Page 25 of Resuscitation

Chapter Twenty-Three

As Blake entered the outpatient wing, he worried someone might come after him. Last thing he wanted was to lead the gunmen to Alyssa and Thomas, so instead of bearing left to the clinic rooms, he turned right to the admin corridor with its empty offices.

He took a moment to aim his light down the hall, making sure there were no major obstacles, but this area had already been stripped bare, even the light fixtures were gone, the corridor complete barren of everything except drywall and linoleum.

Light off, moving through the dark, he hadn’t gone far when the sound of soft footfalls made him freeze. Behind him. Someone skilled enough that they’d come through the double doors silently.

He clutched his pistol tight as he slipped into an empty office, back pressed against the wall.

The footsteps approached. Blake held his breath.

The guy was good, but the smarter play would’ve been to use a light, not play pussy-foot.

Maybe the guy didn’t have the training to know how to use a tactical light without making himself a target?

Maybe he enjoyed feeling like a predator, stalking his prey.

If so, he was about to have the tables turned on him.

Suddenly, the intercom in the ceiling above came to life. “To the intruder…”

Blake’s gut twisted with fury as the hostage taker finished his threat. But his pursuer, now just inches away, outside the door to the room where Blake hid, had another reaction. He whooped, leaping high to rattle the intercom speaker.

“Way to go, Mercer. Didn’t think you had it in you, man.” He continued down the hallway before Blake could jump him. But with that comment, condemning innocent civilians to a needless death, the man cemented his fate.

Blake was going to kill him.

He followed, tracking the man by sound alone.

A fine plan. Until Blake lost him. He backtracked and realized the man had turned down one of the short hallways that intersected with the abandoned section where Alyssa and Thomas were hiding.

Dammit. He needed to get ahead of the man, block his path to Alyssa and Thomas.

Blake slipped through a side door into the first office, as barren as the rest of the admin corridor, taking careful steps to avoid making any noise. His senses were on high alert, every misplaced footstep on the grimy floor was a potential threat to expose his position.

He slipped through the series of interconnected offices, ready to spring into action at any moment, pausing at each doorway, straining his ears for any sound of the gunman.

Then he ran out of offices, reaching the final connecting corridor. He turned toward the clinic hallway. Alyssa and Thomas were only three rooms away.

A muffled cry sounded through the darkness.

Alyssa. His stomach dropped. He was too late.

Avoiding the debris he’d noted earlier, he closed in to the only room with light streaming out. Through the partially open door, he caught sight of the gunman, silhouetted by the Maglite’s beam. The man loomed over Alyssa, who lay pale and still on the gurney. Thomas was nowhere to be seen.

Blake’s grip tightened on his pistol. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He had to act fast, but one wrong move could put Alyssa in even more danger.

He stepped forward toward the doorway, his foot skated slightly on a worn linoleum section, releasing a tiny squeak.

Shit.

The man turned away from Alyssa and looked directly at Blake. Perched on the top of his head were night vision goggles—one mystery answered.

But the most important thing, the thing Blake’s mind, his entire body, was totally focused on, was that the man had the muzzle of his semiautomatic resting against Alyssa’s temple.

“Join the party,” he said in a tone that held both humor and threat. AKA psycho. Figured.

“Alright,” Blake said steadily. “I’m coming in. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Stay where I can see you and keep it slow. Otherwise, your friend will die to regret it.” Psycho-guy grinned at his own joke, yet another tip off to his altered mental status.

Blake stepped into the doorway, hands raised, pistol dangling from his finger by the trigger guard.

“Drop the piece,” Psycho ordered.

Blake complied, crouching to set it to the floor, then standing once more. Last thing they needed was for a misfire.

“Hands in the air.”

“You guys already shot her once, you really gonna shoot her again? Why don’t you try a new target, someone more challenging than a girl,” Blake said, his tone laced with contempt.

“Just buying leverage, asshole. Now get on your knees, slowly. Then we’ll see how you feel about playing target.”

Blake eased himself onto his knees, which was an effort with his hands up. Not to mention his old injury made his leg stiff especially in the cold weather. The blade inside his boot twisted slightly. He’d almost forgotten about it.

Psycho moved toward him, eyes wide, pupils dilated with more than just adrenaline. Christ, the guy was high on something. Erratic, irrational, irritable, this guy had it all going on.

Before Blake could deliver a PSA on the dangers of mixing guns and drugs, Psycho flipped his pistol around and whacked Blake across the side of the head.

Blake crumpled lower to the floor, bracing himself with a palm while his other hand went to his head and felt sticky, warm blood oozing there.

His vision swam for a moment and nausea clenched his gut, but a few deep breaths cleared his head.

Psycho moved around him as if eying a particularly interesting specimen. Blake moved his hand slowly from his skull to his ankle, pretending his balance was wobbly after the blow, his fingers brushing the knife handle inside his boot.

“Hands back up!”

Blake grimaced and raised his hands.

“Please,” Alyssa said. “Please don’t?—”

“It’s okay, Alyssa, it’s okay,” Blake said calmly.

“Ya think? Well, we’ll see about that.” Psycho rammed a knee into his back. Blake flowed with the blow, acting as if it had made him buckle, one palm slapping the floor, the other slipping his knife free.

