The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  My eyes dart to the door that leads back into the classroom hallways and I wonder if Becca and Kelly are still here. If so, did they hear the gunshot? Will they come investigate?

  The gunman paces around as if trying to figure out what to do. I take a moment to study him, wondering if I’ll need to describe him to the police if he escapes. His complexion is dark, Hispanic perhaps, though he doesn’t speak with an accent. He’s young, maybe the same age as the kid he shot, and he’s got black hair. He’s tall and lanky. He doesn’t seem high, just mad. And a little scared.

  While he’s distracted, I pull out my phone to text my friends and warn them to stay put or exit out the back, but the phone is slapped out of my hand. It cracks as it hits the floor ten feet away.

  “Everyone gimmie your phones,” our captor says.

  The three other people in the room—a woman and two men—show varying degrees of compliance.

  The thin man looks like he wants to jump the guy with the gun. The black-haired woman puts a hand on his arm. “Do what he says. He’s already shot one of us.”

  The gunman runs his hands through his hair, pounding the weapon repeatedly against his head. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the thin man says, handing over his cell phone. “You’re going to get charged with a lot more than robbing that store.”

  “What store?” I ask.

  “Shettleman’s Grocery.”

  My hand covers my mouth, stifling my gasp as I picture the nice old couple who run the small corner store next to the school. “Oh my gosh, are they okay?”

  “Will the two of you shut up?” the gunman says. He looks down at the man he shot, who is screaming in pain. “And shut him up too. I need to think.” He points to me. “You were coming out of the school. How many ways in and out of here are there?”

  I gesture to the door at the rear of the administration office. “There are several emergency exits beyond that door, but they are locked from the outside.”

  Red and blue lights flash in front of the building. We are corralled into the back corner of the office, out of sight of the windows.

  The gun is pointed at the thin man. “You, go around the counter and barricade the front doors with that couch and chairs. Try anything, and I’ll shoot you too.”

  The man pales and does what he’s told.

  The kid with the gunshot wound is still screaming.

  “I told you to shut him the fuck up,” the gunman says to no one in particular.

  I look at all the blood on the floor. The woman with black hair is pressing her hands against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it’s not doing much good.

  I ask, “Does anyone here have medical training?” I get blank stares. “The blood is bright red. I think that’s bad. The bullet must have hit an artery.”

  “How do you know that shit?” the guy with the gun asks.

  “I, uh … watch a lot of TV.”

  The kid cries out again.

  “I can’t think with him screaming like that.” He walks over and kicks the kid’s leg, making him bellow even louder.

  I position myself between the gun and the injured kid. I feel the need to protect him. It wasn’t so long ago that he was a student. Maybe even in a school like this one.

  I take a deep breath and confront our assailant. “Did you kill anyone at Shettleman’s?”

  The guy looks pissed off. “I didn’t kill no one,” he says, patting a pocket in his coat. “I was just there for the cash. I ain’t no murderer.”

  I gesture to the kid on the floor. “Not yet, but if he dies, you will be.”

  He looks at the screaming kid and then at me. “Well why don’t you make it your job to make sure he don’t die?”

  “My job?”

  He points his gun to the door on my right. “What’s in there?”

  “It’s a storage room.”

  “Open it.”

  I step over and open the door. He keeps me in his peripheral vision as he pops his head in and looks around. “Perfect. No windows. Take him in there. That way I don’t have to hear him.”

  “Take him in there?” I ask.

  “Yeah, and you damn well better make sure he don’t die. If he does, there won’t be no reason to keep you or anyone else around. Got it?”

  “You want me to put him in a closet and try to help him? I’m not a doctor. I teach first grade.”

  “You knew about the blood,” he says. “You’re the best chance he’s got. Now get the fuck in the closet.” He turns to the thin man. “Move the kid inside.”

  The door to the back hallway opens, and Becca and Kelly walk in.

  “Run!” I scream.

  Horror crosses their faces as they see the blood on the floor, the barricade at the front door, and the man with the gun.

  Kelly, who is behind Becca, manages to turn around and run back into the hallway. She tries to grab Becca, but Becca is frozen in place and doesn’t move. The gunman hustles over and pulls her inside.

  “Becca!” Kelly screams from down the hall.

  “Sit your pretty ass down over there with the rest of them,” he says. He turns to the man who just put the kid in the storage room. “Find some shit to block off that door.”

  “Like what?” the man asks.

  “Teacher,” the gunman says to me. “Suggestions?”

  “Um … there are some desks in the storage closet. And boxes of paper—those are pretty heavy.”

  He waves the gun at the man doing all his heavy lifting. “Do it.”

  Becca tries to ask what’s going on, but he shuts her up. I stare at Becca. Becca stares at me. We’re both wondering how this is going to play out.

  When the gunman is busy making sure the door is securely blocked, the man who moved the stuff whispers to me, “I saw a box of phones in that room.”

  The kid moans in pain, drawing our assailant’s attention back to us. “What are you waiting for, teacher? Get in there.”

  I step inside the room, already feeling claustrophobic and wondering if this storage room will become my tomb.

