They thought she was just another nurse.
Quiet, invisible, the kind of woman who faded into the background of a busy Newark hospital.
Commander Hayes didn’t even look at her twice when she changed his four bag.
But when six armed terrorists stormed St.
Michael’s Medical Center and took the entire trauma ward hostage, the Navy Seal watched in shock as the timid nurse became a ghost.
Silent, lethal, unstoppable.
By the time the FBI’s hostage rescue team breached the building, she had already neutralized all six hostiles alone with nothing but surgical tools and a past she swore she’d never returned to.
The rain hammered against the glass doors of St.
Michael’s Medical Center in Newark, New Jersey, like a thousand angry fists.
Inside the fourth floor trauma ward, the fluorescent lights buzzed with that headacheinducing flicker only night shift workers truly understand.
It was 2:47 a.m.on a Tuesday in November.
The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made the ambulance bay doors rattle in their frames.
Leticia Deika stood at the nursurse’s station, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the medication cart she was restocking.
She was 27 but looked older.
Exhaustion had carved shadows under her dark eyes.
Her scrubs hung loose on her small frame like a child playing dress up.
Her hands trembled slightly as she checked the morphine dosages for the third time.
Deika, for God’s sake, move faster.
The sharp voice of head nurse Barbara Jennings cut through the low murmur of the ward.
Barbara was 52, cynical, and moved with the efficiency of someone who had seen it all and liked none of it.
She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the newest addition to the nursing staff.
I don’t pay you to triplech checkck what the pharmacy already verified.
I pay you to get meds in patients and clear beds.
You’ve been here 3 weeks and you still move like you’re afraid the floor will bite you.
Leticia nodded, her face flushing crimson.
She didn’t argue.
She never argued.
Since arriving at St.
Michael’s, Leticia had been a ghost.
She ate lunch alone in her beat up Honda Civic in the parking garage.
She never joined the other nurses for drinks at Omali’s bar after shifts.
When trauma cases came in, car wrecks, stabbings, gunshot wounds, the gritty stuff.
Leticia always faded into the background, handling paperwork or stocking supplies, leaving the blood and chaos to the real nurses.
The general consensus among the staff was clear.
Leticia Deika was soft.
She belonged in a quiet pediatric clinic in the suburbs, not the inner city meat grinder of a level one trauma center in Newark.
Look at her, whispered Dr.
Julian Thorne to a resident near the Kurig coffee machine.
Thorne was the attending physician that night.
Arrogant, brilliant, John’s Hopkins educated, and possessed of a god complex that barely fit through the double doors.
He gestured with his Starbucks travel mug toward Leticia, who was struggling to unlock a supply cabinet with shaking hands.
She’s trembling.
Literally trembling.
If a real bleeder comes in tonight, she’ll faint.
Mark my words.
The resident, a cocky kid named Greg from NYU Medical, chuckled.
Maybe she’s just cold.
Dr.
Thorne.
She’s scared, Thorne said dismissively, stirring his coffee.
Some people have the stomach for this work and some don’t.
She’s prey.
In the wild, she’d be eaten in 5 minutes.
Leticia heard them.
She had ears like a bat, though she pretended not to.
She finally got the cabinet open, grabbed a box of gauze pads, and hurried toward bed four to dress a minor laceration on a construction worker’s hand.
As she worked, her hands did tremble slightly.
But if anyone had looked closely, really closely, they would have noticed something strange.
The tremble wasn’t fear.
It was restraint.
When the construction worker, a burly man named Mike, with a thick Brooklyn accent, Winster, she cleaned the wound with iodine.
Leticia’s voice changed.
It dropped an octave, becoming soothing, almost hypnotic.
Deep breath, Mike.
Look at the wall.
Count the tiles.
You’re okay.
I’ve got you.
Her movements, clumsy when she was being watched by Barbara, suddenly became fluid and precise.
She wrapped the bandage with a speed and symmetry that was almost mechanical, tight, efficient, perfect, militaryra field dressing.
Mike looked down at his hand, blinking in surprise.
Damn nurse, that was fast.
You done this before? Leticia blinked, seemingly snapping out of a trance.
She hunched her shoulders again, returning to the mousy rookie persona.
Oh, um, a little in nursing school.
Just practice.
She scured away before he could ask anything else.
