Page 30 of Resuscitation

Chapter Twenty-Eight

After Sara left, Blake felt the adrenaline seep from his body, leaving him physically and emotionally drained. He’d never felt so exhausted. The night of constant high adrenaline, high danger, and close combat had nearly wiped him out.

He headed out to the parking lot, hands in his jacket pockets. The snowstorm had passed, leaving only a light breeze scudding wispy clouds overhead. There were even a few stars visible. He gripped the handle of his truck door and yanked it open, but a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind.

Something wasn’t right.

He closed the door again without getting in and scanned the area, his brow furrowed in concentration. The parking lot, dotted with haphazardly parked emergency vehicles and the remnants of the night’s chaos, seemed eerily still.

He’d missed something. Something important.

Blake hurried back inside the building and straight to the trauma bay, standing outside the room where the bodies of Mercer and Brick lay in the same position that they had both died in.

Connor’s corpse was still on the cot, covered by a sheet.

A forensic photographer circled the bodies, relentlessly snapping away and illuminating the room with bright flashes.

The sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the metallic tang of blood, creating an unsettling atmosphere.

Blake retraced his steps from there, arriving first at the nursing station where he’d unleashed the liquid nitrogen, freezing one thug’s face, and brawled with the South African.

Here, there were more forensic techs, swirling fingerprint brushes and wielding cameras.

He saw the dead man’s boots, but it hadn’t been Blake’s attack that killed him. It was the South African, Harper.

Where the hell was Harper? The cops had said there was no one to take into custody, only corpses. But Harper had been very much alive when Blake last saw him.

He waved to the CSI techs and continued down the hallway to the waiting room. Someone had covered Psycho’s burnt body with a yellow plastic sheet and there was an officer standing guard at the door.

She looked up at him. “Sir, this is a restricted area. Do you have…”

“I’m looking for Dr. Porter? The detectives were interviewing her.”

She nodded. “Right. They sent her home, were going to follow up with a formal interview tomorrow.”

“She’s gone?”

“I saw one of the SWAT officers escorting her out not two minutes ago.”

Blake froze. “I don’t think that was a police officer,” he told her. “There’s a gunman unaccounted for.”

She frowned. “No, sir. I was told they accounted for all five hostage takers.”

Blake had told the detectives everything he’d seen, but he hadn’t actually sat down and counted how many gunmen he’d encountered.

He stopped, did a mental inventory: dead guy #1 at the nursing station, Psycho aka dead guy #2, mohawk guy, Mercer, Connor—also all dead.

Leaving Harper. “Not five. Six. Radio your supervisor. There’s a man, South African accent, name of Harper—not sure if that’s his first or last name. I think he impersonated a SWAT officer and escaped. Maybe with Dr. Porter.”

She keyed her radio, but Blake wasn’t about to stand around and wait. The cops had what they needed to start a search and send a car to Sara’s home. No way in hell was he going to let her face potential danger alone. Not again.

He turned and ran, ignoring the officer’s calls to wait. His heart pumped with terror as he burst through the main entrance doors and into the parking lot, his eyes frantically scanning the snow-covered ground.

As he approached the empty space where Sara’s Subaru had been parked, Blake’s gut twisted with dread.

The imprint of her tires was still visible in the fresh snow, but something else caught his attention.

Footprints. Men’s boots. Alongside a woman’s tracks.

Leading from the staff exit to where Sara’s car had been parked.

He spun to his truck, climbing in and jamming the key into the ignition before he even got the door shut.

“Please be wrong, please be wrong,” he muttered as he gunned the engine, his truck lurching across to the exit.

A mass of tire tracks crisscrossed the white expanse—all the recent police and emergency services that had rolled into the hospital. But all tire tracks came and went in the direction of Potsdam, except one pair of tracks that headed off in the opposite direction toward Eastfork.

