind of gala. They looked happy. Looking back up the stairs, Declan wondered what right he had to stop this, to end this happiness. Who could tell if Kendis wouldn’t change her mind? That she’d stay with Peter and class Declan as a simple one-night stand?

Shaking off the thought, Declan emerged from the house into the cool morning air. It was just gone six in the morning now; the street was still empty, the morning rush hour having not started yet in Putney. However, as he started down the path towards the street, an elderly woman was walking towards the house next door. She was small and frail, a mop of white hair under a scarf worn over a purple coat, and in her hand was both a bottle of milk and a newspaper. Declan assumed that she’d been to the corner shop early, perhaps to pick up supplies for her morning tea or coffee, and now she looked blearily up at Declan as he passed.

‘Morning Pete,’ she said before continuing with ‘ooh, sorry.’

‘I’m his cousin,’ Declan lied quickly with a smile. ‘Had a bit too much. Stayed the night.’ He didn’t stop, but carried on past her, hoping that she wasn’t so close to Kendis’ husband that she’d mention the strange man that came out of his house at six am. The woman seemed to accept this story, however, continuing into her house without a second glance. She didn’t watch Declan stand on the street, confused where his car was until seeing it a few yards away, realising that he must have driven back to Putney well over the legal limit.

He didn’t look back to her, either.

Which was a shame, as if he had, he might have looked up at the bedroom window, seeing Kendis Taylor, wrapped only in the duvet, staring down at him.

The drive from Putney to The Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel was just under ten miles, mainly along the Battersea Park Road, following the Thames eastwards through Battersea, Vauxhall and Kennington, circling the annoying roundabout that enclosed the Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre before heading north across Tower Bridge and connecting to Commercial Road. In a normal car, driving at rush hour, you could expect to do this in just under an hour; with the lights and siren on, Declan was there in twenty-five minutes.

Pulling up outside the main entrance with a squeal of braking tyres that most likely woke the whole neighbourhood, Declan ran from the Audi without locking it, sprinting towards the modern looking red brick and glass building, continuing through the glass doored main entrance, waving his warrant card at anyone who looked official.

‘Where’s the ICU?’ he yelled at practically everyone as he paused in the reception area, a wide expanse of glass and marble that, with its high glass ceiling, felt more like an airport terminal than a medical institution. And although many were confused by this strange, bedraggled man in half-dressed clothes, his shirt undone and his tie hanging loosely around his neck, eventually he was pointed down a corridor and towards some elevators, informed that here, the Intensive Care Unit was the Adult Critical Care Unit, and was on the fourth floor of the South Tower, which involved Declan crossing the Stepney Road and heading for a place known as Lift Core 5, whatever that meant.

Eventually finding it and taking the time to reassess himself while waiting for the elevator to reach the fourth floor, Declan tried his best to smooth down his ruffled brown hair while straightening his tie. But, as the doors opened, he put his sartorial needs aside and exited the elevator. Finding himself in a shared waiting area, he followed through a door to the right that led into a bridge corridor, the windows that showed the outside world ignored by Declan as he continued at speed through a set of double doors, now in a corridor with two options; one was to Ward 4E on the right, and on the opposite side, around a corner to the left was Ward 4F. Both were apparently ACCU wards. Luckily, there was a police officer, a young man no more than twenty standing guard at the junction.

‘Is he in here?’ Declan asked. The officer nodded. He didn’t have to ask who Declan meant; he wasn’t the first person to come running up and ask the same