Critical Condition

by CJ Lyons

  The men in the lobby were shouting now—they must have found the oxygen tank and realized it was a diversion. Any second and they’d be pouring bullets into the elevators. Sweat streamed down Gina’s back, her turtleneck stuck to her like a second skin. She stabbed the buttons repeatedly, trying to force the doors closed with her will if nothing else. No way some damn button was going to get them killed.

  Finally the doors surrendered and slid shut. The car began to climb upward. Gina craned her head up, hurling silent expletives, trying to make it move faster. The elevator moved as slowly as ever—maybe even slower. Gina bounced on her heels, urging it to speed up. That didn’t work either. Ken pivoted LaRose’s chair so that she faced forward. She tugged at Gina’s lab jacket until Gina tore her attention from the indicator lights and glanced down.

  “Good work.” It was hard to tell, but LaRose seemed to be smiling—her lips had moved to bare half of her teeth, but the other half of her face still slumped as if overdosed on Botox. LaRose never smiled. It was undignified.

  Gina didn’t know what to say—she wasn’t used to responding to praise from her parents. Ken jerked his chin at her, insisting that she say something, and she muttered, “Thanks.”

  The elevator indicator showed that they were at the fourth floor. Gina’s nails dug into her palms, and she couldn’t stop her bouncing. Jerry had to be okay, he just had to be. And Lucas Stone would take care of LaRose, get her started on the TPA, and Amanda would be there, smiling just like always, and they could wait out the storm, and . . . her thoughts hit a dead end. What to do about Harris? And his threat to burn down the hospital—maybe he’d been bluffing?

  Gina’s stomach dropped as if the elevator had gone into freefall. She had the awful feeling that Harris wasn’t the kind of guy who made idle threats. The indicator light for the fourth floor died. A new one came to life. Fifth floor. Almost there.

  Harris’s voice came over the elevator’s intercom. “I’m tired of playing games, Dr. Fiore. If you don’t respond in the next ten seconds, someone dies. And I will begin to shoot hostages, one every five minutes until you give me what I want.”

  “That’s crazy,” Ken said. “Surely he’s not serious?”

  “He seemed serious enough to me when he shot those guards.”

  “But you said Lydia isn’t even here—”

  “Doesn’t matter. He thinks she is.”

  The intercom buzzed again. “Time’s up.”

  The sound of a loud crack followed by the sound of screams filled the elevator car.

  FOURTEEN

  AFTER SECURING THE FIRST TWO PENGUINS IN THE front of Bessie, Trey grabbed a blanket from one of the rear equipment compartments, and he and Lydia joined Zimmerman over where the other ten penguins had burrowed partway into a snow pile and were huddled together. From a distance the birds looked kind of cute—even Lydia had to admit that. And the first two she’d encountered hadn’t gone Hitchcock-crazy-mad on her. Still, she was happy to let Trey take charge of this rescue.

  “Zimmerman, you get on the other side,” Trey directed, handing the truck driver two corners of the blanket. “Lydia, you stand back, watch out for any escapees.”

  “Great, let the lady with one working arm chase after the rabid penguins once you get them all riled up.”

  “Penguins don’t have rabies,” Zimmerman said.

  “How would you know? I thought you only cleaned their cages.”

  “Habitats, not cages. And it’s a known fact.” He seemed to feel better about his long-term job prospects now that they’d located the wayward birds.

  “Just throw the blanket and get ready to scoop them up,” Trey said, unfolding his end of the blanket and holding it like a fishing net. “Ready? Go!”

  The men flung the blanket over the birds and rushed to pin down the sides. “Be careful,” Zimmerman shouted. “Don’t hurt them.”

  “They’ll be fine,” Trey assured him. “Just roll the blanket under them and we’ll bundle them in it.”

  Lydia watched, unable to restrain her laughter. What she wouldn’t give for a camera—better yet, a TV crew from one of those nature reality shows. The two men were down on their knees, butts aimed up in the air as they reached their arms out, trying to corral the penguins. The penguins obviously weren’t too thrilled with the idea—disapproving honking filled the air as they hopped around under the blanket. One bird got his head out and flapped his beak as if affronted by Trey’s lack of civilized manners.

