The Guardian

by Dee Henderson

  Dave caught the door so they could join him. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a judge to move to the secure floor. Can you give us a hand?”

  “Sure. Who?”

  “Whitmore. Room 961,” Quinn replied.

  Dave pushed the button for the ninth floor of the hotel.

  * * *

  “Shari, you’re pacing again.” Joshua, stretched out on the couch, waved her out of his way so he could flip through the television channels looking for the late news.

  “The phone is never going to ring.”

  “Would you quit worrying? The call will come. Carl is not even back yet. He was still talking to the conference host when we left to come up.”

  Shari knew he was right, but still . . . She walked over to the desk where she had temporarily set up shop for these three days, looking for something to do to keep herself occupied. Patience was a virtue she would one day have to work on. “How long before dinner arrives?” They had settled on ordering Italian, Carl’s favorite.

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  She rummaged to find a pen and pad of paper, deciding she might as well do some work. She was working on a major school reform speech. The same day the speech was given, a detailed position paper would be released. Getting the two to meld together with clarity was a challenge.

  The suite she was sharing with her parents was like many hotel rooms she had stayed in over the years, and as usual her things had sprawled. Abandoning the desk since it did not have room for her, she settled in one of the plush wingback chairs, and set her glass of iced tea on the side table.

  She had always found it easy to get lost in her work, but tonight it was a struggle. When she realized she’d scrawled the name Marcus in the margin of her note page, she forced herself to turn the page. Marcus was tomorrow morning’s distraction, and if it was one thing she prided herself on, it was keeping her focus.

  Not that she had heard a word of Supreme Court Justice Roosevelt’s speech tonight, not with Marcus standing behind him on the stage. She was almost certain Marcus had looked her way more than necessary during the evening. She would like to imagine he had really winked at her, but she wasn’t quite certain enough to risk asking him in the morning. Marcus got better looking the longer she had looked, and she’d sat there bemused for over an hour.

  A cop. She was interested in a cop. She gave a silent chuckle. Given her profession, it was probably as good a choice as any. She’d love to have him at her side when the mud started to fly at one of the numerous social gatherings she attended as part of her job. She had a feeling politicians would temper their words around him.

  Anne was going to enjoy hearing this news. John’s deputy chief of staff, her longtime friend, had been encouraging her to get over Sam for months. Of course, it wasn’t exactly going to be easy to find the right words . . . Anne, I bumped into this guy with a gun. She grinned. Yeah. That would work.

  She glanced up when the sound of footsteps came her direction. Her dad had changed from his suit.

  “Working on John’s speech?”

  Dad knew her well. “Trying to.” He had read the first draft yesterday.

  “You’ve got a challenge making the intricacies of bond refinancing clear.”

  “Tell me about it. I just keep reminding listeners it’s money. Either pay now or pay more later. That always catches attention.” A knock on the door interrupted them. Joshua got up to answer it. Room service had arrived with dinner. Shari set aside the work to help Josh clear the table so they could set it out.

  “Is Carl back?” her dad asked.

  Shari heard something from next door. “There he is now, right on time.”

  She walked across the suite to the connecting door with the adjoining hotel room, carrying one of the hot cheese-filled breadsticks Josh had ordered for an appetizer. The good news hadn’t come yet, but this feast couldn’t wait. She tapped on the door. “Carl, dinner’s here.” The connecting door had never been latched and it swung open under her hand. “Josh thinks your speech—”

  The muted sound of a silenced gunshot echoed through Carl’s room. Horror swelled inside Shari like a wave as she saw Carl crumble backwards to the floor, his face turning toward her. His eyes showed unspeakable fear, surprise, then a blank nothing. The breadstick dropped from her hand. The shooter stood to her left, less than six feet away. She had surprised him; that fact registered in the brief instant when she simply stood there.

  He wore a dark suit, tailored, with a burgundy red tie, a white herringbone shirt, and black shoes polished to a high shine. His face showed angry determination, and his gray eyes as he turned to look at her were filled with intense hatred.

