Page 26 of Resuscitation

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sara sat with Connor, doing what she could to make him comfortable but keep him lucid enough to convince his brother not to kill everyone.

The nitrous had run out, so she switched him back to a non-rebreather mask.

He said he wasn’t in pain, didn’t want her to give him any sedation—she could have used the lorazepam in the crash cart, kept there for seizures—so she was reduced to sitting beside him, holding his hand.

She’d just turned the monitor alarms off—his heart rate alarm kept blaring—when the intercom sounded with Mercer’s voice. Sara listened to his threat, her own heart rate speeding much too fast.

“Five minutes. Starting now,” Mercer finished.

“He can’t—he wouldn’t—” she said.

“He would,” Connor said with a sigh.

She whirled on him. “How do I stop him?”

His face contorted with emotion. “Andrew’s obsessed with the rubies.”

“Rubies? Are those what you stole? Are innocent people dying because of some damned rubies?” Her voice rose, and Connor flinched.

Dying man and her patient. She forced herself calm, resuming her seat beside him.

“The Bitterroot Stars. They’re everything to him. But they’re cursed. They’ll destroy him,” Connor whispered. “Take them.” He gestured with the finger his pulse ox was on, pointing to Luca’s body and his own bloody clothes they’d cut him out of. “They’re in my shirt pocket.”

“What good will they do me?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Hostages. I run with the rubies, offer to exchange them for the hostage’s safety.” It meant sacrificing her own life. Mercer would never let her live, not after that, she was certain.

But Mercer was ready to kill everyone anyway. Die now, save lives; die later, lose lives.

Easy equation.

Sara moved over to the pile of bloody clothing, forcing herself to ignore Luca’s body. But it wasn’t Luca, not anymore. Just a lump of cold, bloody flesh.

She dragged out everything Connor had been wearing. His shirt was in shreds but the pockets were intact—and empty. As were the cargo pants pockets—all of them, even the tiny, hidden one inside the front pocket. She checked his boots, the pouches that lined his ballistic vest, his jacket.

She turned back to him. “Nothing. They’re not here.”

* * *

Hands on the wheelchair’s handles, Blake stood outside the double doors separating the unused wing from the ER wing.

He had two options for approaching the waiting room where the hostages and gunmen were: turn right and take the fastest approach directly to the main doors, or turn left and go through the triage area, which would provide him more cover and increase the element of surprise.

The only drawback was that maneuvering the wheelchair through two sets of doors would cost him a few seconds, but he decided it’d be worth it.

The intercom came to life once more. “Time’s up. I’m gonna start shooting. A hostage every five minutes. Their blood is on your hands.”

Blake gripped his Zippo, the man’s words igniting his blood as if it was him on fire.

He opened the door, ready to plow through it, safety be damned, when he saw a man walking toward the waiting room from the direction of the nurse’s station.

He wore tactical gear like the others, rifle slung to his back, pistol in his hand.

From the set of his jaw, this had to be the leader.

He watched through the doors as the man approached two men standing at the main entrance leading into the waiting room. They were close enough he could hear them once he cracked the door open.

“Who’s it gonna be, Mercer?” one of the guards asked the leader.

Mercer. Blake wasn’t going to forget that name.

Since he’d taken down two men already, and someone had to be injured given the blood in the EMS bay, these three must be the only ones left. And they were all here, together, the perfect target.

If it wasn’t for the oblique angle and two civilians potentially in the line of fire, he might have considered going for a shot. But even if he downed one of them, the other two held weapons, could unleash a barrage on the hostages.

No. Best to stick with his plan.

While the men were focused on the hostages, he opened the doors and wheeled his alcohol-soaked package through, turning toward the triage area.

He typed in his key code and entered the small hall behind the triage assessment cubicles.

From here, he had a good view into the waiting room, could plan his trajectory.

The hostages sat in chairs lined up against the far wall, across from Blake. Their hands were bound in front of them with duct tape, but their legs seemed free of restraints. Good, they’d be able to run for it once he caught the gunmen’s attention.