Blake scanned the road ahead, searching for any sign of Sara’s car as he sped through the familiar landmarks of Eastfork. He lost the tracks when he hit the one section of town that had been plowed—the few blocks on either side of the fire department.

She said she was going home, and maybe that’s just what she did—went home. Alone. But the nagging feeling in his gut wouldn’t subside. He’d learned to trust his instincts in the war zone, and now they were screaming at him like a mad banshee.

Sara had hosted a staff BBQ last summer.

It was the only time he’d been to her house, but he remembered she lived in a small development of mid-century ranches.

He drove there, squinting to make out street signs and house numbers.

All the houses appeared near-identical in the dark, their outlines blurred by the fallen snow.

“Maybe she’s fine,” he muttered, unable to convince himself. No sign of any cops, either.

Then he rounded a corner, a pair of red taillights flashing as they braked to pull into a driveway.

Blake’s breath caught. Was it Sara’s car?

Or was he chasing shadows, letting his paranoia get the best of him?

He slowed, switched off his lights, eased to a stop a few houses away. The vehicle ahead parked haphazardly. Definitely Sara’s Subaru.

Two figures emerged from the car, barely visible in dark.

Blake held his breath as he recognized Sara’s slender form being shoved toward the house by a taller, much broader figure. Harper, the South African. Had to be. He reached for his cell to call the cops but realized he didn’t have it.

He watched the man push Sara through the front door, disappearing inside the darkened house. Blake’s instincts screamed at him to rush in, to save Sara, but he forced himself to remain still. Rushing in mindlessly could put Sara in even more danger.

Blake quickly scanned the interior of his truck, his gaze settling on the glove compartment.

He kept a long screwdriver in there. He snatched it up, testing the weight of the tool, and quietly opened the truck door.

The snow crunched under his boots as he stepped out into the frigid night air, the screwdriver secured in his pocket.

The snow-covered yard offered little cover, but he kept low, his training kicking in as he assessed the situation.

The house, like its neighbors, was a ranch with a detached garage.

He shimmied up to a side window, peered into the dining room.

The lights were on in the living room, and as he watched, more flicked on in the kitchen. He ducked low.

The kitchen was in the rear of the house, so he crept around to the front. Sara was smart. If she could, she would have left the door unlocked—she wouldn’t want to limit her escape options. At least he prayed she’d been thinking clearly enough to do that.

He reached the front porch, made himself small as he approached the storm door, then opened it and reached to check the front door. Not only unlocked, but not quite latched. Smart lady.

Standing up just far enough to glance through the windows at the top of the door, he scanned the foyer and living room. No one.

He pushed the door open a crack and listened. Harper and Sara were still in the kitchen. Harper was demanding that Sara give him all her cash and access to her bank accounts. Sara was telling him her cash was hidden in her freezer. Stalling, Blake was sure, just as he was sure she had a plan.

Carefully, in case the hardwood floor creaked, he eased through the door and shut it before the cold could alert Harper.

The foyer opened into the living room and the wall across from him had a brick fireplace.

He spotted a poker beside it, hanging from a cast-iron base.

The South African was bigger and stronger than Blake, and he’d moved as if he’d had some training—Blake had barely escaped him the first time they fought.

He switched his grip on the screwdriver and sidled across the open space to the fireplace.

Blake eased the poker out from its stand and placed it on the hearth.

Then he grasped the stand, feeling the solid weight of the iron in his hand.

He tested its heft, gauging its potential as a weapon.

It would do damage, more than the screwdriver or poker would, that much he knew.

He slid the screwdriver into his jacket pocket and planted himself against the wall, in Harper’s blind spot when he emerged from the kitchen.

The dark dining-room window he’d peered through earlier gave him a partial reflection of the kitchen.

He couldn’t see Harper, but he saw Sara, leaning into her freezer.

Now all he had to do was watch and wait.

But Sara had other ideas.

“Where’s that cash?” Harper demanded.

