by CJ Lyons
He took her hand in his, ignoring the sticky feathers covering her palm. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Nora stared at the gun aimed between her eyes. She was certain she was supposed to feel something: terror, panic, bravado, regret, sorrow, hope . . . something. Instead, her body felt absolutely frozen, unable to think, breathe, move, feel.
Her vision collapsed to take in the very large, very black gun and Harris’s finger on the trigger. The rest of the world faded into a distant blur of color. The auditorium had gone silent, so silent that Nora’s ears felt like they were trying to pop.
The clatter of something metal hitting the floor broke the spell. Nora’s hearing returned with a thunderclap. Harris’s hand jerked, his aim jumping up over Nora’s head, although he never squeezed the trigger.
“Leave her alone!” It was Mark Cohen’s voice. Nora dared to look over her shoulder. Mark had gotten off his bed and was leaning heavily on Jason as he hobbled across the stage. “If you want something, talk to me. I’m in charge here.”
Harris simply smiled and nodded to the guard next to him. The burly man leaped onto the stage with grace that defied gravity given his bulk, and with a swift flick of his foot he swept Mark’s leg out from under him, toppling both him and Jason to the ground. Mark cried out in pain.
“I think you’ll find that I’m in charge here,” Harris said calmly, bringing his gun to bear on Nora again. “Now, Ms. Halloran, you’re the ER head nurse. Where’s Dr. Fiore?”
Ignoring the sudden chill that had settled in her bones, Nora edged forward. It was amazing how much effort it took to shuffle her feet; they felt encased in cement. She angled herself to block Harris’s view of the others. Shielding them from his sight—and aim—was the only way she could protect them.
“I don’t know where Dr. Fiore is,” she said, her voice as loud and clear as it was during the chaos of a trauma code. And as certain. She hoped.
Harris narrowed his eyes, lips pinched in disbelief. Nora counted to five, holding her breath, watching his finger on the trigger. He slowly released the trigger, gave her a nod as if they were equals coming to terms, and lowered the gun.
“I believe you. But,” he waved the gun toward the rest of the auditorium, “she’s somewhere in this hospital and I’m going to find her. And if that doesn’t happen quickly, we may need to take alternative and more drastic methods.” He holstered the gun with a dramatic flourish.
22
Gina laid the oxygen tank on the exam table and connected the plastic tubing Ken had found to its nozzle. “Thanksgiving, we had this lady come into the ER,” she said as she checked the gauge. Nearly full; good. “Her cigarette had burned through the plastic tubing of her home oxygen tank and started a fire.”
“Too dangerous—if you use an open flame to light it, it could flash over you.”
“Ah, but I have a time-delayed fuse.” She took her cigarettes and matches from her sweater pocket. “Saw it in a movie once.”
Ken frowned. “That’s the movies. It might not work in real life.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yeah. I’ll do it. That way even if it fails, you can still get LaRose out of here.”
He tried to grab the cigarettes from her, but she yanked them out of his reach. “No way. It’s my plan and if anything goes wrong, you can protect LaRose better than I can.”
Gina wished she felt half as brave as she sounded. One look at Ken’s face and she knew he knew she was full of shit. She hefted the oxygen tank and held it under her arm like a football. Tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. She’d spent most of her life faking being smart, being confident, being brave. Time to see if she had what it really took.
To her relief Ken said nothing, just gave her a nod. If he had said something, she might have surrendered to her fear, so she was glad for once that he was living up to his taciturn man-of-mystery reputation.
She carried the oxygen and tubing out to the main doors and glanced through the windows. The guard was pacing a pattern at the far end of the lobby, the side that faced the auditorium and elevator banks. The wall with the elevators blocked his view of the radiology entrance for a few seconds on each leg of his journey. That would be her window of opportunity.
“You’ll need something to catch fire to make a big enough flame to pull him away,” Ken whispered as he wheeled LaRose into position beside her.
“The gift shop?”
“It’s closed today.”
Gina craned her neck, trying to spot a likely spot to hide her IED. “The rack of pamphlets between the gift shop and the main doors. I can hide the tank under it and once the fire starts they should go fast—they’re just bus schedules and Pennysavers and stuff.”
“Should work.” Ken pressed his face beside hers, their breath steaming the glass. “Once you cross the lobby, you’ll be out of his sight.”
“I think we’ll have around three minutes from the time I light the cigarette until the fire starts. That should give me time to get back here and, once the guard moves out of the way, we’ll go to the rear elevator bank, out of sight from the lobby.” She hoisted the tank, watching the guard, waiting for the right moment to make her move. “If I’m not back in time—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of LaRose. You just worry about yourself.”
“Okay, here goes.”
The guard pivoted and stepped out of sight. Ken pulled the door open for her and Gina dashed through it. Some instinct made her crouch low as if under fire, probably the result of watching too many movies when she was a kid. Funny, the thoughts that raced through your mind when you may have only seconds to live. Her gaze was zeroed in on the corner of the gift shop—once she made it there, she’d be safely out of the guard’s line of sight.