  She tried to scream and when it came, it ripped from the back of her throat.

  He was already firing as he swung toward her; the first bullet kicked up wood from the door frame inches from her face. Her hand flew up at the sharp sting.

  Joshua hit her; it was a full tackle with no finesse, catching her low in the ribs and knocking her out of the doorway. She slammed into the side table, and the lamp crashed down with her as she tumbled over the couch. Her forearm hit hard wood, her right knee twisted, and her chin cracked against the floor, sending shooting pain through her face.

  The shots went on and on, emptying into the room, and then it went deathly quiet. Shari could hear nothing but the pounding of her heartbeat. She lifted her head slowly from the carpet abrading her cheek, heard a door slam somewhere in the background, and turned her head, quivering.

  “Josh!” He lay partially over her lower legs, crumpled to the floor with his arms outstretched. He wasn’t moving. She tried to slip free without her high heels hitting his face.

  As soon as she was clear, she turned and scrambled back toward him on her hands and knees, seeing a spreading pool of blood staining his white shirt around his right shoulder and his upper back. The sight terrified her. All her life she had watched him be the adventurous one, the athlete, and now he lay crumbled with his eyes closed as if all the strings had been cut. She turned him awkwardly so he wasn’t lying on the wound.

  She heard her mother moan and looked around, then froze as she watched her mom try to lift the limp body of her father into her arms. A streak of blood along the wall showed where her father had been flung back by the bullet’s impact; he had crumpled there. He couldn’t be dead. No! He couldn’t be dead.

  It registered and yet it didn’t; disbelief was overriding what her eyes were telling her. Someone had killed Carl; tried to kill her; and shot her brother and her father.

  It hit so hard she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t pray. Words weren’t connecting.

  Joshua’s eyes flickered open: blue, dilated. Almost immediately they began to glaze over. He made no sound, but his eyes . . .

  Her thoughts cleared. Her mind sharpened. The moment crystallized. An icy calmness settled across her.

  “Mom, lay Dad flat. Get pressure on the bleeding,” she said, hoping it wasn’t too late for him.

  She pressed her hands tight against Josh’s shoulder, feeling them grow slick with his blood. “Hold on, Josh. Just hold on.” She could see her hands shaking but couldn’t feel it. “You’re going to be all right.”

  He struggled to breathe. It was a frightening sound.

  The table was on its side and she yanked the fallen phone toward her by the cord. She had to hang up the receiver to get a dial tone back. She hit zero, leaving a bloody fingerprint.

  “There’s been a shooting in suite 963. We need medical help.” She was stunned at how clear her voice was. She was so tense her muscles were going to break bones, but her voice was calm. Joshua and her dad couldn’t afford it if she panicked.

  “Ma’am—”

  “My name is Shari Hanford. Someone just shot Judge Whitmore. My dad and brother were also hit. I need help, now! Suite 963,” she repeated.

  “It’s on the way.” She had rattled the reception desk attendant. “Stay on the
line—”

  Shari dropped the phone to the carpet, not hanging up, but needing both hands for Joshua. “Mom, how’s Dad?” She swiveled around on her heels and saw her mom’s face. If she wasn’t already having a second heart attack, she was on the verge of one. Her mom was one of the strongest ladies Shari knew, but not in her health. A heart infection after surgery ten years ago had made her vulnerable, and a mild heart attack two years ago had worsened that outlook. A shock like this could kill her. “Mom, where are your pills?” Shari asked urgently.

  “I’m okay for now. Stay with Josh.”

  Shari looked at Josh, then back at her mom, a sense of panic taking hold. Help wasn’t going to arrive in time. Jesus, I need You more now than I’ve ever needed You before. Please, send help quickly!

  * * *

  “Shots fired! Suite 963. Repeat, shots fired, suite 963!”

  Marcus, Quinn, and Dave flattened against the side walls of the elevator, realizing with a startled and then grim glance between themselves that the elevator doors were opening on floor nine at that very instant. Marcus hit the emergency stop button, relieved they had silenced the alarms during the security preparations. Guns drawn, they moved out of the confined space, covering for each other.

