He inspected her carefully. “Are you okay?”
She knew he was worried about the baby, even though he didn’t want to say it. It was almost funny—they had never seriously talked about having children, it was always “someday” in the future—until she discovered she was pregnant that first time. After the miscarriage, they realized that they both wanted a child. That knowledge changed them. That they wanted to create life together, share in the joy of a baby, had brought them even closer. When she never believed it possible to love Nick even more, she did.
“We’re both fine,” she told him.
“You’re not in this alone, Carina.”
“I know.” She squeezed Nick’s hand. He knew her better than anyone, and she loved him for it. He’d give her space because she wanted it, and he would be right here when she returned—because she’d need him then, too.
She left Nick by her father’s door. He and Connor would talk, plan, and decide who would be responsible for what. Nothing pleased her more than the fact that her husband and her brother were best friends and business partners. They were both former cops who now worked private security and it suited them.
They’d have to make calls—something that Carina didn’t want her mother to worry about. Juanita Santana, her mother’s best friend, would help. She’d be there for them, cooking, driving, anything to ease the burden. When her husband died ten years ago, Rosa Kincaid had been her rock, and now—
Dad is not going to die.
Carina stepped out of the hospital, far from the smoking area where the smell of smoke made her want to puke. Her brothers and sisters were all en route to San Diego. Nelia was driving from Idaho to San Diego; she and her longtime boyfriend couldn’t get here any faster. Jack and Megan—wait, hadn’t Jack called and said Megan was flying separately? Why? Carina cradled her head. She couldn’t remember. Lucy and Dillon were on a plane heading to San Diego—she hated to leave a voice mail for either of them, but what else could she do? Wait until they landed and tell them to head to the hospital instead of home?
She couldn’t keep the information from any of them, but she didn’t want them to worry—especially since they couldn’t do anything to arrive in San Diego any faster. She would simply say Dad was in the hospital for some tests, and Carina would let them know when she knew more. All that was true.
She sat down on a bench and took a deep breath, then made the necessary calls, leaving messages if no one picked up. When she was finished, she felt calmer, more focused. Her family would be together soon. Dad would be fine. She had to believe it.
Carina was surrounded by cops and alpha males in her work and family, but her father was the strongest man she’d ever known. He was firm, but loving; disciplined, but sensitive. He loved his country as much as his family, but when the rules stunk, he found a way around them. He saved the woman he would eventually marry from being deported to Cuba by claiming he found her on the beach, not in the waters off the Florida coast. He had taught Carina to never accept any man who didn’t treat her with the respect she deserved. He had welcomed Nick into the family without hesitation and treated him as a son.
Thinking about her dad, the colonel, lying in a hospital bed reminded her that even the strongest of men, mentally and physically, could fall.
“I’m not ready to give you up, Dad,” she whispered to no one.
Carina got up and walked around the pathway that circled the hospital. It rarely rained in San Diego, and she’d never had a white Christmas, but that was fine by her. She loved the sun and sand and climate of southern California. She needed the fresh air before she went back inside. She’d never been sensitive to smells, but since she became pregnant, scents were more noticeable—and usually unpleasant.
The hospital was designed as three towers connected by an open-air courtyard: the central building was the oldest and tallest of the three; the north wing included the cancer center, outpatient and laboratory services; and the south wing had the new surgery center and maternity ward. That was where her father was; that was where she would be in June if all went well with this pregnancy.
The walk revived her. She entered the main tower to buy a balloon for her dad—he wouldn’t be happy if she brought in flowers, but because this was San Diego and they were close to a military base, there were plenty of military-themed balloons. She picked one that said GET WELL, SOLDIER! THAT’S AN ORDER!
There were small fake Christmas trees with cheap decorations, prewrapped presents, and a cluster of poinsettias to brighten up the rooms of those who would be spending Christmas in the hospital. Christmas was supposed to be a time of hope and rejoicing, of being with family without past regrets or personal disagreements interfering with the celebration. Carina ached for those who didn’t have family, for those who were sick and wouldn’t be able to be home for the holidays.
She would have moved anywhere to be with Nick, but Nick recognized that her family was the most important thing to her. She needed roots, she loved having a place to be home. She lived only blocks from her parents’ house, and before Dillon moved to D.C., he lived within walking distance as well. She had lamented it when first Jack left, then Nelia moved, then Dillon and Lucy, then Patrick—until it was just her and Connor left. She’d always expected that her brothers and sisters would raise their families here, that their kids would grow up together, that Christmas and Thanksgiving and Easter and the Fourth of July and, heck, every Sunday meal would see the growing Kincaid clan enjoying family gatherings.
But that wasn’t happening, and it made Carina unusually sad.
She found that her hand had drifted to her stomach and she realized that she had the only grandchild in her belly. Justin, her nephew, had been killed eighteen years ago, and this baby was the only future Kincaid. Her parents had seven kids, but no grandchildren, and why that bothered Carina, she didn’t know. Except that her family was living all over the country and she missed them.
