Reluctantly, Gabriel turned his attention back to Joe, and the two men sat facing each other. It looked like a perfectly civilized summit, except for the fact that one of the men had a gun resting in his lap. Olena, now stationed on Jane’s couch, held an equally lethal weapon. Just a nice little get-together with two couples. Which pair will survive the night?
“What did they tell you about me?” said Joe. “What’s the FBI saying?”
“A few things.”
“I’m crazy, right? A loner. Paranoid.”
“Yes.”
“You believe them?”
“I have no reason not to.”
Jane watched her husband’s face. Though he spoke calmly, she could see the strain in his eyes, the tight muscles of his neck. You knew this man was insane, she thought, yet you walked in here anyway. All for me … She suppressed a groan as a new contraction began to build. Keep quiet. Don’t distract Gabriel; let him do what he needs to do. She sank back on the couch, teeth gritted, suffering in silence. Kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, on a single dark smudge on the acoustic tile. Concentrate on your focal point. Mind over pain. The ceiling blurred, the smudge seeming to bob in an unsteady sea of white. It made her nauseated just to look at it. She closed her eyes, like a seasick sailor woozy from rocking waves.
Only when the contraction began to ease, when the pain at last released its grip, did she open her eyes. Her gaze, once again, focused on the ceiling. Something had changed. Next to the smudge there was now a small hole, almost unnoticeable among the pores of the acoustic tile.
She glanced at Gabriel, but he was not looking at her. He was completely focused on the man sitting across from him.
Joe asked: “Do you think I’m insane?”
Gabriel regarded him for a moment. “I’m not a psychiatrist. I can’t make that determination.”
“You walked in here expecting a crazy man to be waving a gun around, didn’t you?” He leaned forward. “That’s what they told you. Be honest.”
“You really want me to be honest?”
“Absolutely.”
“They told me I’d be dealing with two terrorists. That’s what I was led to believe.”
Joe sat back, his face grim. “So that’s how they’re going to end it,” he said quietly. “Of course. It’s how they would end it. What kind of terrorists are we supposed to be?” He glanced at Olena, then laughed. “Oh. Chechens, probably.”
“Yes.”
“Is John Barsanti running the show?”
Gabriel frowned. “You know him?”
“He’s been tracking us since Virginia. Everywhere we go, he seems to turn up. I knew he’d show up here. He’s probably just waiting to zip up our body bags.”
“You don’t have to die. Hand me your weapons, and we’ll all leave together. No gunfire, no blood. I give you my word.”
“Yeah, there’s a guarantee.”
“You let me walk in here. Which means that, on some level, you trust me.”
“I can’t afford to trust anyone.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because I refuse to go to my grave without some hope of justice. We’ve tried taking this to the press. We handed them the fucking evidence. But no one gives a shit.” He looked at Olena. “Show them your arm. Show them what Ballentree did to you.”
Olena tugged her sleeve above her elbow and pointed to a jagged scar.
“You see?” said Joe. “What they put in her arm?”
“Ballentree? Are you talking about the defense contractor?”
“Latest microchip technology. A way for Ballentree to track its property. She was human cargo, brought over straight from Moscow. A little business that Ballentree operates on the side.”
Jane looked back at the ceiling. Suddenly she realized that there were other fresh holes in the acoustic tiles. She glanced at the two men, but they were still focused on each other. No one else was looking upward; no one else saw that the ceiling was now riddled with punctures.
“So this is all about a defense contractor?” said Gabriel, his voice perfectly even, revealing no hint of the skepticism he surely felt.
“Not just any defense contractor. We’re talking about the Ballentree Company. Direct ties to the White House and Pentagon. We’re talking about executives who make billions of dollars every time we go to war. Why do you think Ballentree lands almost all the big contracts? Because they own the White House.”
“I hate to tell you this, Joe, but this isn’t exactly a new conspiracy theory. Ballentree is everyone’s bogeyman these days. A lot of people are itching to bring them down.”
“But Olena can actually do it.”
Gabriel looked at the woman, his gaze dubious. “How?”
“She knows what they did in Ashburn. She’s seen what kind of people these are.”
Jane was still staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what she was now seeing. Needle-thin lines of vapor were streaming silently from above. Gas. They are pumping gas into the room.
She looked at her husband. Did he know this was about to happen? Did he know this was the plan? No one else seemed aware of the silent invader. No one else realized that the assault was now beginning, heralded by those fine streams of gas.
We are all breathing it in.
She tensed as she felt another contraction. Oh god, not now, she thought. Not when all hell is about to break loose. She gripped the couch cushion, waiting for the contraction to peak. The pain had her in its jaws now, and all she could do was grip the cushion and hang on. This one’s going to be bad, she thought. Oh, this one’s really bad.
But the pain never reached its climax. Suddenly the cushion seemed to melt away in Jane’s fist. She felt herself being dragged downward, toward the sweetest of sleep. Through the gathering numbness, she heard banging, and men’s shouts. Heard Gabriel’s voice, muffled, calling her name from across a great distance.
The pain was almost gone now.