With a practiced motion, he thumbed the blade open and stabbed the man’s popliteal fossa, twisting the blade behind and under the kneecap to do as much damage as possible before yanking it free.

Psycho let out a yelp, aiming his pistol at…where Blake had been before he slammed his entire weight into a tackle, driving Psycho back, out of the room, away from Alyssa.

They crashed into the wall opposite the door.

Blake’s hands locked onto Psycho’s pistol arm, wrestling for control of the weapon.

Tangled together, they hit the floor hard, Psycho’s head cracking against the linoleum. Blake used the other man’s momentary daze to his advantage, twisting his wrist with all his strength. The gun clattered to the ground, skittering across the floor.

Psycho thrashed beneath him, trying to jab Blake with his elbow.

But Blake still held his knife, and he knew how to use it.

He didn’t just plunge the blade into Psycho’s thigh, he targeted the area around the femoral blood vessels with repeated punching stabs.

All he needed was for one to hit the vein—a more deadly wound than an arterial blow, but Blake would be happy with either.

Blood streamed freely from Psycho’s thigh as Blake pinioned the man, straddling his chest to keep him down. All Blake had to do was hold this position, and the wounds would do the rest. He’d bleed out, and it would be over.

Maybe it was the drugs in his system, but somehow Psycho found the strength to send his hips flying up, bucking Blake off. Then he spun around, slamming his elbow into Blake’s exposed back.

Blake grunted as pain shot up his spine.

He fought to maintain his position, knowing he couldn’t let Psycho gain the upper hand.

He used the wall for leverage—and to protect his back from another blow, climbing upright just as Psycho came at him, fingers outstretched like claws.

The blood had soaked the man’s pants, puddling on the floor, but Psycho wouldn’t give up, lips curled into a rictus grin, showing his teeth as he lunged and tried to dig his fingers into Blake’s eyeballs.

Blake blocked the frenzied attack, and Psycho laughed.

The kind of laugh that would haunt Blake’s nightmares for a long time, he was sure.

Blake spotted a stray wheelchair tipped sideways, gave it a hard shove, and used it to flip Psycho backwards onto the floor.

The damn fool somehow rolled over and tried to crawl away, but Blake easily caught him once more.

“Just…stay…down,” Blake growled through gritted teeth, pressing his total weight onto Psycho’s chest.

The man’s eyes were wide with panic, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

Blake watched the fight draining from the man, replaced by the sudden realization he was dying. For a moment, Blake was transported back to that goddamn highway in Afghanistan, watching the light fade from Miller’s eyes as they stared into Blake’s soul.

Blake kept his grip firm, watching as consciousness slowly slipped away from the man beneath him. When Psycho’s body finally went limp, Blake cautiously released his hold.

He checked for a pulse, finding none.

It was over.

Blake pushed himself to his feet, breathing heavily, wincing at the pain in his back. He stumbled over to where the gunman’s pistol had fallen, scooping it up and checking the magazine. Half full.

Better than nothing. He trudged back to Alyssa.

“Blake,” Alyssa whispered weakly, her voice barely audible.

“Yeah, still here.” He checked her vitals—oxygen too low, pulse too high, despite her needle decompression. Jeezit, no way in hell he’d ever have the guts to do that to himself. “Shit, Alyssa. You’re one tough bi?—”

“Boss,” she finished for him. She gestured to the O2 tank, and he realized that was part of the problem.

Easy enough fix. With well-practiced moves, he grabbed one of the spare tanks and the wrench and had her switched over in a matter of seconds.

The pulse ox began to climb up, although still was nowhere near where he’d like it.

“Where’s Thomas?”

She moved her head slightly from side to side. “Don’t…know. Left.”

Blake cursed under his breath. The last thing he needed was Thomas getting himself into trouble. Where could he have gone? The old man couldn’t see enough to make it out the construction exit much less drive anywhere. Which meant…

No. Oh, no.

Blake glanced at his watch. The five minutes weren’t up yet. He was pretty sure the hostage takers wouldn’t kill their only bargaining chips, but after meeting Psycho.…And if Thomas heard the announcement…

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He grabbed his pistol from the floor. It had a full mag, so he gave Alyssa Psycho’s weapon. “Just in case,” he told her.

“Get Thomas.”

“Aim to.”

He had a plan. Well, half of a plan. But he had to go big if he was going to provide enough of a diversion to pull the gunmen away from the hostages and Thomas. If only Thomas didn’t get himself killed before Blake could reach him.

He grabbed the eight-ounce bottles of hand sanitizer from both the trauma bag and the med kit. “I’ll be back,” he told Alyssa.

It only took a few seconds to position Psycho in the wheelchair. Thankfully, the wheels worked fine even if the leather seat was torn. Blake sped the dead man down the hall toward the ER, dousing Psycho in the alcohol-based sanitizing solution as they went.

He paused at the double doors, tucking his pistol in his belt—his drill sergeant would have howled at that—and slipping his knife back in its sheath.

Then he dug his old Zippo from his inside jacket pocket.

Blake didn’t smoke. It was a good luck charm he always carried with him, had seen his grandfather through Vietnam.

And now it was about to save a bunch of innocent civilian’s lives.

If Blake could pull this off.