She was about to call Patrick to find out his ETA when she spotted a man in khakis and a jacket—too heavy for the weather—leave the main building and head toward the north wing. She followed, her instincts telling her that he was too focused and walking too fast. His face was blank, a man on a mission, and his buzz cut and the way he held himself practically shouted military.
It’s probably nothing.
But she still followed. It was part of being a cop; she couldn’t ignore something that didn’t feel right. She let go of the balloon, which would make her pursuit more obvious, then followed him into the north wing and the elevator. He pressed the Down button and didn’t look at her. She watched his profile. His eyes looked straight ahead, but they were red and a bit swollen. He’d lost someone, it was clear as anything now that she was up close. She relaxed a bit, but decided to follow him when he left the elevator. He just wasn’t acting right, though grief affected everyone differently. Soldiers often didn’t know how to release the pent-up anguish. Grief was often postponed, buried under duty and honor.
He got off the elevator in the basement and walked straight, toward the morgue and the receiving rooms. A sign read AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY. He ignored it.
She got off as well and stopped, pretending to read the directory on the wall.
The soldier of grief turned the corner. She then followed. When Carina reached the fork in the hall, he abruptly turned and faced her.
“Why are you following me?”
“You look upset. Can I help.”
“No.”
He walked away and Carina hesitated, considering whether she should follow him. He was going to the morgue—possibly to identify a loved one—except why would he be unescorted?
She pulled out her phone to call security, but saw that she had no cell reception in the basement. She glanced around for a hospital phone and spotted one on the wall outside a set of unmarked double doors. She waited until the man rounded the corner at the far end of the hall, then ran over and picked it up.
A scream followed by a guns
hot and a thud had her dropping the phone and reaching for her gun—except she wasn’t carrying. She hadn’t even thought to pack her sidearm because she wasn’t on duty and had only been thinking about her dad’s heart attack. She picked up the phone and dialed security.
“This is Detective Carina Kincaid from the San Diego Police Department. There’s an unknown situation in the basement, shots fired, security needed.”
A gunshot cut her off, aimed at the wall above her. Plaster rained down.
Carina slowly turned to face the man from the elevator. She dropped the phone and kept her hands up. The soldier pointed his gun directly at Carina’s chest, center mass. He could kill her, but Carina couldn’t ignore that the first shot was a warning. He’d missed on purpose.
The gunman had a nurse directly in front of him, easily restraining her with his muscular arms. Blood covered her hands, and her intense, fearful eyes sought help from Carina. But right now Carina was in no position to do anything but comply.
“Security is on their way,” she said.
“I thought you were a cop. Detective Kincaid, you said, right? Walk slowly toward me. Any sudden movements, I will kill Nurse Browne.” He placed the barrel of the 9-millimeter to Browne’s neck.
Carina assessed the situation. There were sounds of shouts and running, but she saw no one in this hall. A red security light began flashing in the corner. Security would be down here any minute. SWAT would be called in. The soldier had to know that.
He glanced behind him and turned his body, Browne still in front of him, and fired. A woman screamed and Browne began to cry. “Now, Detective,” he said. “I could use you to help me get answers.”
While the shooter had looked aggrieved in the elevator, he now seemed in complete control. She slowly walked toward him.
“Release Nurse Browne and I will come with you.”
“Do you have a weapon?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m off duty. I’m here for personal reasons.”
A flash of sympathy crossed his face, then it was gone.
“Faster.”
“Let her go.”
“I can’t.”
Carina stopped walking when she reached the fork in the hallway. A woman in scrubs was crawling away. She was bleeding in the right calf. Carina immediately ran to her, grabbing towels off a cart next to the door. She applied pressure to the wound. It was a clean shot, but not fatal.
“Detective, in that room.” He nodded toward the double doors in the morgue. “On three. One. Two—”
“Let Nurse Browne take this woman to a doctor. You have me.”
He pushed Browne toward the door, his grip so strong red marks were imprinted on the hostage’s skin. “Go in,” he ordered Carina.
Through the small window in the door, Carina saw three other hostages, one bleeding and the other two giving him medical attention. She pushed open the door and the three hostages jumped.
“Is everyone okay?” she asked.
“He’s behind you!” one of the women said.
The shooter stepped into the room. He looked at Carina and nodded, pushed Browne out the door toward the victim in the hall, then pressed a button on the wall. The doors locked, and a blue light flashed both inside and outside the door. He looked at Carina. “I want answers, Detective.”
He removed a device from his pocket and placed it across the threshold, unfolding it with care and confidence.
“What is that?” Carina asked.
“C-4.” He pressed a button and the small bomb blinked. “My insurance. If anyone tries to walk out, I’ll blow it. I’m not afraid to die. If you think you’re willing to sacrifice yourself, think again. That’s a load-bearing wall. There’s not enough C-4 to take down the building, but it’ll definitely do significant damage to this area and the floors above. Evacuating the patients will take time. Tick tock.”
He looked at the black man lying on the floor with a leg wound similar to the one on the woman outside the door. “I don’t want to kill anyone, but I will.”
