When Darkness Builds (The Caldera Series)

by M. C. Sutton

  Emma sat back and crossed her arms.

  Jon shook his head and stared at the ceiling.

  “Pardon me for interrupting you in the midst of your marital tension, Captain, but I do believe Dr. Grant has a point,” said Bennett. “We should probably do something more than just twiddle our thumbs.”

  Jon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Bennett, and the fact that you think it’s a good idea makes me just want to jump at the opportunity.”

  Bennett glared. “Look, Grant, I know you’re not particularly fond of me, and to be quite honest I’m not too keen on you either, but the fact remains that we are all in this situation together. I think it would be mutually beneficial if we came up with a way to get out of it.”

  Jon closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

  Emma loathed Stephen Bennett, but at that moment she agreed with him. Someone needed to do something, and she didn’t want to rely on the feds to be the ones to do it.

  She leaned over to Jack. “Jack, can’t you talk some sense into him?”

  Jack was staring straight ahead, a glazed look in his eyes.

  “Jack?” she repeated, putting a hand on his arm.

  He blinked a few times and turned to her. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Are you okay?”

  He smiled. “Yes, of course. And I completely agree. Something should be done.” Emma was about to turn to Jon and say “I told you so” when Jack stopped her. “But not necessarily the way I think you’re suggesting. It’s not always wise to go in with guns blazing. Even if we did have guns. Which we don’t.”

  Good point.

  “But what we do have…,” he raised an eyebrow, “is you.”

  “Excuse me?” Jon opened his eyes.

  “I think I know where you’re going with this, sir,” said Aaron.

  Jon snapped his head around to glare at him.

  “Well, just think about it, Jon. I’m no expert, but I do know the first thing we need to do is assess the situation. And Emma’s a crisis psychologist, right? I don’t know about you, but I’d consider this a crisis.”

  “Fine,” said Jon. “Just so long as you do a visual assessment. From here.”

  Emma cocked her head at him. “How else would I do it?”

  “I don’t know, but with you, there’s no telling.”

  She shook her head. Whatever.

  Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If she was going to get an impression of these guys without talking to them, she was going to have to use a lot more than just her skills of observation to do it. She would have to do what she did best: feel her way through it.

  She started with the terrorists who were walking around the room, keeping an eye on the hostages. They pointed their guns toward the ceiling, and every now and then would stop and glare at one of the congressmen. Emma could tell that a few of them were enjoying it a little too much. Most of them looked like little more than lackeys—there to follow orders, and nothing more. All except for the gangly one with a broken nose. Emma got the impression that he possessed a dangerous combination of overconfidence and sheer stupidity.

  Then there was the kid behind the surveillance monitors. Emma couldn’t explain how she knew he was young, just that he was. He watched the screens, every now and then pointing out something to the guy standing behind him. The guy would nod, and the kid would go back to looking at the screen.

  Which brought Emma to the guy standing behind the table. He was one of the only two who mattered when it came down to it. Clearly the leader, though she sensed there was some friction between him and the one he’d called Mac. He stood with his arms crossed and a hand over his mouth, nodding each time the kid pointed something out to him.

  As she watched him, he looked over at her, and their eyes met.

  Emma expected him to look away, but he didn’t. He just stared at her with this look in his eyes. What was it? Concern? Regret? Second thoughts about what he was doing? It was hard to tell behind the mask.

  She frowned at him. He turned his eyes back down to the screen.

  Emma sighed. Just based on their interactions, she knew he was the worst type of terrorist they could be dealing with. He was calm and confident, and believed thoroughly in the righteousness of his cause. He wasn’t just doing this for himself. He cared about other people, which was why he’d promised her no one would get hurt.

  She wondered whether he’d be able to keep that promise.

  Despite the terrorist leader’s determination to do what he thought needed to be done, he didn’t frighten her. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was something friendly and familiar about him. Emma got the sense that deep down inside he was a good man, a man who had simply come to the end of his rope and felt he had no other choice.

  Emma knew that feeling. She almost wished, for his sake as well as her own, that everything would turn out the way he hoped. But something told her it wasn’t going to.

  She turned next to the man who did frighten her. Mac. She knew his type. Being what she was, Emma could often get a sense about people.

  Sometimes she felt like one of those crackpots who call themselves psychics, who claim to know who you are as well as who you’ll become, though they are seldom right. Because the future itself is always changing. It isn’t set in stone. It’s formed by the choices people make. And when a person’s heart and mind are open, their future isn’t clear. There is always the option for them to make a good choice or a bad one.

  But for people who become dark and hardened—people like Mac—you can almost guarantee that something will go horribly wrong. Because, in the end, there are no bad people. Just bad choices. And when bad choices are made, those who make them aren’t the only ones that suffer for it.

  They take others down with them.

  Emma slipped her hand back into Jon’s. “Em, what is it?” he whispered.

  She didn’t answer. She just squeezed his hand and forced herself to look at Mac.

  He was up on the stage, scanning the crowd. Emma half-wished he wouldn’t looked her way. She didn’t want to meet his eyes. She wondered if Jon had brought any chocolate with him, then realized if he did, he’d have eaten it by now.