Something bumped up against her, and softness brushed across her face. The touch of a hand, the faintest caress on her cheek. A voice whispered, words that she did not understand, soft and urgent words that were almost lost in the banging, in the sudden crash of the door. A secret, she thought. She is telling me a secret.
Mila. Mila knows.
There was a deafening blast, and warmth splashed her face.
Gabriel, she thought. Where are you?
TWENTY-ONE
At the sound of the first gunshots, the crowd standing in the street gave a collective gasp. Maura’s heart froze to a standstill. Tactical Ops officers held the police line as fresh gunfire thudded inside. She saw looks of confusion on the officers’ faces as the minutes passed, everyone waiting for word of what was happening inside. No one was moving; no one was rushing the building.
What are they all waiting for?
Police radios suddenly crackled: “Building secure! The entry team is out, and the building is now secure! Roll medical. We need stretchers—”
Med-Q teams rushed forward, pushing through the police tape like sprinters crossing the finish line. The breaking of that yellow tape touched off chaos. Suddenly reporters and cameras surged toward the building as well, as Boston PD struggled to hold them back. A helicopter hovered overhead, blades thumping.
Through the cacophony, Maura heard Korsak shout: “I’m a cop, goddammit! My friend’s in there! Let me through!” Korsak glanced her way and called out: “Doc, you gotta find out if she’s okay!”
Maura pushed ahead, to the police line. The cop gave her ID a harried glance, and shook his head.
“They need to take care of the living first, Dr. Isles.”
“I’m a physician. I can help.”
Her voice was almost drowned out by the chopper, which had just landed in the parking lot across the street. Distracted, the cop turned to yell at a reporter: “Hey, you! Get back now.”
Maura slipped past him and ran into the building, dreading what she would find inside. Just as she tur
ned into the hallway leading to Diagnostic Imaging, a stretcher came barreling toward her, wheeled by two EMTs, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. She saw the pregnant belly, the dark hair, and thought: No. Oh god, no.
Jane Rizzoli was covered in blood.
At that instant, all of Maura’s medical training seemed to abandon her. Panic made her focus on the blood, and only the blood. So much of it. Then, as the stretcher rolled past her, she saw the chest rise and fall. Saw the hand moving.
“Jane?” called out Maura.
The EMTs were already hurrying the stretcher through the lobby. Maura had to run to catch up.
“Wait! What’s her condition?”
One of the men glanced back over his shoulder. “This one’s in labor. We’re moving her to Brigham.”
“But all the blood—”
“It’s not hers.”
“Then whose?”
“The gal back there.” He cocked a thumb down the hallway. “She’s not going anywhere.”
She stared after the stretcher as it rattled out the door. Then she turned and ran up the hallway, moving past EMTs and Boston PD officers, toward the heart of the crisis.
“Maura?” a voice called, oddly distant and muffled.
She spotted Gabriel struggling to sit up on a stretcher. An oxygen mask was strapped to his face, and an IV line tethered his arm to a bag of saline.
“Are you all right?”
Groaning, he lowered his head. “Just … dizzy.”
The EMT said: “It’s the aftereffects of the gas. I just gave him some IV Narcan. He needs to take it easy for a while. It’s like coming out of anesthesia.”
Gabriel lifted the mask. “Jane—”
“I just saw her,” said Maura. “She’s fine. They’re moving her to Brigham Hospital.”
“I can’t sit here any longer.”
“What happened in there? We heard gunshots.”
Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“Your mask,” said the EMT. “You need that oxygen right now.”
“They didn’t have to do it this way,” said Gabriel. “I could have talked them out of there. I could have convinced them to surrender.”
“Sir, you need to put your mask back on.”
“No,” snapped Gabriel. “I need to be with my wife. That’s what I need to do.”
“You’re not ready to go.”
“Gabriel, he’s right,” said Maura. “Look at you, you can barely sit up. Lie down for a while longer. I’ll drive you to Brigham Hospital myself, but not until you’ve had a chance to recover.”
“Just a little while,” said Gabriel, weakly settling back onto the stretcher. “I’ll be better in a while …”
“I’ll be right back.”
She spotted the doorway to Diagnostic Imaging. As she stepped through, the first thing her eyes fixed on was the blood. It was always the blood that demanded your attention, those shocking splashes of red that shout out: Something terrible, truly terrible, has happened here. Though half a dozen men were standing around the room, and debris from the ambulance crews still lay scattered across the floor, she remained fixated on the bright evidence of death that was spattered across the walls. Then her gaze swung to the woman’s body, slumped against the couch, black hair wicking blood onto the floor. Never before had she felt faint at the sight of gore, but she suddenly found herself swaying sideways, and had to catch herself on the door frame. It’s the remnants of whatever gas they used in this room, she thought. It has not yet been fully ventilated.
She heard the whish of plastic, and through a fog of lightheadedness, she saw a white sheet being laid out on the floor. Saw Agent Barsanti and Captain Hayder standing by as two men wearing latex gloves rolled the bloodied corpse of Joseph Roke onto the plastic.
“What are you doing?” she said.
No one acknowledged her presence.
“Why are you moving the bodies?”
The two men who were now squatting over the corpse paused, and glanced up in Barsanti’s direction.