“We understand,” Carina said.
“Good.”
“What’s your name?”
“Charlie Peterson. I’m sure security has already figured that out. Or will shortly. That”—he pointed to the blond nurse—“is Kristan Otto, LPN. The other”—he gestured to the brunette—“is Rena Lavagnino, RN. The orderly—what’s your name?”
“Brian. Grover. Brian Grover. I—I’m an RN. Not an orderly.”
“There, now we all know each other.”
The three hostages looked at Carina as if she were the shooter’s partner. Charlie said, “Sorry—Detective Carina Kincaid, right?” he said, then nodded to answer his own question. “I don’t want to kill a cop, but I want answers, and if I don’t get them, I will kill you.”
Carina didn’t know how to read Charlie Peterson. At first, she thought he’d just snapped, but he seemed sincere when he said he didn’t want to kill anyone, just as sincere as when he said he would. He almost seemed to like her, which was odd, but she needed to use that. He didn’t, however, like the three nurses in front of him sitting with their backs against the drawers which held the bodies of the recently deceased.
He said, “Detective, I don’t trust you because I know what your job is. You want to take me down. I get that. Even respect it.” He dropped a pair of handcuffs to the floor and kicked them over to her. “So I need you incapacitated. Sit down and cuff yourself to the table leg. Now.”
She did as he ordered. The heavy stainless steel table in the middle of the room was bolted to the floor. He came over to check the cuffs and make sure she hadn’t left enough room to wiggle out. He nodded. “Thank you. Don’t attempt to pull anything over on me. I served in the army for six years. I don’t need a gun to kill you.”
“My brother was in special forces. Sergeant Jack Kincaid.”
“Good. Then you know I can.”
Carina was trying to build a rapport more than anything. Humanize his hostages to make it less likely he’d kill them. “My dad recently retired. He was a colonel. He had a heart attack last night and needs surgery. Which he’s not going to get as long as this goes on.”
Charlie nodded. “I don’t want this to drag on any longer than necessary. If I even think you’re thinking about screwing me over, I’ll lock you in one of those drawers. I don’t want to, but this isn’t about you.”
“I’ll help you. Let Brian go. He’s injured.”
“No.”
“Good faith. It’ll go a long way—”
“I already showed good faith when I let the nurse and that woman doc leave. That’s two fewer hostages, easier for me.”
“If—”
“Stop trying to negotiate, Detective.” He turned to Kristan. “Open it.”
The young nurse, probably not more than twenty-four, was shaking. “You don’t want—”
“Don’t tell me what I want. Open her drawer.”
Carina said, “Can you fill me in? They seem to know why you’re here holding a gun on us, but I have no clue.”
“My sister.” His voice cracked and he took a deep breath. “She died. And one of them killed her.”
CHAPTER 25
Nick tried Carina for the third time, even though he knew she would have called him if she could.
“Where is she, dammit?” Connor said through clenched teeth.
Nick shot his brother-in-law a narrow-eyed glance. The colonel was already worried as well as sick, and Connor needed to tamp down on his temper before they made a bad situation worse.
Connor’s jaw tightened as he recognized Nick’s unspoken admonition.
“Go,” the colonel said.
“No, Dad,” Nick said. “We’re not going to leave you alone.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” the colonel said. “Connor, find your mother and take her home.”
“Dad—”
“Did you hear a question in my tone? Nick, fi
nd out what’s going on and why Carina is not answering her phone.”
Connor stood at the end of his father’s bed. He wanted to argue, but he backed down. “Okay, Dad, but I’m coming back.”
“I need to know my Rosa is safe. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’ll call you when I know anything,” Nick told Connor.
Connor relented. “Call Will, and let me know what he says. Before all this happened, Mrs. Santana took Mom to the cafeteria. I’ll take both of them to the house and have Julia stay with them.”
Connor stared at Nick, but he didn’t have to speak for Nick to understand his meaning. Then he left.
Whatever had happened—all they knew was that shots were fired—it had happened in the north tower. The colonel was in the south tower, and security had come around and told everyone to stay put. The south tower was locked down. Anyone who left would be funneled through the south exit.
Nick tried Carina for the fourth time, still no answer. He then called her partner, Detective Will Hooper. They’d been partners for years, since before Nick had met Carina, and the Kincaids treated Will like one of their own.
He kept his voice low. Even though the colonel could hear him, he didn’t want to sound panicked.
“Will, it’s Nick. Have you heard about the shooting at the hospital?”
“Yeah, I’m on call. I’ve been trying Carina. She beat me there? She’ll never let me live it down.” Will was late to nearly everything.
“We were at the hospital already.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The colonel had a heart attack last night. He’s going through some tests right now. Carina went outside for air, but I haven’t seen her in the last thirty minutes.”
“She’s probably running the show until SWAT arrives.”
“She’s not picking up her phone.”
“I’m only five minutes out. I’ll find her and get back to you.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“Shots were fired in the basement of the north wing of the hospital.”
Carina would have no need to go into the basement. “If Carina calls you, just tell her to text me.”
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