Code of Ethics (The Cost of Betrayal Collection)

By Lynette Eason

When Detective Isaac Martinez lands in the ER with a gunshot wound, he pulls through thanks to trauma surgeon Ruthie St. John. But as the witness to a crime and possible corruption, Martinez is at risk from someone intent on silencing him--and those around him--forever. When he barely survives another attack while recovering, both he and Ruthie must flee, trying to outrun deadly killers as they search for the evidence they need to end the danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Feb 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781493415410

Lynette Eason

Lynette Eason lives in Simpsonville, SC with her husband and two children. She is an award-winning, best-selling author who spends her days writing when she's not traveling around the country teaching at writing conferences. Lynette enjoys visits to the mountains, hanging out with family and brainstorming stories with her fellow writers. You can visit Lynette's website to find out more at www.lynetteeason.com or like her Facebook page at www.facebook.com/lynette.eason

Book preview

Honor

one

GET HIM TO SURGERY, ASAP! OR NUMBER FOUR.

Dr. Ruthie St. John followed the gurney down the hall to the elevator that would take them to the second floor. As a trauma surgeon in a busy city, she wasn’t often bored. This shift proved to be no different. Go, go! How’s his blood pressure?

Low, but he’s stable right this second. Bleeding is slowing.

Another team hurried past them with Dr. Hugh Stancil working on the woman in the gurney next to her patient. He glanced at her. I’ve got room four.

The elevator doors opened and she raised a brow. Not if I get there first.

The doors shut on his scowling features. Ruthie wasn’t worried. She knew room three was open and he would be directed there. Everyone just seemed to like room four. For her, it was because it was where she’d performed her first surgery. For Hugh, it was a matter of putting her in her place. Something she did her best not to let him get away with.

They continued to monitor the patient on the ride up. He blinked up at her. What happened?

You were shot.

Who are you?

Dr. Ruthie St. John. I’m going to take that bullet out of your shoulder.

I’m fine.

She patted his arm. You will be.

No, seriously, he slurred. I can’t . . . have to . . . people trying to kill . . .

Then the medicine took over and his eyes closed, shutting off whatever protest he was trying to form.

When the doors slid open, the surgical team met them and whisked him off to the operating room. Ruthie ripped off her gloves and tossed them in the biohazard bin. She nudged the faucet on and began to scrub in. Working quickly, she followed all procedures before entering the room where she’d do her best to repair his shoulder so he wouldn’t have any lingering aftereffects. Granted, he wasn’t knocking at death’s door, but bullet wounds were sneaky. What’s his story?

Police officer, she heard over the speaker. Isaac Martinez. A detective, actually. He responded to a domestic disturbance and caught a bullet for his trouble.

Ruthie wondered if her law enforcement family knew him. Did someone call the chief? she asked as she entered the OR, sterile hands held in front of her.

Don’t know. Her attending snapped the gloves over her hands.

Tabitha St. John, Ruthie’s mother and the Chief of Police for the city of Columbia, South Carolina. Any time there was an officer-involved shooting, the chief was informed. She’d probably show up at the hospital before they were out of surgery.

No matter. It wasn’t her problem. His wound was, and it was time to do her stuff. Is he under?

The anesthesiologist nodded.

Vitals?

Meg, the nurse on duty, called them out to her.

Ruthie inhaled the cleansing deep breath she always took and let it out slowly behind the mask. Then she picked up the small forceps tool that would allow her to extract the bullet. Let’s get this done. Working quickly, she established that the bullet was lodged in the space between the clavicle and the first rib.

Amazing.

She looked up at the nurse. I guess if you have to get shot in the shoulder, that’s the place to do it.

No messy bone fragments, Meg said.

Doesn’t appear to be. She removed the bullet and dropped it in the pan Meg offered to her. It would be turned over as evidence. Ruthie checked the surrounding tissues for any bone fragments or bleeding, then nodded to her resident. You can sew him up.

Isaac heard the voices, but for some reason he couldn’t force himself to respond. His eyes wouldn’t open, his limbs refused to move. And who’d set his shoulder on fire?

He had to focus, had to wake up. Or was he already awake? Or dreaming? But the voices sounded so real. And became clearer with each passing moment.

