The lobby is a whirlwind of activity. Veronica, her usual composure shattered, barks orders at the shaken staff. Hotel guests, a mixture of frightened and curious, cluster at the periphery of the scene. Paramedics burst through the entrance, their professional demeanor at odds with the chaos.
I'm shoved aside, my own needs forgotten in the rush to reach Brock. They lay him down on a makeshift gurney in the manager's office, cutting away at his bloodied shirt with urgent motions. I try to push forward, to be by his side, but the gruff security chief holds me back.
"Ma'am," he says, not unkindly, "you need to let them work. We'll let you in as soon as possible."
Tears blur my vision as I watch them tending to Brock, the bloody bandages and medical jargon twisting a painful knot in my stomach. A thousand questions swirl in my head: How bad is it? Will he be okay? And who keeps doing this to us?
Just when I feel the desperation completely overwhelm me, a hand rests gently on my shoulder. I turn to see Veronica, her face softened by genuine concern. "Mrs. Summers," she starts, "is there anyone you can call? Family? A friend back home?"
Numbly, I nod. "A friend. He's... he's Chief of Police."
Hope flickers in Veronica's eyes. "Good. Call him. And tell him to contact the Embassy. They can help… provide protection."
The phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Gray's number. My voice, raw with emotion, stumbles over the explanation of what's happened. Gray is silent for a moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Then, his voice takes on its familiar tone of calm resolve.
"Trice, listen to me. I'm sending someone. He's…discreet…can handle things without drawing too much attention. Be ready to give him all the details."
I barely manage a choked "Thank you" before the call ends. A strange mix of relief and trepidation fills me. Help is on the way, but what form might that help take?
It wasn’t but fifteen minutes later, when in the midst of this turmoil, a new figure enters the lobby. He's unassuming, medium-height, brown eyes scanning the room with a practiced efficiency. He moves through the throng of people with a quiet purpose that draws my attention. Then, his gaze locks on me.
"Patrice Summers?" the man asks, his voice low and steady.
I nod, unable to speak.
"My name is Emmanuel. Gray sent me."
That was fast.
The next few hours bleed together in a surreal blur. Brock is rushed to the hospital, the sirens a mournful wail fading into the bustling Athenian streets. I accompany him in the back of the ambulance, his hand weakly gripping mine. The doctors speak a mix of Greek and heavily accented English, their words more focused on medical jargon than reassurance.
Emmanuel arrives at the hospital, a quiet shadow of efficiency. He speaks with the doctors, translates their updates, navigates the labyrinthine hallways with unnerving familiarity. In him, I find an uncanny sense of stability amidst the storm.
"I live in Athens," he explains later with a slight accent, his voice a steady hum in the sterile hospital waiting room. "Gray trusts me. And I trust him. His judgment is sound."
The Embassy, alerted by Veronica and Gray, sends a representative. Her name is Sarah, crisp professionalism barely masking the unease beneath the surface. She's sympathetic but clearly overwhelmed by the situation. Forms are filled out, statements are given, and promises of protection ring hollow in the face of the very real danger that has followed us across the world.
Brock's surgery is long, the waiting an excruciating exercise in helplessness and fear. When the surgeon finally emerges, her expression is drawn but there's a flicker of relief behind her weariness. "He will recover," she assures us, "the wound wasn't as deep as we feared, but it was dangerously close to his heart."
"Thank you," I manage to say.
Exhaustion washes over me in a wave, pushing back the panic for a moment. Brock will be okay. That is our small victory amidst this swirling nightmare.
***
A few days later Brock is released from the hospital. The embassy arranges for temporary accommodations at a secure hotel, but the atmosphere hangs heavy with a sense of being trapped. Emmanuel, however, becomes a lifeline. He procures groceries, provides updates, and most importantly, begins his investigation.
"It's not random," he declares one evening, having spread various maps and notes over a small table in our cramped quarters. "your hotel room, the botanical gardens, Parthenon…they targeted places where you were vulnerable, less likely to have immediate help." His finger traces a route on the map, circling back to our original hotel.
I feel a chill run down my spine. "So…they've been watching us this whole time?"
Emmanuel nods grimly. "That's how they knew where to find you. Someone's been tailing you, feeding information."
We spend the rest of the evening poring over details, my mind reeling. The idyllic Greek getaway has transformed into a chessboard where we are the hunted pawns. Emmanuel's quiet presence and methodical approach offer a semblance of control within a situation spiraling further from our grasp.
As the days turn into an agonizing week, Brock slowly recovers his strength. We were supposed to be leaving Greece the next day but now we are embroiled in a murder, attempted murder, and who knows what else. Emmanuel's investigation, however, yields frustratingly little. The attackers leave no clear trace, disappearing like ghosts into the labyrinthine city. He seems to be everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, questioning locals, blending into the shadows.
The embassy, initially supportive, grows increasingly impatient. Sarah pushes for us to return home, citing limited resources and escalating risk. Gray, through phone updates, remains steadfast that we stay put until we can identify the threat. It's a standoff between bureaucracy and desperate determination.
And so, we wait. Brock heals, Emmanuel investigates, and I try to cling to the fragments of normalcy in a world that suddenly feels hostile and foreign. Athens, once a beacon of history and beauty, has transformed into a menacing trap.
When will it end?
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