Back at the nurses station, the radio crackled to life.
The static hiss signaled an incoming ambulance.
St.
Michael’s base.
This is medic 42.
We are inbound.
ETA 3 minutes.
We have a high value military transfer from Joint Base Maguire.
Male approximately 40 years old.
Critical condition.
Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen.
BP dropping.
This is a code black.
Repeat.
Code black.
Barbara rolled her eyes and keyed the mic.
Copy.
42.
Drop him in trauma bay 1.
Probably just another gang shooting from Irvington.
She looked at Leticia.
Dika, take Bay One.
Prep the crash cart and try not to let him vomit on you.
If he gets rowdy, call security.
Don’t try to be a hero.
Yes, ma’am.
Leticia said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
If only Barbara knew.
Heroism was the last thing on Leticia’s mind.
She just wanted to survive the shift without a panic attack.
But the universe, as it often does, had other plans.
The man in the ambulance wasn’t just another gang member.
And he wasn’t just critical.
He was dying.
And his arrival would crack open the carefully constructed shell Leticia Dika had built around herself.
Because the man on that stretcher knew her, or at least he knew who she used to be.
The sliding doors of the ambulance bay.
hissed open, letting in a gust of rain and the smell of wet asphalt and diesel exhaust.
The paramedics of Medic 42 didn’t just wheel the stretcher in.
They looked like they were fleeing a war zone.
Clear the way, one paramedic shouted, his face pale and slick with sweat.
We lost his pulse twice in the bird.
He’s coding again.
Dr.
Thorne stepped up, his ego swelling to fill the room.
I’ve got this.
Clear the way.
Get two large bore IVs in him.
Type and cross match for O negative stat.
Someone page the ore and tell them we’re coming in hot.
But it was the two men flanking the stretcher that made Leticia’s blood freeze in her veins.
They weren’t paramedics.
They were operators.
Black 5.
11 tactical pants under armor compression shirts.
Earpieces coiled down into their collars.
Glock 19s barely concealed under their jackets.
One of them, a bearded giant with a scar running down his neck like a lightning bolt, grabbed Dr.
Thorne’s scrub sleeve with a grip that could crush bone.
Doc, the man growled, his voice like gravel in a blender.
You listen to me real careful.
This is Commander Marcus Hayes, Navy Seal, Team Six.
You lose him, and there’s no hole deep enough on this planet for you to hide in.
Are we clear? Thorne yanked his arm away, his face flushing red.
Get these men out of my trauma bay.
I’m trying to save a life here.
Security.
Two hospital security guards, overweight, underpaid, undertrained, ushered the operators out into the hallway, but the tension remained thick enough to choke on.
On the table, Commander Marcus Breaker Hayes was fading fast.
The cardiac monitor screamed, a flat, dissonant tone that made everyone’s stomach drop.
“He’s coding.
” Nurse Camille screamed, her voice cracking.
“VIB, get the paddles.
” Charged to 200, Thorne yelled, grabbing the defibrillator paddles.
“Clear, thump, nothing.
” The flatline continued its death song.
“Charge to 300.
Clear, thump, still nothing.
Come on.
Damn it.
Thorne was sweating now.
His confident surgeon mask cracking like cheap plaster.
The damage was too extensive.
There was arterial spray hitting the floor tiles every time they did chest compressions.
Blood pulled under the table, spreading like a crimson lake.
Where’s the bleeder? I can’t see anything through this mess.
In the corner of Trauma Bay 1, unnoticed and invisible as always, Leticia Deika had slipped in.
She wasn’t supposed to be there.
She was supposed to be prepping the crash cart in the hallway, but she was watching the monitor and she was watching the blood flow.
She saw what Thorne missed.
The femoral artery ruptured hidden under the massive hematoma in Heser’s left thigh.
If someone didn’t clamp it in the next 90 seconds, Commander Hayes would bleed out on the table.
Leticia’s hands stopped trembling.
Her breathing slowed.
The noise of the trauma bay, the alarms, the shouting, the chaos faded into a distant hum.
She was back in Fallujah, back in the sand, back in the war.
And in war, hesitation kills.
Leticia moved.
She didn’t ask permission.
She didn’t announce herself.
She just moved fast, fluid, like a shadow cutting through smoke.
She shoved Dr.
