No Good Doctor

by Nicole Snow

  I dart around the truck and start to take off after them.

  Warren grabs my arm and hauls me back forcefully just as the men in black suits come swarming around the front of the building and flood into the alley after the girls.

  “No!” I snarl, but Warren has both my arms, dragging me back with all his strength, biting off words in my ear.

  “Stay low!” he says. “You can’t help them if you get shot.”

  “What if they shoot—”

  “They won’t,” Blake says in an uncharacteristic moment of grim, quiet clarity, watching tensely. “They don’t want to leave a body trail. Bad for PR.”

  My heart sinks, then swells with rage, blood pounding hot and hard through me as a few moments later, the swarm of men emerge from the alley again.

  Ember and Felicity are in tow.

  Their arms tied behind their backs, black bags over their heads, stumbling as they’re shoved forward with guns pressed to the smalls of their backs. Shit, shit.

  And Ember – bless her, damn her – manages to trip over the edge of the front walk, her legs buckling from under her as she goes down.

  Of course she does.

  Of course.

  And if not for Warren’s grip on me, holding me back, I’d be charging in there like a bull to catch her, save her, take a fucking bullet for her.

  One of the goons grabs her arm and drags her back up violently. For a red second, I almost break free from Warren, rage swelling through me until I see blood.

  It takes Blake grabbing my arm to haul me back, fighting me in place.

  Teeth gritting, I track them as they marshal the girls into the other alley and creak those cellar doors open, forcing them down.

  The one who grabbed her, in particular.

  I can’t see his face, but I memorize his height. His build. The way he walks.

  If he left so much as a single mark on her skin, I swear to hell, forget arresting him.

  I’ll kill him with my own bare hands.

  “Get off me,” I snarl through my teeth as the girls disappear.

  Warily, Warren says, “You can’t go charging in there, man—”

  “I said, get off me!” It comes out of me with such fury both Blake and War jerk back, staring at me as if they’ve never seen me before.

  I don’t blame them.

  I’m hardly myself.

  There’s a frantic, livid desperation inside me – a need to get to Ember above all else.

  But if I lose it, I’ll just get her killed.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m not going to rush in,” I grind out. “But we have absolutely zero time. Let’s finish this.”

  It’s quick and urgent as we work to finish wiring the fireworks into an explosive daisy chain of disaster.

  Then Warren and I step back, concealing ourselves in the shadows. It’s all on Blake now.

  He flashes a reckless grin and a thumbs-up as he gets behind the wheel of my truck, reverses it, and lines the ass end up with the mouth of the alley.

  I hear the gears grind as he shifts the truck into reverse.

  Then he slams his foot down on the gas, and – peering out the window over his shoulder, driving in a half-blind swerve, aiming the truck like he’s trying to throw a damned ping pong ball into an eight ounce cup from across the room – sends it hurtling backward toward the alleyway.

  We’re just in the right position to hear the shouts of alarm go up as the truck comes charging in, blocking off any escape and trapping the men between my truck and theirs.

  I catch a glimpse of one man’s wild eyes behind his ski mask turning red in the glow of the tail lights.

  A second later, the truck smashes into their armored vehicle, and there’s a great creaking and slamming and crashing of metal that bleeds into the night, followed by shouts. Gunshots. One scream.

  Not Blake’s, thank God.

  He’s behind the steering wheel, draped over it, jolted but fine. He flashes a wild grin as he kicks the window out – the alley’s too narrow to open the doors – in a showering of glass and pulls himself out on his arms. In a second he’s up on the ceiling, the end of the fuse wire in one hand, a lighter in the other.

  “Merry Christmas, chucklefucks!” he yells out gleefully.

  Then he lights the flame.

  Warren rolls his eyes. “Such a child. And he’s supposed to be our trusty fire chief.”

  “He’s our only chance,” I hiss. “Go!”

  Together, we dive into the chaos.

  In the three split seconds as the fuse burns down, they don’t even see us coming. They’re confused, crawling out of the mess of two trucks smashed together, many injured with limbs hanging at odd angles, the smell of blood in the alley.