“They’re being flown to Washington,” said Barsanti.
“You don’t move a thing until someone from our office examines the scene.” She looked at the two men, poised to zip up the body bag. “Who are you? You don’t work for us.”
“They’re FBI,” said Barsanti.
Her head was now perfectly clear, all dizziness swept away by anger. “Why are you taking them?”
“Our pathologists will do the autopsy.”
“I haven’t released these bodies.”
“It’s only a matter of paperwork, Dr. Isles.”
“Which I’m not about to sign.”
The others in the room were all watching them now. Most of the men standing around were, like Hayder, Boston PD officers.
“Dr. Isles,” said Barsanti, sighing, “why fight this turf battle?”
She looked at Hayder. “This death occurred in our jurisdiction. You know we have custody of these remains.”
“You sound as if you don’t trust the FBI,” said Barsanti.
It’s you I don’t trust.
She stepped toward him. “I never did hear a good explanation for why you’re here, Agent Barsanti. What’s your involvement in this?”
“These two people are suspects in a New Haven shooting. I believe you already know that. They crossed state lines.”
“It doesn’t explain why you want the bodies.”
“You’ll get the final autopsy reports.”
“What are you afraid I’ll find?”
“You know, Dr. Isles, you’re starting to sound as paranoid as these two people.” He turned to the two men standing over Roke’s corpse. “Let’s pack them up.”
“You’re not going to touch them,” Maura said. She pulled out her cell phone and called Abe Bristol. “We have a death scene here, Abe.”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching TV. How many?”
“Two. Both of the hostage takers were killed in the takedown. The FBI’s about to fly the bodies to Washington.”
“Wait a minute. First the feds shoot them, and now they want to do the autopsy? What the hell?”
“I thought you’d say that. Thanks for backing me up.” She disconnected and looked at Barsanti. “The medical examiner’s office refuses to release these two bodies. Please leave the room. After CSU finishes up here, our staff will move the remains to the morgue.”
Barsanti seemed about to argue, but she merely gave him a cold stare that told him this was not a battle she would cede.
“Captain Hayder,” she said. “Do I need to call the governor’s office on this?”
Hayder sighed. “No, it’s your jurisdiction.” He looked at Barsanti. “It looks like the medical examiner is assuming control.”
Without another word, Barsanti and his men walked out of the room.
She followed them and stood watching as they retreated down the hallway. This death scene, she thought, will be dealt with like any other. Not by the FBI, but by Boston PD’s homicide unit. She was about to make her next call, this one to Detective Moore, when she suddenly noticed the empty stretcher in the hallway. The EMT was just packing up his kit.
“Where is Agent Dean?” Maura asked. “The man who was lying there?”
“Refused to stay. Got up and walked out.”
“You couldn’t stop him from leaving?”
“Ma’am, nothing could stop that guy. He said he had to be with his wife.”
“How’s he getting there?”
“Some bald guy’s giving him a ride. A cop, I think.”
Vince Korsak, she thought.
“They’re headed over to Brigham now.”
Jane could not remember how she’d arrived at this place with its bright lights and shiny surfaces and masked faces. She recalled only a fragment of a memory here and there. Men’s shouts, the squeaking of gurney wheels. The flash of blue cruiser lights. And then a white ceiling scrolling above her as she was moved down a corridor in
to this room. Again and again she had asked about Gabriel, but no one could tell her where he was.
Or they were afraid to tell her.
“Mom, you’re doing just fine,” the doctor said.
Jane blinked at the pair of blue eyes smiling down at her over a surgical mask. Everything is not fine, she thought. My husband should be here. I need him.
And stop calling me Mom.
“When you feel the next contraction,” the doctor said, “I want you to push, okay? And keep pushing.”
“Someone has to call,” said Jane. “I need to know about Gabriel.”
“We have to get your baby born first.”
“No, you need to do what I want, first! You need to—you need to—” She sucked in a breath as a fresh contraction came on. As her pain built to a peak, so did her rage. Why weren’t these people listening to her?
“Push, Mom! You’re almost there!”
“God—damn it—”
“Come on. Push.”
She gave a gasp as pain brutally clamped its jaws. But it was fury that made her bear down, that kept her pushing with such fierce determination that her vision began to darken. She did not hear the door whoosh open, nor did she see the man dressed in blue scrubs slip into the room. With a cry, she collapsed back against the table and lay gulping in deep breaths. Only then did she see him looking down at her, his head silhouetted against the bright lights.
“Gabriel,” she whispered.
He took her hand and stroked back her hair. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember what happened—”
“It’s not important now.”
“Yes, it is. I need to know.”
Another contraction began to build. She took a breath and gripped his hand. Clung on to it like a woman dangling over an abyss.
“Push,” the doctor said.
She curled forward, grunting, every muscle straining as sweat slid into her eyes.
“That’s it,” the doctor said. “Almost there …”
Come on, baby. Stop being so goddamn stubborn. Help your mama out!
She was on the edge of a scream now, her throat about to burst. Then, suddenly, she felt blood rush out between her legs. Heard angry cries, like the howling of a cat.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 141
