MONICA STARED AT THE SUPERSTRUCTURES of the medical center jutting up against the sky as if reaching for God to notice them. Castles with fountains, blooming flowers, and expertly maintained landscaping. Those in the business of healing weren’t the only ones who needed wisdom.
The limos waited to turn into the hospital entrance. A car with two FBI agents followed close behind, and four HPD motorcycles flanked them. Monica wore an earbud to remain in contact with Kord and Ali. The morning looked fresh and typical, obscuring the reality of why she carried a weapon.
Medical personnel of all nationalities hurried inside the hospital, some wearing white jackets and others in scrubs. Plain-clothed people made their entrance too, and they received Monica’s inspection. She scrutinized everyone. Those who donned sunglasses, were alone, or looked Middle Eastern or Hispanic took double notice.
With armed guards on every side of the limo, only an idiot would open fire. But a suicide bomber could step onto the scene and nothing would be left of the royal family and other innocent bystanders. The killer had already proven her daring. How soon before her successor took over?
The Mercedes limos parked in front of MD Anderson, and the prince exited in full Saudi dress. Kord had requested him to avoid the regalia, but the prince refused and wore his culture’s clothing as a symbol of pride —setting himself up as a target. As long as the pride didn’t get all of them killed. Prince Omar repeatedly put himself, his family, and those around him in danger. Monica couldn’t seem to wrap her head around that concept when it looked selfish. Self-sacrifice she understood.
Behind a fence of police officers, reporters snapped pics and shouted questions. She assumed they’d be missing out on the private, invitation-only press conference scheduled for later this afternoon.
Once inside the hospital, they waited for an elevator large enough to hold the entire group. She tapped her foot, watching. Always watching. Kord and Ali bored their gazes into every passerby.
“Miss Alden,” Prince Omar said, “would you pick up flowers for my mother? They’re at the Park Flower and Gift Shop. Ali arranged it, and his name is on the order.” Lines deepened across the prince’s forehead. His mother’s health must weigh heavily on his mind.
She breathed a silent prayer for him and his sisters. “Of course. Do you need anything else?”
“Not at this time.” Formal. Monotone.
“I’ll escort her,” Ali said. “It’s a large arrangement.”
No point in arguing. The elevator door opened and the group entered, except for Ali and Monica. They walked to the second floor of the main building.
“You look lovely,” Ali said.
She was wearing black pants, a high-necked blouse, and a black jacket. “Thank you.”
If Kord were in the elevator alone with Prince Omar, he’d sympathize with the prince’s apparent worry over his mother. Perhaps later when they were alone.
The elevator dinged at their floor. Prince Omar clenched his jaw, the anxiety of his mother’s deteriorating health combined with the crimes of late showing on his face.
“Fatima, can I use your phone?” Prince Omar said. “I left mine in the limo.” She handed him her phone. “I need to glue it to my clothes.” He laughed nervously.
“Amir, would you like me to retrieve it?” Wasi said.
“Yes.” The elevator door opened and Wasi remained.
Prince Omar’s forgetfulness of his phone had saved his life previously. Not a habit in the past, but his mother hadn’t been facing a terminal illness, and he didn’t have an assassin wanting him dead either.
Kord hated the emotional turmoil for his friend. Omar loved his family, while Kord grew up in a house that aligned with a sterile environment. No love. No hate. Tears forbidden. Laughter at a minimum. No praise. Overload on criticism. If Kord’s mother were the one suffering, he’d be grieving what he’d missed. Why think about it when he’d long since grown into a man?
Fate was such an unstable foe. And this wasn’t about him. Never was.
Dr. Carlson emerged from Princess Gharam’s room. He approached the group, his shoulders slightly slumped, and focused on the prince. “Good morning, Prince Omar. May I have a word with you?”
“Most assuredly.” He turned to Kord. “Would you join me?”
Wordlessly, the three men assumed a secluded seating area. Did the prince fear the worst?
“Prince Omar,” Dr. Carlson began, “unfortunately your mother is not responding to treatment. She’s weakening. I’m not confident of her ability to survive surgery on Monday.”
“How much does she know?” The prince’s expression was stoic as expected.
“I’ve told her the procedure has been postponed until she’s stronger. But she’s insistent upon it,” Dr. Carlson said. “She wants to speak to you. Per your instructions, she is not aware of the critical nature. I’ve canceled the surgery until her body can withstand the stress.”
“When do you think that will be?”
“Prince Omar, I’m afraid we’re at the point where all we can do is make her comfortable.”
“How long?”
“I don’t give time. I believe a patient chooses to surrender life.”
“Is pain medication being administered?”
“According to the nurses, she takes the meds when she knows you aren’t scheduled to visit. She wants to be awake when you and her daughters are there.”
“Thank you, Dr. Carlson. I will encourage her to fight and cooperate with the medical staff.”
“I’ll be in your mother’s room completing my examination.”
When the conversation ended and the doctor disappeared into Princess Gharam’s room, the prince inhaled deeply. “I’m not ready to tell my sisters unless they ask. Excuse me while I phone my father and report the doctor’s conclusion.”
Kord returned to the group until Prince Omar completed his call and walked back to those waiting. He offered a diplomatic smile.
“Wait here while I talk to my mother alone.” Prince Omar took the several feet to her room as though it were the last time he’d see her.