  We clamber over the wreckage while Blake dives over the hood of the truck and hits it at a roll, taking the impact on his shoulder. We’ve got a third pair of hands as we wrench the double doors open and dive into the stairwell, taking shelter.

  Just as the night goes up in a burst of color and shrieking, whistling lights.

  The scent of gunpowder mixes with blood. Just inside the door, we’re treated to a show of rainbow sparks billowing up, filling the alleyway in bright flashes and bouncing wildly off the armored truck, my truck, the brick walls to either side, trailing flame everywhere.

  The men are screaming, shouting, firing their guns at random. It’s complete fucking bedlam.

  Perfect.

  Until Warren goes pale, all of a sudden. “Oh, fuck. Do I smell—”

  “Gasoline,” I breathe, a whiff of it drifting across my nostrils. “One of the fuel tanks must’ve–get the doors!”

  “On it!”

  Blake’s already diving, us with him, grabbing the cellar doors and hauling the heavy things shut. They’re wood, they’ll burn, but right now they just need to shield us from the impact as—

  Everything goes up in a whoosh so loud it nearly wrecks my eardrums.

  The ignition of the fireworks was just a precursor. A warning.

  It’s the gas in one of the punctured fuel tanks that turns the night into a sprawling orange flower that we barely escape, slamming the doors closed over our heads and then throwing ourselves down the stairs and away.

  There’s a massive, concussive shock.

  Then screaming.

  The stink of roasting flesh.

  Shit.

  It’s happening again; it’s the same as the facility, the mine, the virus, the hotel, all those people, all those people dying and it’s my fault, my fault—

  “—oc. Doc!” Warren has me by the shoulders, shaking me, and I realize I’ve been staring up at the thin crack between the doors, and the hellish bright light flickering through and making thin stripes over the stairwell. “Snap out of it!”

  I suck in a sharp breath, my vision clearing, slamming me back into the present. I stare at him, then shake my head. “Right. Fuck. The theater’s going to catch fire—we’ve got to get in, find them, and find us a safer way out. Let’s go.”

  We clatter down the last few steps, where we hit the end and stop.

  There’s a door, but there’s no handle.

  Just an access panel.

  No way in, no way out without the code.

  I stare, pondering, while Warren curses. I only have to think for a second before I know what to do.

  Fuck it.

  I did this once, and I can do it again.

  I don’t care what it does to my hands – they’re already damaged, and Ember kisses those scars, touches those scars, loves those scars, so I’ll make myself a few more saving her life.

  Grasping the panel, I dig my fingers in, and rip.

  I barely hear Warren’s and Blake’s gasps as the panel tears away in a shriek of metal and sparking of wires. Something goes fizzle-pop in the doorframe, and the door itself seems to relax, almost deflating, going loose in its setting.

  There’s no good reason for something like this to be below the old theater. Peters built
this thing for a purpose.

  And I find out that purpose as I set my shoulder to the door and shove, forcing it open in a great creaking, grinding fury.

  Only to come face to face with Everett Peters.

  He’s holding the mouth of a pistol close, pointed right between my eyes, a silencer fixed over the barrel.

  I go stock-still.

  There’s no one in the room for me but Peters, even if I’m vaguely aware of Nine, Barbara Delwen, and Felicity on the far side of the room, cuffed to chairs with duct tape over their mouths. The entire place is a dusty, low-ceiling mess of cross-beams, the area under the stage where actors often rise up on platforms when they need to appear fast, costumes and rigging everywhere.

  But there are new cables and wires, too – junk hanging everywhere, pouring out of the ducts.

  Peters was clearly preparing this place for something. Intending to use it in the long term. Meaning to destroy this town again, recklessly or deliberately.

  Fuck.

  I straighten slowly, never taking my eyes off Peters once, keeping my hands in plain sight.

  My hands ache. I’m going to wrap them around his throat and squeeze if he’s harmed her, and it’ll take more than a gun to stop me.