“It’s in here, but there’s frost. I just need to dig it?—”

She grabbed a bottle of vodka and swung it into the side of Harper’s head, hard enough to stagger the man, sending him a step into the living room?—

—right into Blake’s path.

Blake wielded the heavy iron stand with all his might, aiming it at the side of Harper’s head. Before he could connect, Harper turned, the stand slamming into the man’s neck and shoulder. The impact reverberated through Blake’s arms, the force of the blow snapping his jaws together.

Harper merely gave a surprised grunt and spun around, crashing against the wall but somehow remaining upright. He raised his pistol and fired. The shot narrowly missed Blake, ripping past his ear, the bullet riding on a hot gust of air.

Blake swung again, this time aiming for Harper’s gun arm, but Harper anticipated him, grabbing the poker stand with his other hand, yanking it from Blake, flinging it to the floor.

Blake stumbled backward, Harper following with a kick to his belly that had Blake fighting for air.

The room spun, his vision swimming from the impact.

Through watering eyes, Blake saw Harper regain his balance, a cruel smirk twisting his features. Time seemed to slow as the South African raised his weapon, the barrel pointing directly at Blake’s chest.

A blur of movement caught his eye.

Sara appeared behind Harper. She gripped the iron poker stand, her knuckles white with the effort.

She swung the heavy object, whacking the back of Harper’s head with a nauseating thud.

Harper’s eyes rolled back before he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

His gun clattered to the floor, sliding across the hardwood and coming to rest at Blake’s feet.

Sara stood over Harper’s prone form, the poker stand still clutched in her trembling hands, chest heaving with rapid breaths.

Blake wasn’t even sure she saw him. “Sara. Are you okay?”

“No. Not really,” she managed to whisper in reply.

She stooped, carefully placed the blood-stained iron stand on the wooden floor, then slumped down onto her knees. “Oh, god, have I killed him?”

Blake got onto his knees and checked the man’s pulse. “We’re not that lucky. Got any duct tape?” He fished his own roll from his jacket, but it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted this guy trussed tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey.

“Duct tape?” Her voice was distant as if translating from another language. Then her posture straightened, her focus returning with a snap. “I’m an ER doc, of course I have duct tape.”

She stepped into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and tossed him a roll. It was neon pink. Of course it was. Actually made sense, here in the snow belt—if you needed it for an outdoor emergency, you wanted colors that were blazing bright, not dull gray that blended into the snow.

She returned with a Kershaw Onion knife that she opened with one hand.

“I like your taste in knives,” he told her as she cut lengths of tape and he wrapped them around Harper’s forearms and ankles.

“I like your timing.” She rolled Harper onto his side into the recovery position. “Don’t want him aspirating,” she murmured.

Something hard fell out of Harper’s pocket, rolling on the floor. Sara felt inside the pocket, emerged with four rubies in her palm. She held them out to Blake.

“Mercer said the ‘stars are cursed.’ Think those are what started all this?” Blake asked.

“That’s what Connor told me. He said they were cursed as well.” She dropped the gems as if they might bite her.

Then she turned to Blake. “How did you know?”

“Almost took me too long. I realized the cops had their head count wrong—not surprising, given that no one left alive saw all of Mercer’s gang together.

Then I saw your car gone and one of the cops said you left with a SWAT guy and…

” He shrugged. Then met her eyes. “But it was worth the trip. Someone told me you have the best coffee here?”

A wry smile curved Sara’s lips. “I do.” She sat back on her heels. The distant sound of a siren cut through the night. “Someone told me something, too. That it’s better to spend time living than just live waiting for the right time.”

“Thomas,” he said. The old man just couldn’t stop matchmaking, could he?

“Thomas,” she confirmed.

“He’s a very wise man.” Blake scooted away from Harper. He placed an arm around Sara, drawing her in tight against him. “And always, always right.”

She turned her face to his, and he met her halfway with a kiss that was much too short-lived, but plenty long enough to open an invitation for much, much more.