Thorne aside with her shoulder, ignoring his startled yelp of protest.
She plunged her bare hand.
No gloves, no hesitation, directly into the gaping wound in Hayes’s thigh.
What the hell are you? Thorne started.
Vascular clamp.
Now, Leticia’s voice was different.
It wasn’t the timid whisper of the scared rookie nurse.
It was command, pure, cold, absolute.
Thorne froze, his mouth hanging open.
Clamp.
Now Leticia didn’t yell.
She didn’t need to.
The authority in her voice was like a physical force.
Camille, the senior traumus, reacted on instinct.
She slapped a vascular clamp into Leticia’s free hand.
Leticia’s fingers slick with blood.
Found the torn artery.
She clamped it.
The arterial spray stopped instantly.
Suture kit 320 proline curved needle.
Camille handed it over.
Her eyes wide with shock.
Leticia sutured the femoral artery in 90 seconds flat.
Her hands moved with mechanical precision.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Tie.
Cut.
Tie, cut.
Perfect surgical knots that would hold under pressure.
The cardiac monitor beeped.
Once, twice, a rhythm.
We have sinus rhythm.
Camille shouted.
BP is rising.
He’s stabilizing.
Leticia pulled her blood soaked hands out of the wound, stepped back, and walked out of the trauma bay without a word.
Dr.
The thorn stood there frozen staring at the monitor, then at his hands.
Then at the door where Leticia had disappeared.
What? He whispered.
What the hell just happened? Nobody answered because nobody knew.
Leticia locked herself in the women’s locker room.
Her hands were shaking again, not from fear, but from adrenaline crashing through her system like a freight train.
She turned on the sink and watched Commander Hayes’s blood swirl down the drain, dark and thick.
She looked up at the mirror.
The woman staring back at her wasn’t Leticia Deika, the timid nurse.
It was someone else.
Someone she thought she’d buried 3 years ago.
It was Angel.
The flashback hit her like a sledgehammer.
Falla, Iraq, 2017.
Leticia is kneeling in the sand, covered in blood that isn’t hers.
A young soldier, Private First Class Danny Rodriguez, 19 years old, from El Paso, Texas, is dying in her arms.
His femoral artery is severed.
There’s an IED crater 10 ft away, still smoking.
Gunfire echoes in the distance.
Screams in Arabic.
Angel, we need to move now.
Her commanding officer, Captain Reeves, is yelling.
“We’re sitting ducks out here.
He dies if I stop,” Leticia says, her voice cold as ice.
Her hands are inside Rodriguez’s thigh, clamping the artery with her fingers while she fumbles for her field suture kit.
“Angel, I said he dies if I stop.
” She finishes the suture.
Rodriguez’s pulse stabilizes.
She hauls him onto her back in a fireman’s carry and runs 50 yards across open ground while bullets kick up sand around her boots.
She gets him to the Humvey.
He lives.
Later, Captain Reeves puts her in for a Silver Star.
Later, she kills six insurgents with her M9 Beretta while performing CPR on a sergeant whose heart stopped from blood loss.
Later she earns the call sign angel because on the battlefield she decides who lives and who dies.
Leticia blinked.
She was back in the locker room.
Her reflections stared back at her holloweyed and haunted.
She dried her hands and walked back into the hallway.
The hospital was quiet again.
Routine.
But something was wrong.
Leticia could feel it.
A prickling sensation at the base of her skull.
The same feeling she used to get in Mosul right before an ambush.
Two men in black suits were standing near the ICU where Commander Hayes had been moved.
They weren’t the operators from earlier.
These men were different, cleaner, colder federal agents maybe or something worse.
One of them, a tall black man with a scar on his neck, saw Leticia and walked toward her.
“You the nurse who saved Commander Hayes?” he asked.
His voice was deep, measured.
Leticia lowered her eyes.
I just did my job.
The man studied her for a long moment.
His eyes were sharp, calculating.
What’s your name? Leticia.
Deer.
Deer.
He frowned.
Where do you serve? Leticia’s heart stopped.
I I don’t know what you cut the crap, nurse.
The man leaned in close.
Nobody, and I mean nobody, clamps and sutures a femoral artery in 90 seconds without advanced combat medical training.
So, I’ll ask you again.
Where did you serve? Leticia’s jaw tightened.
I’m just a nurse.