It felt that no matter how fast her feet pounded the lobby’s slate floor, her goal didn’t get any closer. The back of her neck prickled, and she was tempted to stop and look over her shoulder, see where the guard was, even though the countdown in her head told her she had a few seconds yet. Gina didn’t look—maybe something good had come of all that movie watching, because she knew it was always the guy who turned to look who got shot.
Instead she drove onward and suddenly found herself skidding around the corner. She had to pull up fast; she couldn’t risk getting too close to the automatic eye that opened the entrance’s sliding glass doors—that would alert the guard for sure.
Clutching her O2 tank to her chest as if it were a newborn baby, she leaned against the wall and caught her breath. Then she risked a peek around the corner and saw Ken watching her from the radiology doors across the lobby. He gave her a thumbs-up and she mirrored a response, hoping he couldn’t see her hand shaking.
Okay, time to make a flamethrower. She crouched down and gently set the oxygen tank on the floor. Turning the valve on to release the gas—two liters should be about right, she thought—she slid it beneath the wire rack brimming with brochures and pamphlets. She checked the end of the tubing. The oxygen was flowing nicely.
Not wanting to risk any flames—at least not yet—she pinched the tubing, cutting off the flow of O2, and pinned it beneath the leg of the display rack before striking a match and lighting a cigarette. She took only one puff, although as soon as her lips touched the cigarette she was consumed with the desire to sit back and inhale the entire thing. She folded the book of matches around the filter of the cigarette and carefully placed the matchbook under the end of the tubing.
Now the countdown began. She edged a glance around the corner, then pulled back immediately. The guard was coming her way, varying his pattern by circling out into the lobby. Shit.
Her head rocked against the wall. She glanced at the cigarette—about a quarter of the way burned. Should she pull it out, wait?
The guard’s radio squawked. Gina jumped, both arms jerking up as if in surrender. The sound was louder than a flock of seagulls at feeding time. And it was close—the guard must already be right aroun
d the corner at the gift shop window.
Did he smell the cigarette burning? Had he heard her? Her breath came in short, quick gasps as her gaze jumped from the cigarette—a third gone—to the corner she huddled against.
“What’s your twenty? I don’t see you,” the radio voice said.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” The guard moved away at a rush. “You guys got food in there? I’m starving.”
“Bryant’s bringing it.”
Gina dared a look. The guard disappeared as he returned to the auditorium entrance. Now or never. She pushed off and dashed across the lobby to the door where Ken waited. Ken’s face was smashed against the glass as he watched, his eyes wide.
She was still ten feet shy of the door when flames burst out behind her.
23
There was no way Amanda was going to allow Jerry to sacrifice himself as a diversion. Apparently Lucas felt the same, springing ahead as they made their way down the stairs to the ground floor. By the time Jerry and Amanda pushed through the door to the lobby, Lucas was crouched against the wall below the picture window, waving them down.
He pointed toward the auditorium and held up two fingers. Jerry and Amanda crawled over to join him.
“There’s two guards there now,” Lucas whispered. “With machine guns. What do we do?”
The obvious choice was to run away and hide in the farthest corner of the tower, praying the storm died down and they could make their escape before the gunmen took drastic action, like burning down the hospital. Amanda still found it hard to believe that anyone would go to such lengths, but she’d encountered enough cases of abuse and other horrible, unbelievable things that she knew it could happen.
She duckwalked past Lucas and craned her head around the corner, getting a look for herself. One man stood at the doors, his gun aimed in their direction, while the other paced back and forth, focused in the other direction, toward the elevators and main hospital lobby.
The atrium was usually Amanda’s second-favorite place in the hospital, after the pediatric floor’s playroom. It was designed as a sanctuary of peace and nature, so there were no straight paths through it. People had no choice but to slow down, listen to the fountains burble, sit on the benches or tall rocks, or look at the planters with their miniature trees, evergreens, ferns, and flowering plants.
But now, despite the continued merry bubbling of the solar-powered water fountains, the atrium was shrouded in shadows and had a potential of becoming a killing ground.
“Run and hide?” she asked the men. “Or try to rescue the people trapped in the auditorium?”
Both men stared at her, neither making a move toward the stairwell and safety. Answer enough for her.
Scrutinizing the atrium, she tried to mentally devise a path through it that would give them maximum cover, but there was no way they could reach the cafeteria without crossing space where they’d be hopelessly exposed. Jerry was right. They needed a diversion.
The guard covering the lobby moved out of sight. Amanda watched, motioning to the men to get ready. But then the second guard spoke into his walkie-talkie and the first man returned.
Her attention was still riveted on the guards when Jerry suddenly broke past her, crawling, cane in hand, to the shelter of the first planter.
“Jerry, wait,” she whispered, but he waved her back. His head injury may have left him with no patience and little impulse control, but this was suicide.
Just as Jerry was about to cross into open ground, the first guard suddenly yelled and ran for the lobby. There was shouting back and forth between the guards. The second pulled a fire extinguisher from the wall and raced after the first.
Amanda grabbed Lucas and they sprinted across the atrium. Jerry struggled to his feet and followed behind. Lucas stopped at the sound of Jerry’s cane hitting the ground and ran back to help him. Amanda risked a glance over her shoulder; Jerry had slipped on the slate floor and was struggling to get back up.
