by CJ Lyons
“What the hell, Harris?” a man with a South African accent said. There was the sound of stomping feet, more men following him in. “Thought this was meant to be a soft extraction. Now suddenly, we’ve a trail of bodies?”
“Couldn’t be helped. My cover was blown. This idiot somehow got through to the DEA.”
“Actually, it was my secretary,” Tillman said, his tone distant. In shock. “Her son works—”
“Shut it.” Harris didn’t sound upset; he sounded revved up, as if killing three men in cold blood had given him a rush. “You three, get in there and change into the guard uniforms. There’s a group of staff and patients being sent to the auditorium; I want them contained there.”
“What about the rest of the hospital? We can’t have people wandering around while we search for Fiore.” The South African seemed as interested as thwarting Harris’s plans as helping him—a rival, perhaps?
“Your team will start from the top and seal all the exits, lock down the elevators. Then once we have all the civilians contained, we’ll start our search.”
“And what about our escape?” the South African persisted. “There’s snow drifts four, six feet high already. Only way we’re going anywhere is in a snowplow.”
“Don’t suppose you have one, Mr. Tillman?” Harris’s voice sounded jocular.
“No,” Tillman replied. “We contract out—”
“No matter. Bring the rest of the gear in from the trucks, then move them into the ambulance bay. Yarborough, you get sentry duty. No one gets in or out. Station yourself where you have a view of the road—when a plow comes along, grab it. In the meantime, if we’re not going anywhere, then neither is anyone coming here. This storm is the best thing that could have happened to us. Now we’ve all the time in the world to hunt for Lydia Fiore.”
Gina risked edging a glance out from between the steering wheel and the dash. She counted six men plus Tillman and Harris. Who knew how many more there might be?
Even more frightening were the machine guns the men carried. They obviously had no intention of trying to continue any kind of subterfuge. They were dressed for war.
“Let’s get this place locked down,” Harris said. He was pacing and turned abruptly toward the car. Gina ducked back down, biting her lip. “Begin with killing the cell phones and Internet. Then we start hunting Fiore. Remember, no one touches her until we find out where she’s hidden the evidence.”
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” a third man’s voice came, sounding young and cocky.
The smack of flesh against flesh cracked through the air. Gina flinched and buried her face deeper into the seat cushion.
“Don’t give me lip. If Mr. Black goes down, it’s the needle for all of us. Which means you need to consider this your life’s work. As in life or death. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Same man, much less cocky now.
“Okay, get started.” Harris paced close to the BMW, close enough that Gina could see him raise a cell phone to his ear. “You made it to Fiore’s? Has she shown yet?”
Trying to blend into the car’s interior, Gina froze as Harris leaned against the driver’s-side fender, idly observing the damage done to the wall. All he had to do was turn his head the slightest bit and he’d have a direct view inside the car.
Gina’s pulse pounded louder than the bass beat at a rave. Sweat soaked her turtleneck, leaving her shivering as the cold air lapped it up. Her vision blackened from holding her breath for too long. She risked an inhalation, working hard to breathe in deep but silently.
Harris rapped his knuckles against the car hood as he listened. Finally, he nodded and pulled the phone away as he addressed the men. “What are you waiting for? You know the plan. Anyone gives you any trouble, kill them.”
He took a step away from the car and Gina relaxed.
Then he returned to his phone conversation, spinning around to lean his elbows on the car hood, idly tracing patterns in the shattered glass. Gina squeezed her eyes shut, certain that if she even blinked too loud he’d find her.
“She’s on the ER work schedule and I’ve been told she’s with a patient, but we haven’t found her yet,” he said. “I’ve been forced to implement Plan B. I don’t know, maybe a hundred or so patients and staff. The CEO said they’ve got a low census because of New Year’s. No problem, we can handle them. Don’t worry. No evidence will be left behind. When we’re done, this place will be ashes and dust.”
15
Nora was on her way back to the auditorium with the cart of splinting supplies when her cell rang. It was Seth. A thrill of anxiety shot through her—was he okay? She’d been meaning to call him, hated breaking the news that she was trapped here for the duration of the storm.
“Are you okay?” he said when she answered, his voice tight with worry. “Where are you?”
“I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. You wouldn’t believe the night we’ve had. The power’s out so we’re on backup, a car plowed through the ER, I’m moving all the patients to the auditorium and that means moving supplies and equipment—”
“I was worried you were stuck somewhere in a snowbank.”
“No. But I’m stuck here—probably at least for the night. Tillman canceled the second shift because of the storm.”
“Yeah, they declared a state of emergency, said no one was allowed on the roads.” He sighed. “They’ve even closed all the bars and restaurants, canceled the New Year’s Eve celebrations.”
“Well, you know my bad luck with New Year’s.” Nora tried to make a joke of it. “They’ll probably name the blizzard after me.”
“I was planning on changing your bad impression of New Year’s.” Seth’s voice dropped into the ruggedly sexy range. “I have French champagne, strawberries, caviar, French chocolate—”
“And no doubt, that French maid outfit you’re always fantasizing about,” she said with a laugh, loving the idea that despite recuperating from surgery, Seth had made the effort to romance her. Nora wasn’t used to anyone working so hard to make her feel good—usually she was the one taking care of everyone else.