  “Where is she?” I demand, and he smirks.

  “You aren’t in any position to ask questions, Gray.”

  “Neither are you, asshole,” I bite off. “We can stand here at a stalemate, if you’d like, but this building will come down around your ears in flames if you wait too long.”

  “Yes, you do seem to have a motif.” He raises his voice, pitching it past me. “Both of you, out. Hands where I can see them. Then maybe we’ll have a little chat.”

  Slowly, Warren and Blake emerge on either side of me, hands up, faces set in fierce scowls.

  I won’t raise my hands for this puke.

  I won’t submit.

  I’ve spent too long doing that to Peters, to Fuchsia, to all the hell-beasts Galentron raised.

  His smirk widens, eyes locked with mine as if we’re in some sick mind meld.

  “You know, we were fine just orbiting each other at a distance,” he says mildly.

  From upstairs, something makes the distinct popping sound of new wood catching fire, still fresh enough for the sap inside to boil and burst. He doesn’t even flinch, only lowers the gun to level it at my chest, taking a step back toward Nine, Barbara, and Felicity.

  There’s a doorway there, stairs leading up to stage level, likely the only other exit.

  “Really,” Peters continues. “There was no reason for your business to overlap mine—and if you’d just minded yours, none of us would be in this situation. I thought you wanted nothing to do with Galentron, Gray.”

  I grind my teeth, my jaw aching, my fists slowly clenching. “I want you the fuck out of my town. That’s what I want.”

  “Then you’re in luck! Because I plan to oblige shortly.” His smile is so oily. “I’m even going to do you a favor. Think fast now, clock’s ticking, I’ll only make this offer once.”

  “I’ll never make deals with you,” I growl.

  “Oh, I think you will, assuming you ever want to see Ember Delwen again.”

  Barbara’s eyes go wide, and her mouth moves against the duct tape. A muffled cry, but even with the strange and stifled sounds I know what she’s saying.

  Save her, Gray.

  Save my daughter!

  I start forward one furious step – then freeze as Peters flicks the safety off.

  “Ah-ah, no, you don’t,” he mocks. “You’re going to be a good boy today, and you’re going to listen. Now. I only want one thing. For you to step aside, and stay out of my way while Leo here – oh, I’m sorry, we’re all calling him Nine now, how dramatic – take our leave. He’s all I want. I don’t care about this little shithole town. I’d happily leave it in my rear-view mirror. In exchange, we all get to walk out of here without burning to death.” He looks over his shoulder at Nine with a smirk. “Not that some of us could tell the difference, I suppose.”

  Nine’s only answer is a slow, savage narrowing of his eyes.

  It’s all I need.

  I take that nano second distraction to lunge.

  But I barely make it a few feet forward before Peters swings his gun back on me – and this time shoves it right between my eyes, pinning me in place with my teeth bared and every bit of hatred inside me trembling through my tensed body.

  “Will you stop being so tiresome?” Peters says. “All these grand heroics won’t get you far. I won’t hesitate to kill every last one of you, but it’s not necessary. Just behave yourself and let me leave. Honestly, why would you want to save that brute? He’s a wanted man, a murderer. It’s better for the world if you let me have my way with him.”

  “That ‘brute’ is my friend,” I snarl. “And you’re the only monster here.”

  Peters just lets out a derisive bark of laughter. “You and your high and mighty proclamations. Amusing or not, time is short, Gray. Do we have a deal, or not?”

  He’s sweating, I realize. It’s not just nerves.

  Because my body is damp with heat as well, drenched, really, and I realize why.

  The flames are closing in.

  I can hear them crackling up above. There’s a crash. Something gives way and comes thudding down hard enough to shake the roof over our heads, dust and cobwebs showering down in sandy streams of grit.

  Time’s not short. It’s running out.

  If we don’t go soon, we’ll lose our only avenue of escape.

  I can’t be responsible for so many people burning to death. Not again.

  “Just tell me where Ember is,” I force out, “and we have a deal.”