The man stared at her for another beat, then nodded slowly.
Aha.
Well, just a nurse.
The commander wants to thank you personally when he wakes up.
You saved his life.
He handed her a business card.
It was blank except for a phone number.
If you remember where you served, he said quietly.
Give me a call.
We could use someone like you.
He walked away.
Leticia looked at the card, then crumpled it and shoved it into her scrub pocket.
She didn’t want to be found.
She didn’t want to be angel again.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
You can’t bury the past.
It always comes back.
And tonight, it was coming back with a vengeance.
At 4:17 a.
m.
, the hospital’s main power grid flickered.
Once, twice.
Then the lights went out completely.
Emergency generators kicked in after 3 seconds of total darkness, bathing the hallways in dim red emergency lighting.
Alarms blared.
Patients stirred in their beds, confused and frightened.
“What the hell?” Barbara muttered, grabbing the phone at the nurse’s station.
“Maintenance? This is 4 north.
We just lost main power.
What’s going on down there? No answer.
” She tried again.
Maintenance.
Security.
Static.
Leticia felt the prickling sensation again, stronger this time.
Her instincts were screaming at her.
Something was very, very wrong.
Then she heard it.
Gunfire.
Three sharp cracks echoing up from the ground floor.
Then screaming.
Barbara dropped the phone.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Is that the elevator at the end of the hall dinged the doors slid open.
Six men stepped out.
They wore black tactical gear, balaclavas, and carried AR-15 rifles with suppressors.
They moved with fluid professional precision, stacked formation, weapons up, scanning for threats.
Terrorists or mercenaries.
Either way, they were here to kill.
The lead man raised his rifle and fired a three round burst into the ceiling.
Plaster and dust rained down.
Everybody on the ground now.
Nurses screamed.
Patients scrambled out of their beds.
Dr.
Thorne, who had been reviewing charts at the nurses station, froze like a deer in headlights.
I said, “Get down.
” The lead terrorist fired another burst.
This time into a computer monitor.
It exploded in a shower of sparks.
Everyone dropped to the floor.
Everyone except Leticia.
She was already moving.
While the terrorists attention was on the crowd, Leticia slipped backward into the supply closet.
Silent as a ghost, she pulled the door almost closed, leaving just a crack to see through.
Her heart was pounding, but her hands were steady now.
The fear was gone.
In its place was something cold and sharp, training.
She assessed the situation in seconds.
Six hostiles, AR-15s, likely fully automatic, body armor, comms in their ears, professional, coordinated.
This wasn’t a random attack.
This was a hit.
They were here for Commander Hayes.
The lead terrorist grabbed Dr.
Thorne by his scrubs and held him to his feet.
Where is he? Where’s the seal? Thorne stammered.
I I don’t know what you’re The terrorist slammed the butt of his rifle into Thorne’s stomach.
Thorne collapsed, gasping for air.
“I see you.
Room 12,” Barbara blurted out, her voice shaking.
“Please don’t hurt anyone.
He’s in ICU room 12.
” “Smart lady,” the lead terrorist gestured to two of his men.
“Ramirez, Chen, secure the target.
Kill him and anyone guarding him.
The rest of you, round up the hostages.
We’re on a clock.
Two terrorists peeled off toward the ICU.
Leticia’s mind raced.
Hayes was unconscious, defenseless.
The two operators who had brought him in were probably already dead.
If those terrorists reached him, he’d be executed in his hospital bed.
She had two choices.
Stay hidden.
stay safe.
Let them kill Hayes and probably everyone else when the FBI arrived or become Angel again.
Leticia closed her eyes.
She saw Danny Rodriguez’s face.
She saw Captain Reeves.
She saw all the soldiers she’d saved, all the ones she couldn’t.
She opened her eyes.
The choice was already made.
Leticia Deika, the timid nurse, died in that supply closet.
Angel was born again.
She scanned the shelves, scalpels, syringes, surgical scissors, a bottle of suinyl choline, a paralytic used for intubations, a bottle of potassium chloride, lethal in high doses.
She grabbed what she needed and slipped out of the closet, moving through the shadows like smoke.
The hunt had begun.
The two terrorists, Ramirez and Chen, moved down the ICU hallway in tactical formation.
Ramirez took point, his AR-15 sweeping left and right.
Chen covered the rear.