Holding her shears at the ready, Amanda plunged through the swinging door to the cafeteria.
Only to run headlong into another guard.
24
There was a commotion outside the auditorium doors. Harris and the blond guard rushed out, the guard returning a few minutes later and sending another gunman out in his stead.
“What’s happening?” Nora asked. Information was the best way to stave off panic.
“None of your concern,” the guard said. His accent was thick—not quite English or Australian--South African, maybe? “But you should know that the power will be cut off in a few minutes. Prepare your people.”
“Why cut off the power? You’re not going to find Lydia any easier in the dark, and there are patients in the ICU depending on equipment.”
He looked at her placidly. No expression, no remorse, not even a shrug of indifference.
Nora sighed in frustration. She couldn’t help the people up in the ICU, but she could help the patients and staff down here. She gathered everyone in the front of the auditorium. “I’ve just been informed that the power will be cut off in a few minutes.”
A babble of voices rose up at her announcement. She gestured for silence and got it a few moments later. “Melissa, you take three people and gather all the flashlights we have. Bring them up front here.”
“We also have a few battery-operated work lights,” Melissa said.
“Great, set them up.” Nora considered. Only a minute or two left. What else? Food, they had. Water, they were good there. The IV pumps had their batteries charged. “Jason, please gather all the blankets and distribute them. You all will need to share; patients take priority.” Another murmur of protest. “No arguments. We’re all in this together and we’ll all get through this together.”
She wished she were half as confident as she sounded.
Mark Cohen beckoned to her from where he lay on a stretcher. She joined him, bending low, and he whispered, “It’s all my fault.”
“What is?”
“I knew Harris thought Lydia was working today and I wanted to buy time to find out what he wanted, so I told him she was with a patient, had taken them for a procedure, and couldn’t be disturbed. And now—” He gestured helplessly to the people huddled in the seats in front of the stage. “Nora, whatever happens, we need to protect them.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“Do you think it would help if I told Harris I lied before?”
Nora stared at the guards with their machine guns. They looked like they wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who crossed them. “No. They’ll never believe you. Besides, we’ve seen their faces—”
Pain flashed across his features. They both knew the implications of that: These men weren’t planning to leave any witnesses left behind.
“I’m so sorry.”
Nora wished she had words to comfort him. Wished she had a way out of this nightmare for all of them. Leaving Mark with Melissa, she made her way back down off the stage, trying to ignore the dread fear plummeting like a rock in her stomach.
Harris returned, this time with Tillman. He was scowling. He nodded to the South African, who pulled Nora and Jim Lazarov from the crowd and marched them to the front of the auditorium where they joined Tillman. “I’m tired of these games. One of you knows where Lydia Fiore is, I’m sure of it.”
He held his wrist up, watch facing him, counting the seconds, staring at each of them in turn. “Where is she?”
Nora couldn’t speak, even if she’d known the answer to his question. She stood, her gaze fixed on the gun and the man holding it so nonchalantly on them, and shook her head.
Harris appeared disappointed and shifted his attention to Jim. “Where is Dr. Fiore?”
Jim made a small, choking sound, sucked in his breath, and said, “I don’t know.”
His voice emerged as broken and high-pitched as a teenager’s, but Nora could have hugged him for protecting Lydia. Maybe there was hope for Jim after all. If they made it through t
onight alive.
This time Harris clucked his tongue. He aimed the gun at Tillman. “Where is she?”
Tillman didn’t even pretend to be brave. He held up his hands, pleading. “I’ve told you, I don’t know where she is.”
Gina threw herself forward through the door Ken held open. Behind her she could hear the shouts of the guard, the sound of running footsteps, followed by voices of other men.
She tripped over LaRose’s feet stretched out in the wheelchair and slammed against the opposite wall. She felt ready to heave her guts out, grabbed her belly as she caught her breath.
“Get ready,” Ken said, keeping watch at the window. He moved behind LaRose’s chair, in position to push. Gina hauled in a breath and took his spot at the door.
“I used the radio to make contact with one of the surgical residents up in the ICU,” Ken whispered. “They’re trapped up there. The exits are all blocked.”
Which meant using the elevators might only draw attention from the bad guys. Or they might sneak past, make it to the eighth floor and across to the tower before anyone noticed. Either way, it was risky. But now that the bad guys knew someone was running free on the main floor, they had to leave. No choice but to stick to the original plan.
She glanced out the window in the door. The first guard had been joined by two others, who were trying without success to conquer the fire with a handheld extinguisher. Apparently the wall covering behind the brochure rack had been flammable, because flames crawled up the wall, bright orange ribbons taunting them from above. Every squirt of the extinguisher seemed to create more smoke and reveal a new area of fire. Soon it was difficult to see the men, consumed by billowing clouds of chemicals and smoke.
“Now,” Gina said, opening the door. Ken crouched low behind the wheelchair handles, putting his entire body into propelling the chair. LaRose hugged her arms to her chest, her eyes wide, lips sucked in, jaws clenched. Her usually meticulously coiffed hair had succumbed to events—Medusa’s would appear more tame—and her expression was one of anticipation and . . . exhilaration?