  “Barbara knows.” He tosses his head toward the straining woman. “She’ll tell you once I’m gone and you’re free to remove her gag. Fair?”

  I hate it.

  I fucking hate it.

  Even if it’s the only option I have if I want to get everyone out of here safe and alive.

  That simple fact – not my pride, not my vengeance, not my self-righteousness – is more important than anything. But only if Nine can accept it.

  I have one chance and only one. To save him, to save everyone.

  But first...

  I meet his eyes across the room, looking past Peters, silently asking Nine to understand. Looking for Leo, somewhere under the monster he’s been branded, the man who was once my closest friend, before the tides of life ebbed to tear us apart and send our worlds spinning away from each other.

  Listen to me, dammit. Follow me. Follow my lead.

  He looks at me gravely, a spark of understanding flickering in his eyes.

  And he nods, with the faintest hint of a ghost smile.

  Small, slow, and unmistakably there.

  Accepting.

  Grudgingly, I nod too, my jaw so tight I might break a tooth. It’s for Leo’s acceptance, gratitude, sorrow, so many more things, an acknowledgment that only he and I comprehend. For Peters, as well, and reluctantly I drag my gaze back to that vile weasel of a man.

  “Go,” I snarl. “Before I change my mind and let us all burn to death down here just to see you rot. Take him and fucking go.”

  “Doc,” Warren hisses. “You can’t—”

  “Don’t,” I throw over my shoulder. “This is my decision to make—mine and Nine’s. If I have to lose one man to save five people, to save Ember...”

  “Fuck, man,” Blake whispers, his brows furrowed, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Give me one more minute.

  “Are we done with these noble little speeches, then?” Peters’ smirk is downright triumphant, and he half-turns, gesturing with the gun, keeping it pointed in our direction as he barks at Nine. “You. You can walk while tied to a chair. Come along.”

  Nine growls behind the duct tape over his mouth but levers himself forward, walking hunched over with the chair bound to his back and ass by his wrists, knotted wit
h rope behind it. Grudgingly, he turns to trudge toward the stairs. Peters trains the gun on his back, watching me the entire time with that insufferable smirk.

  “Behave. If you try to rush me from behind,” he warns, “I will shoot him. I can still take blood samples from his steaming corpse fast enough to get a decent sample. At least this way you’ll know he’s still alive. For now.”

  “I won’t come near you,” I snarl. “Go. I can’t stand the sight of your face. Or are you that eager to burn to death down here with us?”

  Peters only laughs. “It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Gray. Nice to see you grew a backbone over the years.”

  Then he turns his back on me.

  Just like that.

  As if he doesn’t have a thing to fear in the world.

  “Now,” Blake whispers, but I lash one arm out, blocking his path.

  “No.”

  Not yet. Because I have another plan. A better plan.

  One that won’t require going anywhere near Everett Peters.

  And it’s truly the plan this vile fuck deserves.

  I slip my hand into my pocket, feeling for my silver bullet. There’s a special capped vial there – metal, a syringe almost like a dart, a silver torpedo shaped with a thick needle meant to deliver an injectable payload quickly and efficiently.

  The thing’s a fuck of a lot heavier than any ordinary syringe. It’s made for transporting highly secure substances, but that doesn’t mean it can’t have other uses. It also means it has a thicker needle, perfect for sliding into skin at just the right angle.

  I didn’t bring this here as a weapon. It was a bargaining chip, a last resort, something to threaten Peters with as living proof of the virus and the plot if he doesn’t let my Ember go.

  That was then. Now, the situation has changed.

  This sample was the last thing I scrounged from the lab that awful, fiery night. It’s been waiting in my hidden freezer at the clinic, secret and sealed, for almost a decade.

  Snarling, I flick the cap off before anyone notices.

  Taking aim at Peters’ retreating, arrogant back, I throw.

  The makeshift dart whizzes away with a shrill whine, striking Peters so hard there’s a faint thunk.

  A million things happen at once.