  I look at Becca. Tears roll down her cheeks as the door closes. And then it’s quiet. The large storage room door muffles the sounds on the other side.

  The kid cries out again, reminding me I have an important job to do. I grab a few shirts from the lost and found box, drop to my knees, and press them to his wound. When he screams, I try to calm him. “I’m Emma. What’s your name?”

  “C-carter. Goddamn, it hurts.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. But we have to control the bleeding. How old are you, Carter?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “You look strong,” I tell him. “That’s good. Can you hold these on your leg while I look around for anything that can help us?”

  He puts a shaky hand on the blood-soaked shirts, not able to keep much pressure on it. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Hang in there, Carter.”

  I riffle through the boxes, looking for anything I can use, when I remember the man said he saw phones. If I can call 911, surely they will tell me how to help Carter. Maybe they can help all of us. But there may not be anywhere to plug a phone in, and even if there is, we’re stuck in a storage room. It’s not like I can stitch up his leg or remove a bullet with hole punches and staplers.

  “Here they are,” I say, finding the box.

  I move other boxes out of the way, examining the lower walls in my search for a phone jack. I find one behind the leg of a shelf. “Thank God,” I say.

  I pull out one of the phones, watching the door the entire time. What if the gunman opens the door and sees me with the phone? Will he shoot me?

  Knowing I don’t have a choice, I plug it in and pull out another shirt from the lost and found, figuring I can use it to camouflage the phone on the floor. Then I pick up the handset, never happier to hear a dial tone in all my twenty-seven years.

  Chapter Three

  Brett

  My
heart sinks as I listen to the voice over the loudspeaker, dispatching us to the elementary school for a shooting and hostage situation. I can’t help but think about Leo and how he will be going to that school in a few more years.

  Captain Dickerson, or J.D., as we call him, sees my concern as we race to our respective trucks. “School’s been out for a week, so more than likely there aren’t any kids involved.”

  I shake my head. “We can only hope.”

  I hop in the passenger seat of Squad 13. Justin Neal takes the wheel, and Cameron and Miles sit in the rear. We follow Engine 319 out of the firehouse and head down a few blocks and around the corner.

  Justin pulls up and waits for the police to direct him where to park. In situations like this, our rigs are often used to block traffic, create a perimeter, or get in the way of a potential escape route for the perps. Justin parks where they tell him, and we exit from the “safe” side of the truck, standing by to get our orders from the chief.

  On calls like this, it’s a lot of wait and see. Sometimes they are false alarms. But judging from the onslaught of NYPD vehicles and S.W.A.T. team trucks, I’m guessing this is the real deal.

  We stand behind our rigs, everyone from my company gathering together.

  “Anyone know what’s up?” Sebastian Briggs, the driver of 319, asks.

  Denver Andrews, who’s also on Engine 319, shouts to a policeman. “Jake. Hey, man. What’s going on?”

  Jake walks over. “Here’s what I know so far. We think the perp robbed the grocery store on the corner. Someone inside the store called the police, and before he could get away, we had two units en route. The robber must have heard the sirens and panicked, grabbing bystanders to give him cover, and then he ducked into the school, taking several people with him. A teacher ran out one of the fire exits. She said two of her friends are still inside, along with a few other people. She said there was a lot of blood on the floor. A gunshot was heard right before they disappeared into the school. We still aren’t sure if he’s working alone or if there is another perp with them.”

  “Shit,” Denver says. “So this is a real live hostage situation.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Jake says. His radio goes off. “My sergeant is calling. I’ll try to keep you updated.”

  Justin waves at our surroundings. “All this because some addict was probably seeking drug money.”

  J.D. looks more than a little concerned. “That’s the scary part. If this guy is whacked out on drugs, you never know what he might do.”

  We stand around and speculate about what could be happening, but whatever it is, it’s happening slowly. NYPD and the S.W.A.T. team have their protocols to follow. I suppose they are trying to get in touch with the gunman to see if they can get him to surrender.

  Chief Mitzell is being briefed by the police. He gets a call and heads over to our rig. He holds up his phone and motions to it. “Nine-one-one is being bombarded with calls right now, as you can imagine. Someone claiming to be inside the building needs immediate medical help. I’d like a paramedic to get on the line.”

  I step forward. “I’ll do it, Chief.”

  He hands me the phone. “I’ll have them transfer the call to your cell if you give them your number. After you handle the crisis, the police will need to talk to whoever is on the other end of the line.”

  “Understood,” I say before reciting my cell number into his phone.

  A few seconds later, my phone rings. It’s a 911 operator. She patches me through to the caller. I find a quieter place to talk. “This is Lt. Cash. I’m a paramedic. Someone needs medical attention?”

  “Oh, thank God,” a woman says in a hushed voice. “He’s been shot and has been losing blood. I’m putting pressure on the wound, but it won’t stop bleeding. He says he feels sick. The two of us have been locked in a storage closet. I don’t know why that guy is doing this, but he says he’ll kill me or the others if I don’t save Carter. He doesn’t know I have a phone. I found it in a box. I—”

  “Ma’am, slow down.” I motion for Denver to bring me something to write on and then I jot down the information I think is pertinent for the police. “What’s your name?”