  Finally, Mac turned to face her. She took in a sharp breath, the intensity of what she felt at that moment overwhelming.

  Emma felt pain. Suffering. Destruction. Cruelty and malice and hatred. But not anger. Anger stemmed from reason. From a desire to avenge some injustice. Something that can be resolved or worked through or rationalized. Anger would have made sense. But what Emma felt in him made no sense at all. It was the icy sting of cold and darkness. Stronger than she’d ever felt it in a person before. Whatever part of him that had been human had disappeared long ago. Cut off and buried. Or driven out.

  “Emma?”

  Jon sounded distant. And worried. She didn’t have to ask why. She’d broken into a cold sweat and was starting to hyperventilate.

  Her lip trembled. “Jon?”

  She tried to break eye contact with Mac. But for some reason she couldn’t do it, like he was holding on to her somehow. Emma didn’t even know that was possible, but Mac seemed to. He sneered.

  And then the icy cold slammed into her.

  Unlike the gradual descent into the river, this iciness hit her with the force of a tidal wave. Emma was floundering in a torrent of blackness, bitter and cold. She gasped frantically to suck in each precious, icy breath as she tumbled beneath the weight of darkness and despair.

  The conference room disappeared in a wave of panicked euphoria. What replaced it was blurred and faint. Darkness, except for a wash of red and white. Her mind was showing her something, and Emma felt an incredible need to know what it was. It was important, for some reason. She tried to calm herself, to focus on what she was seeing, but the harder she tried, the blurrier the image became. She could make out only a tinge of brown against the blurred outline of her hand. Nothing more.

  And then she was overcome with the urge to pull out. T
he way she pulled out of her dreams just before something terrible happened so as not to become a part of it. Watching people burn to death in an apartment building or drown in a flood was bad enough without having to learn what it felt like yourself.

  But it was too late. The red and white shattered and fell away into a million tiny pieces, blasting toward her in a great ball of orange flame. It passed painfully across her body, burning her bare arms and face. A shock wave followed. Emma screamed as it slammed into her.

  Then everything went dark.

  “Emma!”

  Emma gasped and opened her eyes. She was lying in Jon’s lap, drenched in sweat and struggling to breathe. She could feel the warmth of his hand on her cheek. He stared down at her, his eyes wide with concern. Panic.

  “Baby, are you okay?”

  Emma wondered if he ever got tired of asking her that.

  She had to stop hyperventilating before she could answer him. And even then she wasn’t sure what she was going to say. She wasn’t okay. At all. Every muscle in her body ached, and she couldn’t stop shaking. Like she’d been thrown up against a wall. She covered her face with her hands, the hot sting of tears creeping up on her.

  Jon wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he whispered against her ear. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

  No, Jon. It’s not.

  “Dr. Grant, are you all right?”

  Emma pulled away from Jon and turned. The terrorist leader was kneeling in front of them, concern in his eyes.

  The muscles in Jon’s arms tensed. “Why the hell do you care?”

  But the terrorist did care, and Emma could see it.

  He glared at Jon. “What’s wrong?” he asked her quietly. The concern in his voice contrasted almost comically with his semi-automatic and ski mask.

  It was apparently more than Jon could take. “What the hell do you think is wrong with her?” he exploded.

  Emma jumped out of Jon’s lap, afraid he was going to grab the guy and shake him.

  “She hasn’t been well since we got here, hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday, and then you guys come along and pump us all full of whatever the hell was in that gas you used and the needles you stuck us with, and you think she’s just supposed to be okay?”

  The terrorist looked taken aback. “Mr. Grant, we took every precaution. I don’t know—”

  “Every precaution? Are you freakin’ kidding me? You don’t know? You’re right, you don’t know. Because you’re all a bunch of sorry sons of—”

  “Jon!” Jack grabbed him by the arm before he could burst into an array of colorful metaphors. “That doesn’t solve anything.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, I think we have a more pressing matter to deal with.”

  “And what exactly is that?” Jon barked, pulling his arm away.

  “Emma,” Jack said quietly.

  Something in Jack’s voice made her turn and look at him. He was staring at her lap.

  “Emma, honey,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Your arms.”

  She looked down. Her arms were covered in cuts and burns. With all the aches in her body, she hadn’t even noticed the stinging pain in her arms—until now.

  She took in a sharp breath.

  “How did…?” The terrorist stared, wide-eyed.

  Jon took her hand and lightly touched the inside of her arm.

  Emma winced.

  “Did you…” he said, then glanced at the terrorist before whispering, “Did you see something?”

  Emma bit her lip. She was starting to feel nauseated.

  “It’s all right, Emma,” said Jack, taking her hand from Jon. “I think we should probably get this taken care of, don’t you?” He turned to the terrorist. “What do you say, son? You have a med kit, right?”

  The terrorist looked stunned. As if he was as amazed by their reaction as he was by Emma’s arms.

  Jack tilted his head. “Young man?”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, of course. A med kit. It’s up on the stage.” He glanced over his shoulder. Mac was still watching them, his gun in his hands. The terrorist lowered his voice. “I’ll go grab it and get these bandaged up.”

