by CJ Lyons
Family was family, so Rossi had to put up with Patsy’s bullshit, but not Ryder. “Back up, give them room. Now!” he added when Patsy didn’t obey right away.
Patsy gave him the stink eye, but Eve, Rossi’s younger sister, pulled her mother back into the crowd. A second patrol car arrived, and Ryder handed over the job of crowd control to the uniforms. He returned to where the medics and Rossi were sliding Jacob Voorsanger onto a bright orange plastic backboard. The anguish on Rossi’s face said it all.
Maybe Ryder couldn’t help Jacob, but he could bring these bastards to justice. All he had to do was keep Littleton, his best lead, alive long enough to wring any info he could from the smug son of a bitch. Except, no way in hell would Manny bring Littleton in for questioning. The ADA didn’t have the balls to go up against Gena Kravitz and face a possible harassment suit.
Ryder pulled his phone free. Why not go straight to Kravitz herself? If Kravitz was involved with Manny, the defense attorney could request protection for her client directly from Manny with a better chance of succeeding than Ryder would ever have.
“Gena Kravitz.” She sounded distracted.
“Matthew Ryder here. Thought you might want to know your favorite rapist-gone-free is in danger. His so-called partners are going to do to him what they just did to Jacob Voorsanger if you don’t get Littleton off the streets and into protective custody.”
“Jacob?” Now he had her attention. “What happened?”
Ryder gave her a quick rundown of the events of the night, including Littleton’s involvement with the massacre at the school.
“My client is an innocent bystander,” came her reflex reply. “But I appreciate your warning, detective. I’ll discuss it with my client and Mr. Cruz.”
She hung up before Ryder could say anything more. He sighed, pocketed his phone, and jogged over to the ambulance as Jacob was being loaded. Nodded to Rossi. “I’ll be right behind you.” He slammed the door shut just as an alarm blared from one of the medical monitors.
As he pushed through the crowd to his car, he wondered if Devon Price didn’t have the right idea. Taking justice into his own hands, avoiding the pitfalls and games that came with playing inside the rules. If it got the job done and protected innocents like Jacob and Rossi, would that be such a bad thing?
* * *
Devon’s car was blocked in by the police and emergency vehicles, so he grabbed Ozzie and hustled the dog down back alleys to the nearest entrance to the tunnels, concealed beyond the loading doors inside the basement of a bakery owned by Kingston Enterprises. He could retrieve his car later. Faster and safer than using surface streets, he was growing fond of his new private form of transportation. Its advantages far outweighed the dark and the strange chemical smells.
Ozzie resisted, whining and sniffing the air before allowing Devon to lead him through the airtight metal door that resembled something you’d see on a bank vault or submarine. He flicked the light switch and newly installed energy-efficient LED bulbs illuminated the space. They stood at the top of two flights of metal stairs. At the bottom was another door, a twin to the one he’d just locked behind them.
As they walked down the steps, Ozzie’s claws making the only noise, he considered the beating Jacob had taken. It puzzled him.
There was no passion in it, unlike most street violence. It had been delivered with an almost clinical precision, inflicting maximum damage with the least amount of effort. Not brutal or vicious, instead…businesslike. Four men. That was a lot to put at risk simply to make a point to Angela, a witness who’d already testified.
And what was their point? If they’d wanted to demonstrate their power over the city, why not do to Angela what they’d done to Tymara? Now, that crime, while also efficient, staged for maximum shock value, had been brutal and vicious. Someone had not only taken their time with Tymara, they had enjoyed it.
The men who had attacked Jacob, there had been no joy there. Why? What did they want from Angela? They said she’d know when the time came.
They reached the door at the bottom. Devon had had the locks changed—employing a variety of locksmiths imported from around the tri-state region and paying them enough to ensure their silence—all coded to a master key.
