Nika sat by 47's hospital bed and waited patiently for him to wake up. The doctors had assured her that he would be fine. 47 was a man at the peak of physical conditioning, now that the chips of bone from the shoulder wound were no longer poisoning his system he would recover quickly.
47 was always three or four steps ahead, his planning meticulous. So now it was up to her to think like him. Not the killing people part, she didn't think she would ever get used to that, but the cool, calm planning part. She could do that.
Once Whittier had come to her, Nika deliberately ordered her thinking. 47's suitcase, and the black bag that she had taken from the Audi were beside her. The doubled-up bin bag with the waste from her efforts to remove the bullets, and the bullets themselves she had disposed of in the waste bin of an open sanitary station as she passed on her way to see 47 after surgery.
Whittier had come through for them. She had sensed Jenkins' resistance to Whittier's help, but the man had said nothing. Nika refused to believe that Whittier did not understand, at least in part, about 47. So she made sure that the man knew. Even if it was only a very little, what 47 had told her about himself and his start in life.
This was war, information was her weapon, and she would not hesitate to use it. "What kind of place gives children numbers instead of names?" Aim, fire, bulls'eye. Whittier's eyes widened, and he looked confused. Then the enormity of what she was saying hit home.
She sat next to the bed and reached for 47's hand, gently stroking the inside of his wrist. "His name is 47."
She felt she was starting to think like her assassin. In the same way he had not hesitated to use the contents of a file with Agent Smith in the café and the agent's fear of being caught out, she was not hesitating to use Whittier's empathy to achieve her goal.
She could never be as calm as 47, but she could be more methodical and orderly for him. Perhaps if she was calmer and more ordered they could be together. 47 had shown her more kindness than anyone in her life before. He was her salvation, and she wanted to be his.
Even now she was uncertain of Whittier and Jenkins. She knew that Whittier would not betray them because he could be implicated, but something was not right.
47 would need his weapons. She made sure that they were alone, and settled down to open the case. She smiled as she ran her fingers over the ribbed surface, remembering the article about penguins, and a conversation about advertisements, and his response to her humor.
The interior contained a pair of large handguns and spare ammunition clips, and a rifle. She left the rifle. There was no way of hiding it.
She looked at the handguns, and the spare ammunition clips, two things that looked like pipes which she assumed went with the handguns in some way, looked down at her dress. Red silk, soft, flowing, not tight and clinging.
She swiftly hid the handguns, the pipes and clips under 47's pillows, dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead and went in search of tape and bandages.
Fifteen minutes and Nika had some sort of secure hiding place for the guns and the clips beneath her dress, it wasn't particularly comfortable, but they were well concealed. She had also found some needle and thread packs. The bag had a zip off pouch that could just about pass for a woman's handbag, so she zipped it off, slung the strap across her body and filled it with a few innocuous things such as the money she had found in 47's pants' pocket, an artfully concealed credit card in the name of Johnson and an American driver's license in the same name.
She had barely re-settled, checking on 47, when Whittier reappeared. He was with a small, puffed-up, weasely little man whose beady restless brown eyes swept over her figure in a way that Nika didn't like.
"Richard Johnson, you are under arrest…" The pompous little man announced in a smug tone of voice, and proceeded to list a series of crimes that Nika was certain that 47 had not and would not have committed. He then ordered Whittier to handcuff the suspect.
Mike stepped forward, fitted the cuffs around 47's wrists, and used a second pair to attach the unconscious man to the bed frame by his undamaged wrist. Only the misery in his eyes kept Nika from attacking him.
There were two goons with them who searched 47 even though it was perfectly plain he was unconscious. One took the bag and the suitcase while the other moved towards Nika.
Aware that if he was to touch her, he would find the guns, Nika backed away and slapped his hand hard when he reached for her.
"Niet." She snapped. The ferrety little man gave her the look that Nika had been recognizing since she was 14 years old. She pulled a face and gave him the finger.
"Get her out of here." He snapped.
"I'm staying." She gave him her sourest look. "If they take one step near me, I will scream loud enough to bring the entire staff running." She was on a roll now, "I scream rape… and who do you think the staff will believe. A woman caring for her sick boyfriend, or the inhumane monster who put handcuffs on an unconscious, injured man?"
He scowled darkly, no doubt about to have her dragged out in handcuffs too, but Whittier chose that moment to pull the man aside.
She didn't know what was said, she didn't care, but the pompous ass threw her a filthy look as Whittier ushered him out of the door. They were alone again, but for how long Nika had no idea.
She bent over 47, gently patted his cheek. "We have to get out of here." She kept patting his cheeks, rubbing his hand, eventually he opened his eyes.
47 was drowsy and sore, but he caught on almost at once. There were always plenty of objects with which to pick a lock in a hospital room. Nika watched him calmly pick the handcuffs with the iv needle he drew out of his arm.
The case and the bag were gone, but his dress pants were still in the locker, the scrub top he was wearing would almost pass for a tee shirt. She handed over his weapons. She could see the light of a new respect in his eyes, and that gave her a warm feeling.
He smiled. A rare warm thing, suddenly he seemed younger, more free and that heartened her. Perhaps this would work out alright.
"Now we leave." His voice quiet, flat tones, but there was a note of something else that Nika hadn't really heard before. The possessive tone in the word we.