It felt nice. Very nice.
“Hmm . . . French maid outfit, that’s an idea—”
“Seriously, you’re not doing anything dumb like trying to shovel snow? Your doctor said no heavy lifting—”
“Hey, he cleared me for light duty, I’m back in the clinic next week.” Thank God. Seth at home, unable to get his adrenaline fix through surgery, was driving her batty. “But no, I’m just sitting on the couch with DeBakey, not shoveling snow. The neighbor’s kid is—but we’re gonna owe him some serious dough by the time this storm is over.” Then his tone brightened. “Think they need another surgeon? I could come in.”
“Give DeBakey some puppy loving from me. But no, don’t come in. Not only shouldn’t anyone be out driving in these conditions, you’re not cleared to operate yet. Changing bandages in the clinic isn’t the same as working in the OR all day.” Then Nora realized why he’d chosen now to call. “Was the game on when the power went out?”
Seth’s sigh sounded as sorrowful as a kid sent to bed early without his dinner. “First quarter and Penn State was getting ready to blow smoke up those Trojans’ skirts.” Seth had gone to college on a football scholarship from Penn State. Even here, in the heart of Pitt Panther territory, he proudly wore his Nittany Lion regalia. “You guys have backup power, so you’re still online, right?”
“I guess. I’ve been too busy to get near a computer, much less surf the Web.”
“I don’t suppose—”
She was way ahead of him. Parking her cart in the hallway, Nora slipped into Mark Cohen’s office and turned his computer on. “Give me a second. Yeah, we still have Internet.”
“Great. Just go to ESPN.com, give me a score. Please.” He drew out the last word as she typed. “I’ll make it up to you when you get home. Caviar and champagne. I’ll even put on the French maid outfit if you want.”
Yeah, that wasn
’t exactly a picture she wanted in her head while here at work. “Who knows when I’ll be home. You have the fire going?”
“Toasty warm. Don’t worry about me, how are my Lions doing?”
She clicked on the bowl update icon. “Cool—they have a little video of the highlights.”
“Don’t torture me. What’s the—”
The phone died. So did the Internet—the screen was replaced with an error message when Nora refreshed it. Had the storm taken down a cell tower? And at the same time the hospital’s Internet—but wasn’t that satellite? She hung up her cell and tried Mark’s landline, but there was no dial tone. Must be the storm.
She pocketed her cell phone. Poor Seth, he’d just have to wait to hear that his Lions were winning. She had more important things to worry about, like an auditorium full of patients.
As she left Mark’s office and began pushing the cart once more, the lights flickered, then went dead. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Had the backup generator died? That would be very bad news.
The battery-operated emergency lighting came on—leaving the hall more in shadows than light, but enough so she wouldn’t roll the cart into anything. She went a few more steps when the main lights returned.
Tillman’s voice came over the intercom. “Attention. Attention. This is a Code White emergency. Our backup power is failing. All ambulatory patients, family, and staff need to move to the auditorium on the first floor immediately. This is not a drill. We estimate that we have twelve minutes of power remaining. I repeat, this is not a drill.”
Good thing the nursing staff had already begun implementing Code White procedures when the main power went out, Nora thought as she hustled the cart through the back hallway leading from the ER to the cafeteria and auditorium. It might’ve helped matters if Tillman hadn’t sound so damn panicked.
She hoped he took refuge up in his plush offices rather than down in the auditorium, where he’d try to run things and interfere with patient care.
Two security guards waited at the auditorium doors, holding them open for her.
“Thank you,” she said as she pushed the cart through. Then she noticed that they both had guns holstered at their hips. Tillman must be scared if he was allowing the guards to carry firearms again. What did he think was going to happen? A revolt? Patients and their families turning on the staff?
Shaking her head at the CEO’s idiocy, Nora joined the controlled chaos in the auditorium.
Ashes and dust? Gina did not like the sound of that. Who were these guys? And what did they want from Lydia that was worth killing more than a hundred people over? Not including the three guards Harris had already shot?
She clenched her fingers on the leather upholstery, trying to make herself smaller and less likely to be seen. She couldn’t risk moving enough to get her phone from her pocket, much less the noise it would make to text Janet. Whoever these guys were, they were deadly serious. Gina had to warn Jerry and Lydia. She had to save the patients and other staff.
A thousand action-hero scenarios collided in her brain as she lay there. Maybe if she had Rambo and John McClane and Indiana Jones with her, she might have a chance, but short of that no option was viable. Right. What the hell was she going to do against a half-dozen armed men? There was no place to go—not with a blizzard raging outside. They were all trapped here. Together.
There was nowhere to run, nowhere to escape to—in fact, the only choice she had was to hide.
She listened as Harris made Tillman call Lydia on the phone and over the loudspeaker. “Dr. Lydia Fiore, report to the ER immediately.” He repeated the message over and over, his voice starting to squeak by the end.
She risked another glance over the dashboard. Harris was holding a gun to Tillman’s head again. The CEO was sweating so profusely that his toupee had slipped askew.