He and the dog went through the door and into the tunnels, Ozzie’s nose raised as he sniffed the air. The tunnels weren’t the short, damp, claustrophobic stuff of horror films; they reminded Devon of shopping at a warehouse store. Maintenance scaffolding spider-webbed overhead, just below the pipes and the ceiling a good twenty-four feet above him. The lower level was divided into rooms, color-coded and separated by layers of airtight doors that created self-contained subdivisions, while the upper floor was storage.
He’d been exploring the tunnels for the past three weeks, but still hadn’t covered all the territory. They extended from the Kingston family’s brownstone on Millionaire’s Row, traveled beneath St. Tim’s and the Tower over to Good Sam’s, and south to the river, where there were cleverly disguised escape hatches and a water-purification center. Despite being built in the middle of the last century, the design was advanced, able to withstand a nuclear attack. Also, Daniel had added his own special touches, including stockpiles of food, weapons, medicine, and other supplies. As if preparing for war.
He led Ozzie through the maze, heading back to the brownstone. He’d leave the dog there, where he’d be safe, then start working his street connections. Someone had to know something about this damn Brotherhood.
Cell phones didn’t work in the tunnels, but as soon as they emerged, in the park across the street from the brownstone, he called Gena Kravitz. About time he got what he’d paid for: Eugene Littleton’s head on a platter.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The ambulance ride was an ER doctor’s worst nightmare. I was used to being the one giving the orders, but I’d trained these paramedics. They didn’t need orders from me.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, watching them take care of Jacob, realizing there was nothing I could do. Earlier that night, examining the kids, I’d felt almost normal, as if I was still a doctor, still had something to contribute. But now, bouncing in the back of the ambulance, watching others take care of a man I loved, I realized how empty my future had become.
The only thing I could do was hold Jacob’s hand. He somehow managed to remain conscious, clutching my fingers, squeezing them as if trying to get a message to me. With his jaw fracture and facial injuries, he couldn’t speak. He was lucky he was able to still breathe on his own. The overhead exam lights flashed off metal trauma shears as the medics efficiently stripped him naked, applied their monitors, started two IVs, one in each arm, and assessed his injuries.
During the intricate choreography, I had to let go of his hand twice. Each time he moaned and stretched his fingers, searching for me. Because the medics needed to monitor his airway, I sat at the foot of the cot, where he couldn’t see me. All we had was blind touch.
The ambulance made the final turn into Good Sam’s. Soon, we were rushing into the ER—my ER—with the trauma team ready and waiting. I knew everyone there, from the lab tech waiting to run the blood samples to the trauma surgeon in command. The only one who made eye contact as I was forced to release Jacob’s hand and was pushed away from him was Shari, one of the ER nurses who’d also worked the Advocacy Center with me.
“He’s in good hands,” she said in a soothing voice as she ushered me to the door of the trauma bay. It was a tone of voice I’d often used myself, designed to break through to minds numbed with shock.
I stood in the doorway, Jacob’s blood still wet on my hands, and watched. That’s where Ryder found me a few minutes later.
“How’s he doing?” He stood close enough that his body pressed against mine, offering comfort.
“His airway is swelling shut, so they’re getting ready to intubate. Then he’ll go to CAT scan, and once they have those, he’ll be in surgery, probably the rest of the night.” It helped to focu
s on the clinical details, even if they didn’t answer his question.
I kept my eye on the monitor as the anesthesiologist took control of Jacob’s airway. It was one of the most dangerous procedures we did in the ER, but also one of the most life saving. She did a good job, watching as the sedative took effect, using a bronchoscope, keeping his oxygen level out of the danger zone. Once the ventilator took over his breathing, his heart rate became less erratic.
As she repositioned the cervical collar around his neck, she glanced up. “Did someone try to start a central line through his jugular?”
“No,” the surgeon replied. “Subclavian. Got it first stick.”
“There’s a puncture wound on his neck. I think he was injected with something. They must have been in a hurry, because it’s left a hematoma.”
I left Ryder to move closer. He followed, peering over my shoulder.