  As Trey scrambled to push the bird back under the blanket, two more escaped. Lydia followed them, slipping and sliding across the snow in a mad scramble to keep them in sight.

  She cornered the two wayward birds against the snowbank on the opposite side of the road. “I’ve got them,” she called to the men, who were hoisting the blanket and hauling its squirming contents toward Bessie.

  One of the birds was larger than the other and decided to attack. It stopped squawking and instead opened its beak and bit her on the shin. She didn’t feel anything puncture her skin; it was more like getting her leg caught in a vise—but the damn thing wouldn’t let go.

  She shook her leg gently, trying to dislodge the penguin without hurting it. No good. The two birds had obviously been plotting their escape together because while the first kept her busy, the second made a run for it.

  Lydia lunged for it, but it was too fast and it skidded right past her outstretched hand. She concentrated on the big one—the one clamped onto her leg—instead. As soon as its mate escaped, it let go and tried to waddle off as well. She caught it from behind, scooping it up with her good arm and trapping it against her chest, beak pointing out. It banged its beak against her arm in the cast, which hurt a bit, but not half as much as her leg did.

  Trey joined her. “I got the little one. You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered. “The zoo owes me a new parka.” The bird in her arms had succeeded in tearing her sleeve, releasing down feathers into the wind. “Told you I don’t like birds.”

  Trey just laughed as he opened Bessie’s driver’s door. Zimmerman had the other birds trapped in the passenger-side wheel well. Lydia handed him her bird, as did Trey, and then she climbed up and slid across the bench seat. She had to pull her legs up to her chest because the center console was filled with equipment charging and the radio.

  “Can you turn the heat up?” Zimmerman asked as Trey steered the rescue truck past his overturned van. “I don’t want them to catch cold.”

  It was a good thing the cab was dark enough that Zimmerman couldn’t see the glare Lydia aimed at him.

  Trey knew without looking. He chuckled and squeezed her leg. “What do you think of our winters now?”

  “I think we need to talk about a trip to California,” she muttered, bracing herself against the dash as the truck bounced over a mound of ice and snow. “Soon. Real soon.”

  NORA LISTENED WITH HORROR TO HARRIS’S THREATS over the intercom. He was speaking into his radio, but one of his men outside must have been broadcasting his words all over the hospital. Even more horrifying was that he never lost the neutral expression he aimed at each of them—her, Tillman, and Jim, in turn—playing eeny-meeny-minie-moe with their lives.

  The crowd behind them became more agitated, but the South African held his machine gun on the rest of them, keeping the others at bay.

  Harris eyed his watch. A wry smile tugged at his lips. “Time’s up.”

  He pivoted and shot Jim in the chest at point-blank range.

  Screams echoed through the cavernous room.

  Then the lights went out.

  AMANDA REALIZED HER ONLY HOPE WAS MOMENTUM, so instead of trying to slow down, she sped up into the path of the guard she’d surprised in the cafeteria. The bad guy was dressed like a hospital security guard, his arms full of snack food, gun in a holster at his hip, and obviously stunned by the sight of a woman wearing a tattered designer gown and brandishing a large pair of scissors appearing from nowhere.

&nb
sp; He arched back, weight on his heels, coming to a stop just as Amanda rammed him, using her shoulder and left arm to clothes-hook him, just like her big brothers used to do when they were fighting dirty.

  His feet skidded out from under him. Packages of muffins and doughnuts flew around them. Before he could catch his breath or reach for his gun, Amanda jumped on him, straddling his chest, and pressed the point of her shears against his throat, tight enough to feel his heartbeat vibrate through the blades.

  “Don’t say a word,” she whispered. “Don’t make a move.”

  Lucas and Jerry came up on either side of her, Jerry fumbling for the man’s gun, while Lucas knelt beside Amanda. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Tie him up and find something to gag him with.”