They didn’t see the shadow detach itself from the ceiling tiles above them.
Leticia had climbed into the drop ceiling through an access panel in the supply closet.
She moved silently across the metal framework, following the terrorists from above.
When they passed under her, she dropped.
She landed on Chen’s back, wrapping her legs around his torso and driving a scalpel into the gap between his helmet and body armor, the soft tissue at the base of his skull.
The blades severed his spinal cord.
He dropped like a puppet with cut strings, dead before he hit the floor.
Ramirez spun around, but Leticia was already moving.
She rolled off Chen’s body, grabbed his rifle, and fired a three- round burst into Ramirez’s knee.
He screamed and collapsed.
Leticia was on him in a second.
She ripped his rifle away and jammed a syringe into his neck.
Suxinyl choline.
His muscles seized.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.
He could only watch as Leticia leaned close and whispered, “You came to the wrong hospital.
She left him there paralyzed and suffocating and moved toward ICU room 12.
Commander Hayes was still unconscious, hooked up to monitors and four drips.
Leticia checked his vitals.
Stable.
She grabbed his chart and scribbled a quick note.
Stay down.
Play dead.
Trust me.
She heard footsteps.
The other four terrorists were coming.
Leticia grabbed Chen’s AR-15, checked the magazine, 23 rounds, and took position behind the nurse’s station.
The lead terrorists voice crackled over the radio.
Ramirez, chin, status.
Silence.
Ramirez, do you copy? More silence.
[Â __Â ] Something’s wrong.
All units, converge on ICU.
We have a hostel.
Leticia smiled.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Come and get me,” she whispered.
The four terrorists entered the ICU in a diamond formation, weapons raised.
They found Ramirez first, still paralyzed, his eyes wide with terror.
“What the hell?” Leticia opened fire.
She didn’t spray and pray.
She fired controlled bursts, two rounds per target, center mass.
One terrorist dropped immediately.
The other three scattered, taking cover behind gurnies and medical equipment.
Contact.
We have contact.
Hostile is armed.
They returned fire.
Bullets chewed up the nurse’s station, sending splinters of wood and plastic flying.
Leticia stayed low, counting rounds.
12, 15, 18.
They were wasting ammo, firing blind.
She waited for the pause, the moment when they had to reload.
There, Leticia popped up and fired.
Another terrorist went down, clutching his throat.
Two left.
The lead terrorist pulled a flashbang from his vest.
Frag out.
The grenade skittered across the floor.
Leticia didn’t run.
She grabbed a crash cart, a heavy steel cart loaded with medical equipment, and shoved it over the grenade.
Bang! The explosion was muffled by the cart, but the concussion still rattled Leticia’s teeth.
Her ears rang, her vision swam, but she didn’t stop.
She rolled to the side, came up firing, and put two rounds into the lead terrorist’s chest.
His body armor stopped the bullets, but the impact knocked him backward.
One left.
The last terrorist panicked.
He dropped his rifle and pulled a pistol, firing wildly.
Leticia didn’t flinch.
She walked toward him, calm and cold, firing with surgical precision.
Click.
Her rifle was empty.
The terrorist grinned.
Got you now, [Â __Â ] Leticia dropped the rifle and pulled a syringe from her pocket.
Potassium chloride.
The terrorist fired.
Leticia twisted, letting the bullet graze her shoulder.
Pain flared, but she ignored it.
She closed the distance in two steps and jammed the syringe into his neck, depressing the plunger.
Potassium chloride floods the heart.
Cardiac arrest in seconds.
The terrorists eyes went wide.
He clutched his chest, gasping and collapsed.
Leticia stood over him, breathing hard, blood dripping from her shoulder.
Silence.
Six terrorists.
Six bodies.
She looked at her hands.
They were covered in blood again.
Behind her, Commander Hayes’s eyes fluttered open.
He looked at Leticia, really looked at her, and his eyes widened in recognition.
“Angel?” he whispered, his voice.
“Is that is that really you?” Leticia didn’t answer.
Because outside she could hear sirens.
The FBI’s hostage rescue team was arriving, but the battle was already over.
The FBI’s hostage rescue team breached St.
Michael’s Medical Center at 5:03 a.
m.
, 46 minutes after the terrorists had entered the building.
