Chain Reaction

by Rebecca York

  Then someone moved up beside him. Even with smoke pouring into the room, he saw it was Bray.

  “What the hell do you think is going on?” Gage managed to gasp, his throat burning.

  When his partner didn’t answer, Gage turned his head, seeing Bray frozen to the spot.

  “Bray?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  But his friend didn’t seem okay. He was staring straight ahead, his body taut, reminding Gage of that day in Afghanistan when Taureen Morgan had stepped on the landmine and gotten blown apart right in front of Bray’s eyes.

  As Gage wondered what the hell he was going to do, Bray snapped back into action. “Maybe we should beat a retreat with Vanderhoven.”

  In unison, they moved back toward the man on the floor. But now Gage couldn’t even see the lab technician in the thickening atmosphere.

  “Where is he?” Bray choked out.

  “Hell if I know.” Dropping to his knees, Gage crawled across the floor, looking for the man.

  Maybe that maneuver saved his life. He was at ground level when the closet door blew off and flew across the room. A shock wave rolled toward him, and he ducked back around the table. Pieces of ceiling tile rained down around him, and a heavy light fixture landed inches from his head.

  With the rain of debris came more smoke, billowing out to envelop the room. Flames flickered inside the closet. In the seconds before the explosion, he’d lost track of Bray. In the next heartbeat, he almost lost track of himself. The choking atmosphere in the lab hit him like a cloud of drugged smoke from an opium den. Within seconds, his head felt like it was filling with cotton batten and he fought a wave of nausea.

  The smoke was clogging his lungs, turning his thoughts to oatmeal, but his training pushed him forward.

  When the debris stopped falling, the lab was deathly quiet. The rats had stopped squeaking, and he wondered if they were dead or just unconscious now.

  He made a heroic effort to crawl toward the door, but he got only a few yards farther before he felt his arms and legs begin to quiver. Desperately, he flailed out a hand and caught the leg of a lab stool. It was hot, and he pulled his hand back, just before the stool tipped over and crashed to the floor near his head.

  He cursed as it hit the cement surface, then lost the battle to keep down his lunch. Vomit spewed out in front of him, and he realized he was crawling through it as he tried to reach what he thought was the door—if he hadn’t gotten turned around in the smoke and fire.

  He felt as though he was battling to push his way through a sea of glue. He was still fighting to escape from the lab when everything went black.

  LILY DARNELL spoke desperately into the cell phone she was holding. “Gage, oh Lord, Gage. Call me as soon as you can. Tell me what’s happening. I’m using my cell to keep the house line clear.”

  She clicked the End button, then paced to the window and stared out at the trees that hemmed in the backyard on three sides.

  She had been fighting with Gage only minutes earlier. Well, not exactly fighting. She’d been mad enough to spit nails, and he’d been keeping his famous cool. Then an alarm bell had rung, and he’d dashed off into who knew what kind of danger.

  She waited two minutes, feeling the tension in her neck and shoulders increase. Finally, she dialed the main Cranesbrook number again—and got the same infuriating female voice.

  “We’re sorry that our St. Stephens facility is currently closed. Our regular hours of operation are Monday through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. If you would like to leave a message for the administrative staff, please press 1 now. If you would like to contact our laboratory complex, you must know your party’s extension.”

  There was no mention of the security men, but Lily pressed the extension for Gage’s private line. Once again his crisply recorded message said, “This is Gage Darnell. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  She’d already done that. And he hadn’t called back. When she’d heard the clanging in the background, she’d hoped it was some kind of false alarm.

  Now…

  She stared out at the backyard of the eighty-year-old house they’d bought in Baltimore County when they’d moved down here from Philadelphia three years ago.

  Gage had loved the super-size lot because it gave them privacy, and the detached garage where he could work on the electronics projects that he thought would bring him financial independence.

  She hadn’t loved moving to Baltimore, but she’d understood her husband’s arguments that the Philadelphia market was saturated with security companies, and he’d have a better chance of establishing his business farther south.

  All she’d realistically required was a drive to work that was under a half hour and a decent kitchen where she could test some recipes she wanted to try at Chez Amelia. She’d gotten both.

  Her sister, Pam, was already in the area. And Lily had made some women friends among the staff at the restaurant. Sometimes they went shopping or to the movies together. But that didn’t make up for having her husband absent most of the time. She was beginning to wonder if she was going to end up like the rest of his family—out of sight and out of mind.

  For a split second she thought about calling Pam. But she didn’t want to let on how worried she was. Instead, she grabbed the remote and turned on the television, standing across the room as she clicked through the local channels, looking for some kind of news report. Nobody was deviating from their regular programing.

  Which was good, she told herself. If the media hadn’t swarmed to Cranesbrook, everything was okay.

  Still, her legs felt shaky. Dropping into Gage’s easy chair, she closed her eyes, struggling for calm. But she couldn’t convince herself that staying here and waiting for her husband’s call was the right thing to do.

  She had to go down to St. Stephens. Of course, Gage wouldn’t appreciate having her hovering around. But that was too bad. She was worried, and she couldn’t just sit around waiting for him to remember that he had a wife at home who might be concerned about the abrupt way their phone conversation had ended.