“The men who may be responsible,” he said, using his professional tone, one that made me cringe because it cemented Jacob’s standing as a victim, “earlier tonight, used PXA to poison a group of people.”
I stepped back, one hand to my throat. PXA?
The anesthesiologist thought about that and nodded. “PXA would explain why I had to give him more sedation than I should have needed.”
“I’ll call the lab, add it to the tox screen,” Shari said. “CT’s waiting.”
“Let’s roll,” the trauma surgeon ordered, pushing the bed rail up. “We can sort this out upstairs.”
I barely heard their voices or noticed the flurry of movement as they escorted Jacob out the door. I stood frozen, Ryder’s words echoing in my mind, building to a thundering crescendo that blocked out everything else.
I finally forced my lips to move. “PXA?”
Ryder was looking at me, but I couldn’t meet his gaze. I glanced around the suddenly empty room, feeling trapped.
“You don’t look so good. Sit down.” He backed me up and settled me onto a stray examination stool. “You’re shaking. He’ll be okay, Rossi.”
“What happened?” I asked. “You said people were poisoned with PXA?”
He crouched beside me, holding both of my hands in his, rubbing them, sharing his warmth.
“Littleton led me to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at a school. He wanted me there. By the time I got inside, this woman, a pharmacist, looks like she poisoned everyone there with PXA. Or she might have been coerced by Littleton’s Brotherhood. We’re not sure yet. Told them she hated their faces. And they, they—” He broke off, swallowed hard.
“They tried to obey,” I whispered, remembering the pain, the mind-shredding agony that would make anyone do whatever it took to make it stop.
“While she watched. But then someone killed her. Left my card on her body.”
“What makes you think she poisoned them?” I asked. “What if she was the real victim, and they forced her to watch?” It would have been horrible to sit through, so much so that if it weren’t for Leo’s memories trapped in my brain, I wouldn’t be able to imagine it. That’s what Leo would have done. He would have chosen his intended victim and tormented them by keeping them helpless as everyone around them died.
From the grimace on Ryder’s face, he was thinking the same thing. Only, of course, he didn’t have the twisted memories of a serial killer floating like ghosts over his reality.
“We’re not sure yet which way it went down. But Littleton said they might be coming after you next.”
“Why Jacob? Was it because of what happened during the trial?” I finally found the courage to look up at him. “Or was it because of me?”
He wrapped his arms around me. “It’s not your fault. I’m going to get these guys, I promise, Rossi.”
A man cleared his throat behind Ryder. We broke apart. Devon stood in the doorway. “Not if I get to them first,” he said, meeting Ryder’s gaze with a nod that was as much a vow as it was an acknowledgment. “How’s Jacob?”
Shari came into the room, holding a lab slip. “I thought you should know, Dr. Rossi. The lab confirmed it. PXA in his system.”
I pushed to my feet, the world unsteady around me. “How much?” In small doses, PXA left the system within ten to twelve hours, a painful memory. But large doses overwhelmed the brain’s chemical balance, leaving the patient in a coma. One for which there was no cure.
Shari’s dismay broke through her professional calm. “Too much,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
She left. Devon stepped into the room, ignoring the blood and debris on the floor. “They overdosed Jacob with Death Head?” Anger lanced through his voice, sharp enough that I felt Ryder tense beside me. “It wasn’t enough they beat him to a pulp and made you watch, they had to—” He jerked, twisting back to the doorway as if ready to lash out at the next person he saw.
Then his shoulders slumped, and he turned back to me. He met my gaze, and I knew he’d also realized what this meant.
They’d done more than give Jacob a death sentence. PXA comas created the kind of brain waves my fatal insomnia responded to. Which meant even if Jacob made it out of the OR alive, I could never, ever touch him again.
I raised my bloody hands before my face. It was too much, the air in the room too heavy, even the light overhead felt sharp as knives. I broke, my sobs emerging in choked gasps that shook my entire body. Ryder gathered me into his arms.