  The elevator opened into a small alcove. A gold plaque on the facing corridor wall showed rooms 930 to 949 and stairs to the left, rooms 950 to 969 and vending to the right.

  A glance up showed none of the guest elevators were moving. The shooter hadn’t gone out this way. “Freeze the southwest elevators,” Marcus quietly ordered the control center. “Three officers now on the floor.”

  Dave slipped a small four-inch mirror from his pocket and used it to check both directions of the corridor. “Empty.”

  The only sound was the faint one of the ice machine down the hall. It didn’t mean much. Marcus knew these hotel rooms were nearly soundproof, having more than once opened the door to his suite to find that Quinn had the television blaring so he could listen to the news as he shaved.

  Marcus touched Quinn’s shoulder and pointed left toward the stairs.

  Quinn nodded and moved that direction.

  Marcus tapped Dave to help him investigate suite 963.

  The vending area at the end of the hall worried him and he kept his attention on that danger point as they moved down the hall. A guest room door opened and they both pivoted, guns aimed, only to immediately check their movements. Dave waved the horrified guest back inside his room.

  Marcus reached the closed door to suite 963, stopped, and Dave slid past him to the other side. Dave removed his master hotel card key and quietly tapped his knee, indicating he would go in low. Marcus nodded.

  Dave silently inserted the card key, then pulled it out. The red light flashed green.

  Marcus met Dave’s gaze and in that intense moment knew Dave was thinking the same thing he was. Kate would kill them both if either one of them got hurt.

  Dave pushed open the door.

  It caught on the chain.

  Marcus, his momentum already taking him forward, barely checked in time to avoid hitting the door. They had the right suite number. A false alarm? No. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air and it was impossible to miss the smell of blood. Someone had slipped the chain in place out of fear? Or had the shooter barricaded himself inside? “Police! Open up!”

  Dave prepared to kick the door open. Over the security net Marcus could hear the coordinated response of U.S. Marshals, FBI agents, and uniform cops rushing to close the area. Backup was coming, but they didn’t have time to wait.

  The door chain jangled as someone tried to open the door.

  The door swung open. Marcus and Dave instantly elevated their weapons to the ceiling. It was a lady in her fifties. Her identity registered at first with disbelief. It was Shari’s mom, Beth Hanford. Marcus reached out and caught her elbow to keep her from falling. Her face had a distinct pale grayness, and there was blood on her dress.

  “I’ve got her.” Dave wrapped his arms around her waist to lower her to the floor. Marcus heard the grimness in Dave’s voice, the shared impact this was having on him. They had been talking about this family only a few moments ago.

  A scan of the room showed carnage. Shari’s father had been shot. Joshua had been shot. Shari turned from where she was kneeling beside Josh, desperation coupled with intense relief in her eyes.

  Marcus hated the fact he had no choice but to ignore her. First he had to know the rooms were secure. Dave was moving to the left, checking the suite bedrooms. Marcus moved to the right and the open connecting door.

  He drew a deep breath. Judge Carl Whitmore lay on his back, the empty look in his eyes confirming the worst. Marcus had never lost a witness or a judge on his watch and fury washed over him.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath before he walked past the judge to check the bathroom, anywhere someone could hide. When he was sure he was alone, he knelt to confirm the judge was dead, careful where he stepped so as to minimize what he disturbed of the crime scene. “Judge Whitmore has been killed.” His words over the security net quiet and cold.

  Judge Whitmore had died facing into his room. Someone had been inside the room. Waiting. Marcus hadn’t known the judge and the Hanfords were friends, but the open connecting door suggested they were. The lock had to be released on both sides. Were the Hanfords just unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time, or were they targets as well and the hit had gone bad? It was an ugly thought.

  The dead could wait; there were survivors to attend to.

  Dave was already working on Shari’s father, William. Marcus skirted the overturned furniture to reach Shari and Josh. He closed his hand carefully around Shari’s shoulder and looked her over swiftly, trying to tell if she had been hit as well. He had seen victims walking around so deep in shock they didn’t even realize they were hit.