  “Emma. Emma Lockhart.”

  “Okay, Emma. I’m Brett, and I’m going to do my best to help you and the gunshot victim. Is he awake and alert?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where has he been shot?”

  “In the leg.”

  “Above or below the knee?”

  “Above. There’s a lot of blood.”

  “Damn. The bullet might have nicked an artery. If it had torn right through, he might not still be alive. But since he’s still conscious, he might be bleeding out slowly. Can you take a picture of the wound and text it to me?”

  “Uh, no. I’m not on a cell phone. This is a landline. Like I said, we’re stuck in a storage room and everyone else is in the main office.”

  I jot down some notes as uniformed NYPD officers look over my shoulder.

  “How many perps?” one of them asks.

  I mute the phone. “Do you mind if I try to save this guy’s life first? The woman is already panicking. I can hear it in her voice.” I unmute. “Emma? If the gunman opens the door, put the phone down—wait, does it have a speaker?”

  “I, um, hold on. I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, listen to me, Emma. You have to stop the bleeding, or your patient is going to lose consciousness and bleed out.”

  “Oh, God. He’s going to kill us all if that happens. He said if Carter dies, it won’t matter if anyone else does too.”

  “We’re not going to let that happen. First, I need you to elevate the leg to slow the flow of blood. Can you do that?”

  “I did that already,” she says.

  “Good. That’s good thinking. Are you or Carter wearing a belt?”

  I hear her shuffling around. “No. No belt.”

  “Do you have rope or something else that can be used as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding?”

  It sounds like she’s riffling through boxes. “No, there’s nothing.” The panic in her voice is getting worse.

  “Emma, I know this is an impossible situation, but try to stay calm. We’re going to help Carter. You and me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you ask one of the people on the other side of the door for a belt?”

  “You want me to go out there?” she asks, her quiet voice rising in horror.

  “It may be the only way to save Carter.”

  “All right.” She takes a few deep breaths. “I keep thinking that Carter is someone’s son. He’s only nineteen. What if this had happened to Evelyn? I’d want someone to do everything they could to help her.”

  “Evelyn?”

  “My daughter.”

  “I think Evelyn has a very brave mother. I can tell that about you. Do you have a pen? I’d like you to write down my number in case we get cut off.”

  She laughs quietly. But it’s not a genuine laugh. How could it be? “Pens I have. About five boxes of them. Go ahead with your number.”

  After I give it to her, I ask, “Are you ready to open the door? You’ll need to put the phone down and cover it. But leave the line open so I can hear what’s going on.”

  “I’m putting it down now. Please don’t go anywhere.”

  “I’ll be here, Emma. Go ahead.”

  I hear her put the phone down and then I hear another voice. “You’re going out there? Are you crazy?”

  That must be Carter. At least he’s still talking.

  “I have to,” Emma says. “You’re losing too much blood.”

  “Be careful,” Carter tells her.

  I hear a knocking sound. “Hello?” Emma shouts. “Can you hear me? I need a few things in here.”

  She bangs on the door a few more times, and then I hear an angry voice. “I thought I told you to stay in here, you stupid bitch.”

  My heart sinks. What have I done to her?

  Chapter Four


  Emma

  Face to face with the gunman, my heart is beating out of my chest. He’s so close I can smell the rankness of his breath.

  “I know you told me to stay in here,” I say, “but you also told me to keep him alive. I need a few things to do that. He’s bleeding very badly.”

  He looks over his shoulder, presumably to make sure nobody is going to jump him from behind, but from what I can see, everyone is sitting in a corner, huddled together. Becca’s mascara is running down her face, and she’s holding hands with the other woman.

  Our annoyed captor glances at Carter, who’s still moaning. He pauses before giving me an answer. I wonder if he’s weighing his options. “What do you need?” he asks.

  “A belt,” I say. “A bottle of water, and some hand sanitizer.”

  He looks down at his own belt, but then shouts behind him, “You, Skeletor, take off your belt and slide it over here.” His attention turns to Becca. “You go through those bags and shit over there. Chicks always keep water and hand sanitizer in their purses.”

  Becca crawls across the floor to where he’s thrown our things. She scavenges them, holding up her bounty.

  The gunman looks at me impatiently. “Don’t just stand there, teacher. Go get them.”

  I walk over to Becca and grab a small bottle of sanitizer and two full water bottles.

  “Are you okay?” she whispers.

  “Hey, Goldilocks!” the guy shouts at her. “No fucking talking.”

  I nod at her, pick the belt up off the ground, and return to the storage room. But not before I look at the faces of the other hostages. I wish I knew their names so I could tell Brett. Then again, it’s probably better if their families don’t know what’s going on. They can remain blissfully unaware that their loved ones are sitting ducks, ten feet from the wrong end of a gun.

  My mother would be worried sick. I hope this isn’t all over the news. If they mention the name of the school, I’m sure twenty of her friends will call her to find out if I’m okay. And when she tries to call me and I don’t answer, she’ll know I’m not. Oh, God. To put her through this twice in one lifetime is more than any woman should have to face.