  Jack put a hand on his arm. “Perhaps the washroom would be a better place for this. After all, you don’t want to make a scene.”

  Emma wrinkled her forehead. What exactly was Jack trying to do?

  “Yeah,” said the terrorist, looking blankly at Jack as if he didn’t see him. “Yeah, the washroom. That’s a good idea.” He got up and headed for the stage.

  Jack leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Emma, listen,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry about me, all right?”

  What?

  “You just do what you always do,” said Jack.

  The terrorist returned with the med kit. “All right, Doc, let’s get you fixed up.” He held a hand out to help her up.

  Jon started to get up, too.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” The terrorist glared at Jon. “I said I’d take her to the bathroom. You will stay here and wait.”

  Jon tightened his jaw. “Like hell I will.”

  “Jon,” Jack snapped. There was a fierceness in Jack’s eyes that even Emma wouldn’t dare cross. “She’ll be all right. Just stay here.”

  Emma could tell that Jon was just as freaked out by all this as she was. Between the burns on her arms, what she had seen, and the look on Jack’s face, Emma was now completely unnerved. She needed Jon. Needed him to be her voice of reason. Because that’s what Jon did—kept her grounded when she wasn’t thinking clearly. And at that moment, she wasn’t thinking clearly at all. In fact, all she could think about was trying not to throw up.

  “It’ll be all right, son,” Jack said quietly. “Let her go.”

  Jon took a deep breath, then sat back against the wall.

  “Don’t worry, Cap,” the terrorist said as he pulled Emma up. “I give you my word I won’t let anything happen to her.”

  Jon crossed his arms. “Yeah, like that means a lot.”

  CHAPTER 21

  THE MAN IN THE MASK led Emma out of the conference room and down the hall to the restrooms. She stumbled as she walked. He caught her, slipping an arm around her. Casually. Instinctively. Almost as if he knew her.

  “You know, you don’t act like a terrorist.”

  “That’s because I’m not,” he said quietly, with the same hurt in his eyes that she’d seen earlier.

  “You’re not, huh? Then what do you call someone who knocks out a room full of people, then holds them hostage and makes outrageous demands in exchange for their safety?”

  “A revolutionary,” he answered, ushering her into the ladies’ room.

  Emma turned on the faucet and ran her arms through the cold water. The sting was even more painful now. The cuts weren’t that bad, but the burns bubbled up and blistered.

  “Here,” the man said behind her. “Hop up on the counter and let me get them treated and wrapped properly before you give yourself an infection.”

  Emma raised an eyebrow at him. She wasn’t sure she could even get up onto the counter, she was so dizzy and nauseated. But she understood what he meant. She’d grown up in Texas. She knew how inefficient the water treatment systems could be. The water had been so bad in her hometown that if you wanted to make fun of another kid you called them a tap-water drinker. It had never been a problem in the bigger cities, like Dallas, but it would be a known issue for anyone from a small east Texas town.

  “Would you let me help you?” he asked.

  Emma took a deep breath and nodded.

  He put his hands under her arms and lifted her up slowly, careful not to brush against the tender areas of her skin. When she was situated comfortably, their eyes met again.

  He quickly turned away.

  He set his med kit on the counter next to her and pulled out a can of antiseptic spray. “This h
appen to you a lot?” he asked with a grin.

  “Not really,” said Emma, her gaze dropping to her lap. “Or at least, not since I was a teenager.”

  He scanned her face. “I see.”

  He sprayed one arm at a time, cradling each gently in his hand. Emma tried to hide how much the cold of it stung.

  “It’s kind of like an allergic reaction,” she said, in a weak attempt to put his suspicions to rest. “Probably the shampoo in the carpet or something.” She was a terrible liar.

  “Well, whatever it was, it looks pretty painful. I’m really sorry, Dr. Grant.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I seriously doubt you’d ever hurt anyone. At least, not intentionally.”

  “Oh yeah?” he said, pulling a roll of gauze from his kit. “You think because you’re a psychologist, you know me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Really? And what exactly do you know about me?”

  Emma didn’t want to admit it, but it was too obvious to avoid. “I know you’re a husband and father. I know that your family has a ranch not far from here…”

  He tensed as he wrapped her arm.

  “I know that you wanted to be a writer, until your brother died in the war. But most importantly, I know that you would never, ever be doing this unless you believed you had no other choice.”

  He finished bandaging her arms in silence, then rested his hands on the counter on either side of her. “I knew if anyone was going to recognize me, it would be you.”

  “Sam…”

  He stepped away from her, pulled off his mask, and threw it on the counter.

  Emma hopped down, ignoring the pain of the pressure it put on her arms. “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s exactly like you said, Dr. Grant. Because I have no other choice.”

  “That isn’t what I said at all. I said you believed you have no other choice. But it’s not true, Sam. There is always a choice.”

  He stared at the floor. “Not for people like me.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Sam took a deep breath. “I looked you up, Dr. Grant. You and your husband. After you offered to help Cole. I wanted to know if you were sincere, and if you even had the means to do it.”