Mercer entered the room, standing in the middle, facing the hostages, which put him and his men’s backs to Blake. Mercer aimed his pistol in a sweeping motion across the faces of the terrified hostages, landing on a young boy wearing a hockey shirt.

Blake began his countdown.

One… He flipped the Zippo open.

In two quick strides, Mercer reached the child and yanked him up by the arm. The boy’s mother jumped up to protect him, her voice piercing the tense silence. “No! Please, not my son! Please!”

Two…Blake lined the wheelchair up on a diagonal that would carry it across the linoleum directly at Mercer and his men. His finger hovered over the Zippo’s striker.

“Shut up,” Mercer told her. One of his men—Harper, the man Blake had fought with earlier—stepped forward to force her back into her seat.

Behind the wheelchair, Blake crouched low, ready to push off. Harper stepped away from the woman. Perfect…

Blake struck the Zippo, the lighter flaming into life.

Mercer yanked the kid’s head back, pistol pressed to his temple. Tears tracked down the boy’s face.

Pure terror.

Blake shoved the wheelchair as hard as he could and?—

Three! Blake tossed the lighter into Psycho’s lap.

“Stop that,” came a commanding voice from the waiting room door.

Thomas! Shit, the old man had bad timing. But it was too late for Blake to do anything except draw his gun and pray for a clear shot before Thomas got himself killed.

Mercer and his men spun to face the new threat even as Psycho’s body whooshed into a fiery, ballistic missile racing toward their blindside.

Blake raised his pistol, finger on the trigger, ready to fire. Thomas, god bless him, had stumbled forward, now stood directly in Blake’s line of fire, blocking his shot.

Fire alarms blared to life, crescendoing, filling the room with a chaotic cacophony.

Hostages screamed, the sound jagged, as they flung themselves away from the wheelchair careening into the room.

Mercer, blind panic etching his face, let loose of the boy. He and his men whirled to unleash a firestorm at the flaming figure in the wheelchair.

A series of metallic clicks sounded from above. A rush of water sheeted down.

Blake fought to get a clear shot, but Thomas, confused by the noise, the water no doubt adding to his disorientation, kept moving between him and his targets. Blake had no choice but to leave cover, enter the open space of the waiting area.

The gambit paid off. Finally, he had a shot at Mercer.

As he raised his pistol, a stray bullet hit his arm. Adrenaline blocked any real pain, but the impact threw his aim off, his shots thudding into the wall beside the door, missing their target.

The wheelchair finally came to a halt, the body slumped to the side, riddled with bullets.

The sharp smell of gunpowder and a sickening stench of burning flesh filled the air, burning Blake’s throat, and bent him over, coughing.

He looked up as the second gunman, a squat guy with a mohawk, moved through the smoke, brandishing a fire extinguisher in his meaty hands. White foam sprayed, covering the burning figure in the wheelchair, adding to the sprinkler dousing. The air grew thick with a choking fog.

Blake’s visibility dropped to near zero, his world becoming a swirling, opaque nightmare as he lost sight of Thomas and one of the gunmen, Harper, in the confusion.

He ignored his wounded arm, dripping blood inside his coat sleeve, as he tried to isolate his targets, but acrid smoke stung his eyes, making it impossible to see clearly.

The backdrop of screams from the hostages blurred into the moment’s soundtrack.

He heard Mercer’s voice: “Take this, you fuck!” followed by a sickening thud and a pained groan from Thomas.

Blake’s stomach twisted. As the smoke cleared, Blake caught a glimpse of Mercer shoving Thomas against the wall.

His every instinct demanded that he surge forward to protect the old man, but his tactical training took over.

As soon as the smoke cleared, he’d be exposed, without cover, totally vulnerable. He had no choice but to run.

Even worse, he’d achieved total mission failure.

All three gunmen were unharmed, and now Thomas was the new target of their fury.