  She grabbed a light jacket and was halfway out the door when the phone rang.

  She said a little prayer of thanks. Gage had remembered he had a wife who might be worried about him, and he was calling back to tell her what had happened. As soon as she knew he was okay, she was going to light into him for scaring her spitless.

  Snatching up the phone, she said his name in a rush of pent-up anxiety. “Gage?”

  “Mrs. Darnell?”

  It wasn’t him. “Yes,” she answered, preparing to get this guy off the line as soon as possible so her husband could call.

  “This is Sidney Edmonston.”

  She’d met the Cranesbrook president when she’d gone down for the Christmas party last year. He’d been pleasant in a distant sort of way. Now he was calling her on the phone, and she was sure he didn’t have good news.

  “Is Gage all right?” she asked, aware of the gasping quality of her own voice. “I was just talking to him, and I heard an alarm ring.”

  The man’s voice was grave, warning her that something bad was coming. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  Fear slammed into her, physically knocking her backward. Fear and guilt. “Where is Gage? Is he all right?” she managed to ask.

  Edmonston made an exasperated sound. “I don’t have much information. He’s been taken to Cambridge General Hospital.”

  “When?”

  “A half hour ago.”

  “I’m on my way down.”

  Chapter Two

  Gage was dreaming about his first date with Lily, when he’d decided that a guy whose mother worked as a maid didn’t have a chance with a woman whose family was the cream of Philadelphia society. That was before he’d realized she didn’t give a damn about all that upper-crust stuff.

  But when he reached to pull her close, she vanished. He was confused. Then he realized he’d been dreaming, and the
sound of murmured voices had wakened him.

  His eyes blinked open, then promptly closed as bright light hit them.

  “He’s back again,” a man’s voice observed. The words were accompanied by the smell of peppermint on the guy’s breath.

  Again. Back again. When was the last time he’d been awake? He had dim memories of coming to in an emergency room. Of nurses and doctors frantically rushing around. He’d told them he was fine. He’d tried to climb off the table, and someone had pushed him back and jabbed a needle in his arm.

  He’d come to the next time in a hospital room and smelled peppermint. When?

  He felt limp and weak, as if he’d been lying flat on his back for days, but that couldn’t be true. Could it?

  More scenes slithered through his mind. He’d been yelling. Demanding that they turn him loose. Telling them they had no right to keep him confined. Then…

  He tried to block the next part out. But the toxic memories rushed back. He’d been out of control. Fighting to get away from hands that held him down.

  But now he was back to normal. Well, not exactly normal, although he was feeling a lot calmer.

  “Where am I?” he asked. His voice hoarse, as though he’d been screaming and hurt his throat.

  “In the hospital.” He knew the man’s soothing tone was meant to reassure him. It had the opposite effect.

  A cold chill danced up his spine. When he tried to sit up, something kept him from moving. Slitting his eyes, he saw that his wrists were restrained to metal bars on the side of the bed. As if he was a nut case or something.

  In a calm voice, he made what sounded like a reasonable request. “Let me up.”

  “You need to rest. Everything’s all right.”

  Gage took a deep breath, ordering himself not to panic, searching for calm inside himself as he tried to focus on the man who was speaking.

  “What hospital is this?” he asked.

  “Beech Grove.”

  The name meant nothing. He kept his gaze on the man standing over his bed. He was medium height with thinning blond hair, and he was wearing a white coat and a calculating expression that didn’t match his calm voice.

  “Who are you?”

  “Dr. Morton.”

  A woman in a white uniform stood beside him. She was taller and more muscular than the doctor. Her brown hair was cropped short. Steel-rimmed glasses accentuated the harsh lines of her face. Although she was dressed like a nurse, her aggressive stance made her look more like a nightclub bouncer confronting an unruly patron.

  An old movie flashed into his mind—One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  Thinking of that story made the back of his neck tingle. The nurse—Nurse Ratched—had been the tinhorn god ruling a ward in a mental hospital. The one who ordered shock treatments and lobotomies for the men who got out of line.

  Lord, no!

  He wanted to believe that this was a regular hospital and that he was recovering from…from what?

  His mind supplied an answer: the effects of an accident at the Cranesbrook labs.

  But if this was a medical facility, why wasn’t the doctor checking his vital signs or something?

  He struggled to breathe slowly and evenly, to convince the two people standing over him that he wasn’t going to start screaming or fighting again. It wasn’t easy to come across as normal—not when he was lying here trussed up like a pig ready for slaughter.

  “Dr. Morton and Nurse…?” he inquired politely.

  “Nurse Dumont,” she supplied.

  He nodded. Then said, “I want to see Lily.”

  “She’s not here,” the doctor answered.

  She hadn’t come down to St. Stephens? He couldn’t believe that. They might have been fighting when all hell had broken loose in Lab 7. But she’d be worried.

  All hell?

  He tried to grab on to that memory—and succeeded in capturing an impression of a body lying on the floor. Then a loud bang followed by smoke.

  Or had he dreamed all that? Like he’d been dreaming about Lily.