“Let me take you home,” he said.
I pushed free, my breath ragged. “No.” The single syllable took all my energy. I grabbed on to both of Ryder’s hands, clinging to his strength. “No. You go. Find who did this,” I choked out. “Please.”
He stepped close, our joined hands raised, pressed between our bodies. He looked down at me for a long moment, holding my gaze, kissed my forehead tenderly. We separated.
Ryder stared at his empty hands, his jaw tight. Then he looked up to meet Devon’s eyes. “See her home safe.”
Devon jerked his chin. “I will.”
Reluctantly, I stepped away from Ryder and went with Devon.
As we stumbled out, the red lights of the Emergency sign coloring our path to Devon’s car, I looked back but couldn’t make out anything through the tears blinding me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ryder stared at the empty doorway where Rossi had stood. Usually when he was on the job, he could compartmentalize, force any random emotions behind locked doors so they wouldn’t distract him. Usually. Before he’d met Rossi.
Now he stood, staring like an idiot, not even sure which emotions held him captive. Anger at the animals who’d dared to attack someone he held dear. Frustration he hadn’t gotten there sooner. Fear that someday he might get there too late to save her.
He rubbed the newly formed scar on his side. She’d risked her life for him. She’d killed a man for him. Hell with feelings. He had a job to do. A promise to keep. For Rossi.
He stepped toward the door, but a woman rushed in, breathless. Louise Mehta, Rossi’s best friend, neurologist, and Ryder’s confidential informant when it came to all things related to fatal insomnia.
She pulled up short, her heels skidding on the linoleum. Her white lab coat was pristine, covering a colorful dress that hinted of springtime even though it was three days before Christmas.
“Matthew.” She glanced around the empty room. “I was called—another PXA overdose?”
“Jacob Voorsanger. Some guys beat him then injected him with PXA. He’s with the surgeons now.”
Her face crumpled with dismay. “Jacob? Oh no. Does Angie know?”
“She just left. They made her watch, Louise. I got there too late to stop it. Or catch them. The bastards are still out there.”
“You think it’s the same people behind the poisoning at the school?”
“Isn’t it?”
She took a sheaf of papers from her coat pocket. “Maybe not. I just consulted on two survivors from the school—”
“How are they? Are they going to make it?”
“Si
nce the overdoses last month, I’ve been working on a possible treatment. It’s too soon to say if it will work.”
“You’ll try your treatment on Jacob?” he asked.
“Yes. They can start it while he’s in surgery.”
“How long will it be before you know if it works?” It would be great to be able to give Rossi some good news.
“I’m not sure. Every patient responds to PXA differently. There are just too many variables. Especially in the victims from the school.”
Ryder did a double take. “Why?”
“They weren’t solely dosed with PXA. According to their toxicology results, they were given a cocktail of PXA, Rohypnol, and scopolamine.”
“PXA plus a date-rape drug? What’s the last one?”
“Scopolamine. Used for motion sickness but actually quite dangerous. In South America, it’s known as the zombie-maker. It can be administered by touch, orally, even by blowing the concentrated powder form into a person’s face as they breathe in.”
“The perfect storm if you want to convince a room full of people to tear their own faces off.” Made sense. Their presumed poisoner, Wysycki—the woman who’d been executed after serving as the Brotherhood’s proxy—was a pharmacy assistant. The attack tonight, timed to coincide with Littleton’s release, had obviously been a long time in its planning. “Was that what they injected Jacob with? This zombie mix?”
“No. He was given pure PXA.”
“That’s good news, right? Means your treatment should have a better chance of working?”
She grimaced, gave a sad shake of her head. “In lower doses, maybe. But at the dose he was given—I can’t make any promises. Angie really should be here when he gets out of surgery. Spend whatever time she can with him. In case…”
He blew out his breath. “I’ll let her know.”
“How’s she doing?”