  There was a nasty gash on her right cheekbone just below her eye and her face had been scuffed, but the blood staining her suit and her hands, some of it dark red, having dried, and other patches bright and wet, didn’t appear to be hers.

  “I can’t get the bleeding to stop.”

  Her voice was steady but she was quivering under his hand. He wished he had time to wrap his arm around her and hug her, try to stop the shivers. That this should happen to her and her family the same night he had met her . . . it made him sick at heart. “It’s okay, Shari,” he said gently. He eased his hands under hers, wedging his fingers under her palm, keeping the pressure on Joshua’s shoulder steady. “I’ve got him.”

  She was leaning forward over her brother and Marcus was crowding her space now they were so close together. Did she realize her eyes were wide and her breathing fast, that her heart was pounding? He counted five beats in the moment he realized the twitch showing at her throat was her heartbeat. Calm down, he wanted to urge and was helpless to help her do that. She’d just lived through a nightmare. She blinked. Good girl. Come on, blink again. She finally did. Where are those paramedics? I need to get you out of here.

  He turned his attention to her brother. He had to rip Josh’s shirt to get a look at the injury. The bullet had hit him in his right shoulder, deflected off his collarbone, and come out at an angle just below it. Nasty, and bleeding heavily. Joshua’s pallor was sharp; his eyes were closed and his lips were beginning to turn slightly blue. The young man he had admired earlier that evening was dying Marcus realized with grim resolve, determined not to let that happen. One fatality was more than enough.

  “I need to get Mom’s heart pills.”

  Marcus looked toward Beth and saw what Shari had. “Go,” he said urgently.

  Shari nodded and got to her feet, almost falling, catching herself with a hand on his shoulder. Her hand tightened as she drew a deep breath, took the first step away. His eyes narrowed as he watched her walk toward the bedroom. It looked like she was in danger of folding, but she kept going.

  The sound of gunfire and someone tumbling and st
riking concrete burst over the net. “Shooter on the stairs. He’s heading up!”

  Marcus jerked. Up toward the secure floor. “Quinn? Come back.”

  “He winged me. I’m okay,” Quinn replied, his breathing ragged. “You guys coming down from nineteen be careful you don’t shoot me by mistake and finish the job.”

  His partner was under fire. Marcus looked over at Dave, desperate to go. They had to be two places at once. Dave, his face taut, shook his head. Marcus hated it but accepted the fact Dave was right. They couldn’t leave Joshua and William before help got here. “Where are those paramedics?”

  “Coming up under escort. I told them to rush it and get medivac on the way.”

  “Mom, your pills,” Shari said. “I grabbed Dad’s prescription bottles too. The paramedics will need to know about the blood pressure medicine.”

  “I’ll tell them. His medical alert tags, they’ll need those too.”

  “Dad’s wearing them,” Shari said a moment later. “Mom, do you need to lie down? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Go, help with Josh. The man needs the extra hands.”

  He most certainly did. Marcus glanced over, ready to tell Shari to stay with her mom despite that fact, only to meet Beth’s firm gaze. The lady might be having a hard time physically coping with the suddenness of the shock, but there was steel in those soft gray eyes looking across the room at him. Beth was a fighter; that boded well. He studied her face for a moment, then gave a slight nod to her and looked over at Shari. He really did need her hands.

  Shari rejoined him. She had thought to grab a stack of towels while in the bathroom. “Will these help?”

  He took one, grateful. “Absolutely; thanks.” He glanced over to see she had already given Dave several.

  “He just started shooting.”

  Marcus looked sharply at Shari. In the back of his mind he had been hoping she had been in the bedroom, somewhere else, at least been spared actually seeing her brother and dad shot. Given what she had just said, he was surprised she had any composure left. “One shooter?”

  She nodded and her brow furrowed. “White, late-thirties. Not tall, maybe five-foot-eight—” she visibly struggled with her words as she remembered—“well dressed.”