  Lucas might not have looked like a typical action hero, but he made quick work of binding the man’s hands and feet with the strapping tape they’d taken from rehab. He taped the man’s mouth as well while Jerry held the gun on him. Once the man was restrained, Amanda climbed off him and returned her shears to her sash.

  “Where should we put him?” Lucas asked, rocking back on his heels and admiring his handiwork.

  “The pantry—its walls are so thick that even if he gets loose, no one will be able to hear him. Plus it has a door that locks.”

  The man’s radio sounded. “Marcus is ready to shut the power off. Two minutes.”

  Amanda grabbed the radio and added it to the items hanging from her sash. “Why do they want to turn off the backup power?”

  “Ask him,” Jerry said.

  “After we get him secure. I don’t want to be carrying him around in the dark.”

  Lucas and Amanda dragged the man into the pantry while Jerry stood guard at the kitchen door. When they finished, Jerry handed Amanda the man’s gun. The semiautomatic was a Smith & Wesson 910S. Her brother had the same model, along with about a dozen others. Amanda removed the magazine, ten bullets total. She replaced the magazine, then racked one into the chamber, ready to go.

  “Shouldn’t Jerry have the gun?” Lucas protested.

  “No,” both Jerry and Amanda said together.

  “After all, he’s the policeman.”

  “Not today,” Jerry said.

  “But—” Lucas said, his dismay evident as he stared at Amanda holding the nine-millimeter.

  “You’re just going to have to trust me, Lucas. I can out-shoot any of my brothers, even my father on a good day.”

  Jerry smiled the quirky new smile of his that seemed to find humor in the most ghastly of circumstances. The same smile he’d given Amanda when he’d woken from his coma and she’d let him look in a mirror, to see for the first time his shaved scalp and the ugly scar that ran across it.

  “No good days for me,” he said.

  As if punctuating his words, the sound of a shot rang out followed by screams.

  Then the lights went out.

  GINA ALMOST DROPPED THE RADIO WHEN SHE HEARD the sound of the shot as Harris carried out his threat. Ken supported it, circling her hand with his, as they both stared at the radio in horror.

  She wanted to scream or shout herself, but she couldn’t find any words big enough to express her anger and fear and frustration. Someone had just died. Probably someone she knew.

  The lights flickered and went out. The elevator lurched to a halt. A small red light came on—the only light.

  “What the hell?” Gina slammed the control buttons, but none of them lit up. The elevator reversed course, moving even more slowly than normal, away from the eighth floor, away from Jerry.

  “It’s on emergency override,” Ken said. “It will go down to the basement. Safety procedure to keep any patients from getting trapped if the power goes out.”

  “They’re really doing it. Harris said something about turning off the emergency generator.” Gina thought furiously. Her thoughts raced in every direction, but what she really wanted to do was to stop thinking and just curl up and cry. This wasn’t happening, it just wasn’t. But it was. She’d just heard someone being executed.

  Their slow descent continued despite her using every ounce of willpower to make the car change course.

  She had to do something—even if she couldn’t save Jerry, there had to be a way to save the others.

  What did she have to bargain with? What did Harris want? How could she stop his deadly countdown?

  “I’m going to tell them I know where the evidence is. Bargain with them, tell them that once the storm dies down, I’ll take them to it if they stop killing people.” She couldn’t use the word hostages—those were her friends trapped in there.

  The red emergency light made Ken look like a man on fire, his dark hair rippling, his exposed arms sinewy streams of flame. “No. I’ll do it.”

  “You can’t. I know Lydia. I can pretend to be her, over the radio at least. I can stall Harris, give the police time to get here. You can’t do that.”

  As long as they never found her, got a good look at her, Gina could use the radio to lead them on a wild-goose chase. At least until the weather cleared and they called her bluff.

  Ken frowned, but nodded. “You’ll need a safe place to hide for a while. Up through the emergency hatch.”

  “I need you to look after my mother.”

  “I will,” he promised. “We’ll be fine. They’ll put us with the other hostages and I can get her the TPA—you know Nora will have moved the meds to the auditorium when they evacuated the ER.”

