Page 19 of Resuscitation

Chapter Seventeen

Blake stealthily moved along the corridor of the abandoned part of the building, Halligan in hand.

He stopped occasionally to listen, attempting to gauge where in the building everyone might be.

It was likely the hostages would be gathered in the waiting room, the only place large enough to hold several people plus staff.

He assumed there were between four and six gunmen based on the size of the SUV that had brought them here.

At least one of them was injured, from the blood he’d seen on the ambulance bay floor.

So, count on five. If it was him, he’d want at least two with the hostages—one man was too easy to rush and overwhelm.

That left three patrolling or with their injured comrade.

He stopped at the double doors dividing the old clinic wing from the emergency department.

They used to be locked, requiring a keycode to access the ER, but since the demolition work had begun, they were left unsecured.

Light shone through the doors’ narrow windows, but he didn’t see any movement.

The waiting room was at the far end of the corridor.

The nearest treatment rooms to this entrance were the trauma bay and the suture and ortho rooms. He edged one door open a crack and listened.

A woman’s voice. Sara. Talking to a man outside the trauma bay. She was angry—furious. He couldn’t make out their words, but that didn’t stop relief from washing over him.

Sara was alive.

That didn’t mean she was unharmed, though, he thought as relief turned to fury, burning deep in his belly, energizing him. He was desperate to charge down the hall, save her despite having no idea what kind of resistance he’d face.

No. Wrong.

He knew these men were well-armed, so any foolish efforts to rescue Sara or any of the hostages could just as easily get innocents killed. Including Blake.

And then who would save Sara? First rule of trauma, he heard Alyssa’s voice in his head. Why was she always right?

If he followed the corridor past the trauma room and ambulance entrance, he’d reach the main reception area.

But his first priority was to find a phone, call for backup.

The nurses’ station was at the center of the square of hallways that made up the ER wing, out of sight of both the waiting room and trauma bay. And he knew it had working phones.

He circled through the rear hallway, coming out at the nurse’s station: a glass-walled report room, med room, supply closet, and large charting desk, it was the heart of the ER.

And it was blissfully empty.

He ducked down behind the desk, taking the landline phone with him and dialed 911.

“Come on, come on,” he mouthed silently.

A few seconds passed. The slowest seconds Blake had ever experienced.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

When Blake spoke, his voice came out in a harsh whisper. “This is Blake Harrow. I’m at Eastfork ER. There are gunmen here. Hostage takers, maybe four to six of them. Armed with MP5s, handguns, and they have already killed the dispatch operator, possibly others.”

The operator’s tone immediately shifted. “Stay calm. We have officers close by. They’ll be there soon.”

“How soon is soon? These guys—they killed at least four cops already. They’re desperate and ruthless, a bad combo.” Blake wiped sweat from his forehead. “There’s no good tactical approach,” he added quickly. “They’ll see it coming if you come in the front or through the EMS bay.”

There was a brief silence. “Understood. Is there another way in?”

Blake swallowed hard, glancing toward the back of the building.

“There’s a door in the rear—part of the old outpatient clinic wing that’s closed down.

I left a wounded paramedic, Alyssa Abbasi, and an elderly patient, Thomas Milton, there.

They’re not known to the gunmen. That might be a good route for law enforcement, but you must be careful. I’m gonna see what I can do from here.”

The operator’s voice tightened. “Sir, you need to stand down. Hide somewhere safe, and don’t engage. I repeat: do not engage with them. It’s too dangerous.”

“But—” Blake clenched his jaw.

“No. Do nothing. Officers are on route. Just stay out of sight.”

Blake heard approaching footsteps and cut the call. He quickly slid the phone back to the top of the desk. There wasn’t room below it for him—and it was a poor tactical position, so he ducked his head up just far enough to see one of the gunmen emerging from a restroom down the hall.

Blake did a quick scuttle to the supply room door on the far wall, out of the gunman’s line of sight.

He slid inside, holding the door shut. Footsteps approached.

Shit. He did a mental inventory of what he remembered being stored inside here.

Gauze, splints, tape, bandages, a myriad of miscellaneous medical paraphernalia, none of them potential lethal weapons.

Except… He clicked his light on, found what he wanted along with a bonus treat: a small digital alarm. He quickly programmed it, then switched the Maglite off again as the footsteps grew closer.

Gripping the Halligan in one hand, his new weapon in the other, he pressed his eye to the crack in the door. A man’s shadow passed behind the desk.

Now or never, was he going to hide, or seek?

He thought of Sara at the mercy of these monsters.

Seek. Most definitely seek.