. . . very fortunate. The bullet didn’t hit any bones. I simply had to remove it, repair some damaged tissue as best I could, and stitch him up. He’s also on antibiotics to ward off infection. Fortunately, there’s no serious damage, but he’ll definitely need to take it easy while he heals.

Isaac liked her voice. It was soothing and warm. Smooth like silk, low but feminine. Professional, yet filled with compassion. He wished she’d keep talking.

Thank you.

Isaac stilled. He knew that second voice. It didn’t soothe him at all. His sister, Carol. Who’d called her? Why was she here? Well, okay, she was probably here because she’d heard he’d been shot, and she was on his emergency contact list. Right. But the fact that she’d bothered to come surprised him. No, the fact that her husband, Officer Brent Olsen, had let her come surprised him. Maybe Carol had grown a spine in the last few months since he’d seen her.

When can he go home? Carol asked.

We’ll observe him tonight, but I would say as long as he doesn’t start running a fever, he can go home tomorrow.

Okay, thanks. I’ll pass this on to my family.

Is there anyone who can stay with him? You?

Ah . . . no, probably not me. I doubt he would want me here. But our mother might come stay. She works the night shift at a twenty-four-hour pharmacy and was trying to get someone to cover for her. As of twenty minutes ago, she hadn’t left the pharmacy.

Isaac didn’t want his mother here. As much as he loved her, she would hover. He couldn’t take that right now. Just the thought of it sent dread shooting through him. Yeah, that wasn’t happening. He could take care of himself. Would insist on it. If he could get the words from his brain to his lips.

Footsteps faded, and the darkness pulled at him once more. He fought it. If he slept, he couldn’t fight back. He drifted anyway.

Ruthie dragged the pair of gloves from her hands and tossed them into the trash. She needed a vacation. Yesterday. She was supposed to be gone already.

Headed to her little cabin in the woods that was off the grid. No cell service, no internet, no . . . nothing. Just her and nature and a good book. She hadn’t decided if she was in the mood for a romance or a mystery, so she had packed both in the bag sitting in the back of her car. All ready and waiting. But the waiting was almost over.

She made her way to the private family room, where she found her mother with the detective’s sister. Hi, Chief St. John. Did you need a word with me?

Yes, please. Excuse me.

Carol nodded, and the chief followed Ruthie into the hall. How’s Detective Martinez doing?

He’ll be fine.

Good. Good. I’ll see him when he wakes. How are you? Ready for your vacation?

Trying to be.

Her mother hugged her. I’m so proud of you. You know that, right?

Even though I’m just a lowly surgeon and not on the streets fighting crime?

A laugh slipped from her mother. Even though, darling. She turned serious. You’re here to patch up the ones hurt by crime.

True.

All right. I’ll see you later. Have someone let me know when he wakes.

I will.

And enjoy that vacation. You’d better get out of this place while you can.

As soon as you say good-bye.

Good-bye. See you when you get back.

Ruthie watched her mother leave, then sighed as she snagged her wayward dark hair into a neater ponytail. She walked to the nearest nurses’ station and opened her laptop to enter her notes. Hospital life continued around her. Time passed.

Hey, Ruthie, how you doing?

Startled, she looked up to find her brother Derek leaning against the wall, arms crossed, lips twisted into what he probably thought passed for a smile. Hey, I’m fine. Just finishing up some notes. What are you up to?

Thought I’d just come by to see you. Say hi. He held up a green-and-white bag. Bring you some donuts.

Her mouth watered, but she wasn’t falling for it. Uh-huh. Spill it. What’s on your mind?

I can’t just come see my favorite sister?

A laugh burst from her before she could stop it. She snagged the bag and pulled out her favorite. Chocolate-covered with cream filling. Thanks for some post-op humor.

He raked a hand through his dark hair. Oh, all right. You know how you have that little cabin in the woods reserved?

She shot him a wary glance even as she relished the sweetness on her tongue. The one you told me about? The one I’ve been talking about for the past eight weeks, four days—she glanced at the clock—"six hours, ten minutes, and forty-two seconds? The one I’m getting ready to spend