They found six dead hostiles, zero dead hostages, and one very confused hospital staff.
And they found Leticia Deika sitting on the floor of the ICU, her back against the wall, her shoulder bandaged with gauze and surgical tape.
She was staring at nothing, her eyes hollow.
Commander Hayes was awake now, sitting up in his hospital bed despite the protests of the nurses.
When the FBI agents entered, he pointed at Leticia.
“That woman,” Hayes said, his voice strong despite his injuries, “saved my life twice.
And she took out six armed hostiles by herself.
You want to know who she is? She’s a godamn hero.
” The lead FBI agent, a stern woman named Agent Carver, looked at Leticia.
Is that true, Ms.
Deika? Leticia didn’t answer.
Agent Carver crouched down in front of her.
Ms.
Deika, I need you to answer some questions.
How did you? She’s Angel.
The voice came from the doorway.
It was the scarred operator from earlier, the one who had given Leticia the business card.
He walked into the room holding up a tablet.
Leticia deer, former 68W combat medic specialist, US Army, three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Silver star recipient.
Call sign.
Angel.
She was discharged in 2020 with PTSD and disappeared until tonight.
Agent Carver stood up.
Is this true? Leticia finally looked up.
Her eyes were tired, but there was steel in them now.
Yes.
Why didn’t you tell anyone? Because I didn’t want to be found.
Agent Carver studied her for a long moment.
Then nodded.
Well, Miss Deika, you just saved 43 lives tonight.
The terrorists were planning to execute everyone in this hospital and blow the building.
You stopped them.
Leticia didn’t feel like a hero.
She felt exhausted.
Dr.
Thorne appeared in the doorway, his face pale.
He looked at Leticia, then at the bodies being carried out in black bags.
I He stammered.
I owe you an apology.
I called you weak.
I called you incompetent.
I was wrong.
Leticia stood up, wincing as pain flared in her shoulder.
She walked past Thorne without a word.
Barbara, the head nurse, was waiting in the hallway.
Her eyes were red from crying.
“Latica, I I’m so sorry.
I treated you terribly.
” “I didn’t know.
You didn’t need to know,” Leticia said quietly.
“You just needed to treat me with respect.
” She walked away.
Outside, the sun was rising over Newark.
The rain had stopped.
The parking lot was filled with police cars, ambulances, and news vans.
Leticia sat on the curb watching the chaos.
Commander Hayes limped out of the hospital on crutches, flanked by the two operators.
He sat down next to Leticia.
“You saved my life,” Hayes said.
“Again.
” “Just doing my job,” Leticia replied.
“Bullshit.
” Hayes smiled.
“You’re a warrior, angel.
You always were.
Leticia looked at him.
I’m not angel anymore.
I’m just a nurse.
Hayes shook his head.
You can’t bury who you are, Leticia.
Tonight proved that.
The question is, what are you going to do now? Leticia didn’t answer because she didn’t know.
3 days later, Leticia returned to St.
Michaels for her shift.
She expected whispers, stares, maybe even fear.
Instead, she found respect.
Dr.
Thorne nodded to her in the hallway.
Barbara offered her a coffee.
The other nurses smiled.
And in the breakroom, someone had taped a photo to the wall.
A blurry security camera image of Leticia standing in the ICU holding a rifle surrounded by smoke.
Underneath, someone had written in Sharpie, “Angel.
” Leticia stared at the photo for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
Maybe she couldn’t bury the past.
Maybe she didn’t need to because the world needed heroes.
And sometimes heroes looked like quiet, invisible nurses who trembled when they changed four bags.
Until the moment they didn’t.
Commander Hayes had left her a voicemail that morning.
Angel, we’re forming a new task force.
Medical and tactical.
Off the books.
No red tape.
Just the mission.
If you’re interested, call me.
Leticia listened to the message three times.
Then she deleted it.
Or did she? Two weeks later, Leticia Deika resigned from St.
Michael’s Medical Center.
She left no forwarding address.
Some say she went back to the military.
Some say she disappeared again, but if you ask Commander Hayes, he’ll just smile and say, “Angels don’t retire.
They just wait for the next person who needs saving.
” And somewhere in a hospital or a battlefield or a dark alley where evil thinks it can win, Leticia Deika is waiting because she’s not just a nurse, she’s angel and she decides who lives and who dies.
case.