  He didn’t know. The lack of information and the restraints on his wrists pushed his frustration level almost beyond endurance. But his instincts were good. He was sure it would be a mistake to let Dr. Morton and Nurse Dumont know that he was getting agitated.

  Luckily they didn’t have him hooked up to a bunch of machines so they couldn’t know how hard his heart was thumping inside his chest.

  He searched his mind for a reasonable topic of conversation under the circumstances and came back to Lily. “I’d like to see my wife,” he murmured.

  “Visitors would not be good for you at this time.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “That’s not important,” the doctor answered with maddening calm.

  If Gage could have moved, he would have surged off the bed, slammed the doctor and nurse into each other and made a run for the door.

  But the restraints kept him where he was.

  He flexed his muscles. They felt spongy. Even if he were free to stand, his knees might buckle under the weight of his own body.

  Making deliberate eye contact with the physician and keeping his voice under control, he said, “I think I have a right to know what’s going on.”

  Dr. Morton chose to look away. “We’ll talk later,” he muttered, then gave a small, dismissive wave of his arm to Nurse Dumont.

  It must have been a signal, because she stepped smartly forward. When she bent over Gage, he saw a hypodermic in her hand.

  “Wait!” he shouted.

  Ignoring the protest, she jammed the needle into his upper arm.

  “You need to sleep,” the doctor added.

  Gage didn’t need to sleep. He needed answers. And he needed to get away from this bed, from this room. But the medication made him woozy. Pulse pounding, he tried to fight it, but the effort was wasted.

  The last thing he remembered was the smell of peppermint wafting toward him.

  SOMETIME LATER, voices woke him again.

  He took a cautious breath, searching for the telltale essence of peppermint. He didn’t detect it. The doctor must not be in the room. Or maybe he’d switched to lemon drops, because now that scent hung in the air.

  Two women were talking. As he listened, he lay still, breathing evenly with his eyes closed.

  “Let me show you how we take care of him.” That was Nurse Dumont.

  Skilled hands touched his body, and he forced himself to lie still.

  “I haven’t handled a restrained patient before. Is it safe to be here?” a trembly voice asked. It belonged to a woman who was apparently learning the ropes from the master.

  “He’s still out, and the restraints will keep him from hurting you or himself, while we bathe him.”

  “Okay.”

  Gage was glad of the warning. He lay passively on the bed as they gave him a sponge bath. In truth, it felt good to have the perspiration washed off his body.

  Ms. Lemon apparently couldn’t keep her mouth shut. As she worked, she said, “I guess you want him all nice and clean for Dr. Morton.”

  “Yes. He’s with Vanderhoven now.”

  “I heard that there was another security guy caught in the explosion. Brayden Sloane. But he disappeared after the accident.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Nurse Dumont asked sharply.

  “Around town. People talk, you know.”

  “What else are they saying?”

  “Nothing much. Security is very tight at Cranesbrook.”

  Good thing they weren’t taking Gage’s pulse, because his heart was thumping now. He willed it to slow and was surprised that the maneuver seemed to work.

  “Sorry. I guess I’m a little nervous,” the rookie nurse apologized.

  “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Should we shave him?”

  “I did that last time. We don’t need to do it every time we bathe him.”

  Finally the two women left him on the b
ed, still held in place by wrist restraints. His head was muzzy, and he wanted to drift into the safety of sleep again. But he knew it was only a false refuge. When he woke up again, he’d still be in this bed. And still be a prisoner.

  The question was—why were they holding him? Did he know too much? About what? Or had someone set him up?

  He recognized the last question as paranoid. Yet he couldn’t shake the notion. He’d had a couple of run-ins with one of his guards. Evan Buckley. He’d caught the guy asleep at his post one evening. And another time Buckley had been breaking one of Five Star’s standing rules about talking on a cell phone while on duty.

  Gage had been on the verge of firing the guy.

  Could Buckley have had the guts to cook up a nasty surprise for Five Star management? Maybe he’d been ticked off enough to do it. But then what? Was he paying Dr. Morton to keep him here?

  It sounded pretty far-fetched. But far-fetched was the best Gage had at the moment.

  He clenched his fists. His nails needed clipping, and the pain helped him focus his resolve. He would get out of here.

  But how?

  LILY WAS barely aware of the heat and swirling activity in the sleek, stainless-steel restaurant kitchen. The charged atmosphere wasn’t unusual for a Baltimore hot spot at dinner. But this was lunchtime, and she had been called in for a double shift because Chez Amelia had a big birthday celebration in one of its private rooms.

  She should be cooking three orders of veal medallions. Instead, she stared down at the oversize skillet, her vision turned inward.

  She ached to drive back to the Eastern Shore so she could be near Gage. When she’d arrived at Cambridge General Hospital, Gage wasn’t there, and nobody would tell her where he was. In a panic, she’d driven to the Cranesbrook campus and found it locked up tighter than Fort Detrick, the army biological testing lab.

  Then she’d been startled to find the man at the gatehouse wearing gray pants and a blue shirt with an Ace Security patch on the left shoulder.