  Still, she hesitated. She hated this plan, hated leaving him and LaRose. But she was the only hope the others had. If she could just keep Harris from shooting anyone else, just until help arrived . . .

  “Come on, there’s not much time.” Ken knelt and gestured for Gina to climb onto his shoulders.

  LaRose made the decision for her. She clawed at Gina’s lab coat, pulling her daughter’s face down level with hers. If Ken had looked more alive, aglow, in the red light, LaRose appeared ghastly. The whites of her eyes shone red and the tears quivering on her cheeks reflected like rubies.

  “Go. Regina, go.”

  Ken took that as an answer, hauling her past LaRose and effortlessly lifting Gina up, so fast that she banged her head against the ceiling. A cloud of dust made her sneeze—she braced her palms against the ceiling so she wouldn’t fall.

  “Hurry,” Ken urged.

  “A little to the left.” She reached for the trapdoor in the roof of the elevator, a shadowy outline against the crimson shadows cast by the light.

  The hatch wasn’t like in the movies, where it simply pushed up. Gina fumbled her fingers around the edge until she found the latch holding it shut. When she finally got it free, the hatch fell inward, hitting her again on the head. Not hard, just enough that she almost lost her balance and nearly toppled Ken.

  He grabbed her hard, his hands on her hips, and steadied her. The elevator jerked to a final stop. “Hurry,” he whispered. “If the power’s off, they’ll need to open the door manually, but there’s not much time.”

  Gina scrambled her head and arms through the hatch, clawing for handholds in the dark. Her fingers brushed an empty soda can and it rolled past her, falling into the car. She felt Ken’s body tremble with the effort of holding her aloft. Her hand collided with something raised and metal. Its edges were rough, but it felt solid, so she grabbed on.

  Ken had to release her long enough to get under her legs with a new grip. She tried to help, but her entire weight was braced against the metal and it was digging into her skin and all she could do was kick, trying to squirm the rest of the way onto the roof.

  “Hold still.” Ken grabbed hold of her feet and pushed her the rest of the way up and through the opening. She rolled to the side, away from the hatch. The top of the elevator was filthy; it smelled of grease and rotting food. More empty cans crunched and slid beneath her, as did coffee cups and food wrappers.

  “Pull the hatch shut,” Ken said.

  She squirmed around, then reached b
ack down through the opening to grab the hatch.

  “Be careful,” she told him. He brushed her hand with his fingers and squeezed.

  Then he let go. The elevator doors began to grate open, the seals protesting. Gina pulled the hatch closed, and with it went the last of her light. It was pitch dark in the elevator shaft and eerily silent. Her breath echoed like the wind.

  She couldn’t find a latch on the roof side of the hatch, so she held the hatch shut. Her muscles screamed with the strain of holding it in such an awkward position, lying on her belly, arms outstretched. But if she let it drop . . .

  A man’s voice came from below. “Out of there! Now!”

  Gina couldn’t hear Ken’s reply. She couldn’t hear anything.

  FIFTEEN

  THE GUNSHOT WAS FOLLOWED BY A WAKE OF stunned silence. The air in the auditorium felt tight and thin, stretched to breaking.

  Jim didn’t fall; he slumped against the wall, his hand crawling up his chest, searching for injury, a look of horror and disbelief on his face. His hand touched the blood that had seeped through his shirt and came away covered in red. He stared at it in shock, then crumpled to the ground.

  And the screaming started.

  Nora ran to Jim, ignoring Harris’s gun. Footsteps thudded around her as others came to help—she was surprised to see so many, had thought that most people would run the other way. Lord knew that was what every instinct in her body told her to do.

  “Get me a trauma kit, O2, and two lines going,” Nora ordered. Using her trauma shears, she sliced Jim’s shirt off. The entrance wound was just below his left nipple. Not good, not good at all.

  “Was I hit?” Jim asked, his eyes half closed and his voice unsteady. “I think maybe I was shot.”