“No good. She’s not answering.” Tillman’s hand shook as he lowered the phone. “What now?”
“Now you join your people in the auditorium while we tear this place apart.”
“You only want Dr. Fiore, right? You’re n-not going to hurt anyone else? After all, I’ve been cooperating.”
Harris didn’t answer, but merely prodded Tillman down the hall and through the ER’s doors.
The ER went quiet. Except for the wind whistling through the hole in the waiting room wall. And the fallen light fixture banging against the nurses’ station. And Gina’s breathing, heaving, hyperventilating, and out of control.
If she tried anything, she’d get herself killed. Maybe get everyone killed.
Or she could lie here and do nothing. Freeze to death. Peaceful way to go.
She closed her eyes, tried to slow her breathing. Her chattering teeth and shivering didn’t help. Although they did remind her that there was warmth just a few feet away. Only she’d have to leave the safety of the car to get to it.
Decisions, decisions. The cold numbed her brain. Couldn’t she just lie here and go to sleep? She hadn’t slept in weeks. It would feel so good. Not worrying about Jerry. Or her parents—LaRose!
How could she have forgotten about LaRose? Ken would have taken her to the auditorium with the other patients. Unless they were still in CT. Given how slow radiology moved, it was a possibility. Maybe there was still time to save them.
Nothing to do except risk moving. Holding her breath, she raised her head and peered over the dash. The ER was empty, lights out. Nobody left behind on guard duty—at least not that she could see or hear.
Gina sat up and slid over to the passenger side she’d come in through. One more time she climbed out the window, only this time she went inch by inch, trying hard not to make a sound. Then she landed, the crunch of broken glass cracking through the air like machine-gun fire.
No response. Using her penlight to guide her, she crept through the debris that surrounded the nurses’ station and ducked into the trauma room, closing the door behind her. She risked using her cell phone, keeping her voice low.
Janet’s cell rang and rang and finally went to voice mail. “Janet, you’ve got to get over to Angels. We need help. Harris killed the security guards and he’s got men with him, six at least, and they’ve got machine guns. I’m serious. Send SWAT, send everyone. Right away.”
And what if Janet was too busy to check her voice mail? Gina hung up, tried calling 911. And got a message that all circuits were busy. No opportunity to even leave a message. What the hell?
Jerry. Harris would be looking for him. She dialed Amanda. “It’s Gina. Where are you guys?”
“We brought Jerry up to the eighth-floor rehab. What’s going on?”
“That DEA agent isn’t a DEA agent. I just saw him kill three security guards.”
“Slow down. What did you say?!”
“Harris. He’s taking over the damn hospital. Herding everyone into the auditorium while he and his men search for Lydia. They said they’d burn the hospital down, kill everyone in it to cover their tracks.”
“Oh my God. What do they want with Lydia?”
“They said something about some evidence they think she’s hidden.”
“And they’ve got guns?”
“Lots of guns, big guns, machine guns like you see in the movies. I tried calling the police, but I couldn’t get through.” Panic edged her words.
Gina could almost hear Amanda blink in the short pause that followed. But having grown up an only daughter with three older brothers, her roommate was nothing if not resilient and fast on her toes. Her mind never slowed down for anything. “Okay. What are we going to do?”
“I’m not sure that there is anything we can do. Except hide. You need to take Jerry and hide him, keep him safe until help arrives.”
“What about—” The phone went dead.
Gina glanced at the screen. No signal. Harris had said something about blocking cell phones. Damn. She tried calling out again on the landline from the trauma room but couldn’t even get a dial tone. She stood there, the dark punctuated only by th
e red exit sign above the door, and hugged herself against the cold.
Her fingers brushed against the pack of cigarettes as she returned the useless phone to her pocket. Every cell in her body craved nicotine, sung with a need that transcended chemical dependency, a need translated into the primal instinct . . . but Gina’s mind and body hopscotched over the idea of fight and screamed for flight.
Her lips tingled as she hyperventilated, and she held her hands over her mouth and nose for a moment, slowing her breathing, stilling her panic. Her fingers tangled in the chain around her neck. She pulled Jerry’s ring free, clutching it so tight the diamond threatened to break skin. What would Jerry do?
Send her to take cover and arm himself so that he could protect her.
Sounded good in theory, if you were a trained law enforcement officer who’d logged time on the SWAT team. But Jerry wasn’t here and neither was the SWAT team—she had to take care of herself. And LaRose. At least until help arrived.
Abandoning the relative safe haven of the trauma room, Gina walked down to the security office. It was empty. The guards’ bodies had been shoved under the counter and stripped of their uniform shirts. There wasn’t as much blood as she expected, just almost-neat bullet holes at the base of each of their skulls.
She searched for any weapons. Everything was locked away—or Harris’s men had taken them, she couldn’t be sure. The only thing she found was a Maglite about six inches long but heavy. Better than nothing, so she grabbed it and headed toward radiology.
First, LaRose. Then she’d save Jerry.
16
Amanda tried calling Gina back. No signal. She grabbed the landline phone from the therapist’s desk. “The phones are dead.”
