First to Fight Box Set: Books 1-5

by Nicole Blanchard

  The man growls and then pushes the mother off the dock where she tumbles like a rag doll down into the choppy blue of the ocean, flipping once, moving all too fast and slow at the same time. Her scream cuts off with a loud thunk and a gurgle of water. A mushroom of red mixes with the froth left in her wake. She must have knocked against the dock or the boat. Either way, a couple seconds pass and she doesn’t resurface. For one terrible second, I think she may be dead.

  Forgetting the danger and the inevitable fatal repercussions, I scream to the nearest bystander who’s close to where she fell. “Help her!” I point at the bubbles floating to the surface. “Help! Help her!”

  Not one, but two men jump in after her. They either don’t see or don’t care about the man waving a gun. One of them gets an arm under her shoulders and swims her over to a ladder alongside the dock. I can’t tell from the distance if she’s breathing or not, but they’ve got her. They’ll get her help. There’s nothing else I can do for her. I push her limp body from my mind and zero in on the screaming little girl.

  Her feet are glued to the planks as she cowers in front of the man, a tiny figure shadowed by his hulking form. Her little body shakes with the effort of her screams. Heads turn in our direction, and her scream resounds through the mouths of every person in the vicinity. Like osmosis, the alarm travels until everyone takes notice.

  The people behind me take the chance at escape and flee while the gunman is focused on the little girl. I hear their footsteps slap against the sea-worn wooden planks. My feet itch to follow in their swift retreat, but I can’t leave her alone.

  I can’t leave her alone.

  Before I can second-guess my decision, I cross the space between us and move the girl’s trembling body behind me.

  “Leave her alone,” I say. My heart is hammering its way through my chest and I can taste the salty essence of tears on my lips. I didn’t even know I was crying.

  He twitches a finger over the trigger and the sound of the safety flicking off echoes over the crash of the waves against the dock. I stumble backward, but he stops me with a growled, “Get on the boat.”

  I swallow around the knot in my throat. “L-let the little girl g-go,” I say.

  “Get on the boat,” he repeats. “Both of you.”

  There are sirens behind us now and a very small part of me is clinging to the hope that, maybe, they can still save us, so I shake my head. “No. I’ll go, but not until you let the little girl stay. Please, she’s just a kid.”

  He fires a shot off to the side, and I shriek. The little girl behind me screams even louder, her cries almost unintelligible. My own sobs wrench their way through my chest.

  Long seconds pass and I know he won’t let her go. I make a split decision and walk forward with the little girl huddled close behind me. My skin flashes hot, then cold and I can’t stop shaking, but I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, even though I’m shaking so hard it makes walking difficult.

  When I get close enough he jerks me forward with a hand wrapped vice-like around my bicep. I trip over my own feet and collide with his chest. That’s when I realize he doesn’t look terrifying at all. Instead, he reminds me of my grandpa before he got sick with cancer and wasted away in a hospital bed. He’s not old, just older.

  His salt and pepper mustache and beard are neatly trimmed and his matching hair closely shorn. He doesn’t look like a person I’d expect to wave around a gun and threaten little children, and it almost makes his actions all the worse. He should be at home with his wife watching football and complaining about the weather.

  All of it flashes through my head as his arms wrap around me. In an instant, I realize this may be my one chance to get the little girl to safety, so I wrap my hands around him like I’m trying to catch my balance.

  While he’s distracted, I twist my head around and shout at the stunned little girl, “Run! Go!”

  She stands there stupefied and wide-eyed for a few seconds, and then she’s off, streaking back down the length of the dock and into the waiting arms of strangers who form a human shield around her little body. My last image of her is the little stuffed wolf still clutched in her hand.

  I’m so relieved to find her safe, I collapse into his arms. His angry shout pulls me from the bout of momentary relief and then fear shrouds me in a cold blanket once more.

  He thrusts me toward the ferry and I fall hard on my knees. I cry out and he shoves me forward with a booted foot and then jumps the rest of the way. The crowd of people already trapped on the ferry watch as he rolls me to my back with his foot.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

  I shouldn’t have. I’m sure it’s the #1 rule in every manual about hostage situations: don’t engage the hostile party. Keep quiet and stay out of his way and whatever you do, don’t make yourself a target.

  So much for smart thinking, Chloe.

  But I can’t find it in me to regret my spur of the moment decision. If I die today, at least I know I did it protecting an innocent little girl.

  He tears his cold, blue eyes off my prone form and shouts up to the top deck, “Get this heap moving now or I’ll use these people down here for target practice!”

  When no one moves, he rips the zipper from his nondescript black jacket and reveals a vest strapped with several weapons.

  Someone is moving behind me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the guns.

  This can’t be happening.

  The ferry inches away from the dock and the man directs everyone to move inside the main floor where the walls are lined with benches. Someone helps me to my feet and I limp my way to a spot as far away from his imposing figure as I can.

  Water yawns in the space between the ferry and the dock and there’s nothing but open sea and the sliver of Rockaway Island in the distance.

  I put my head between my knees and pray for the first time in my life.

  Because now it’s me who needs saving.

  Gabriel

  One minute I have the phone in my hand and the next I’m diving at Tyler’s cruiser, trying to wrestle the keys out of his hand. Tunnel vision blocks out everything but the result: get to my daughter.

  I don’t have time for obstacles. Tyler and I have been friends for a long time, I smash my fist into his face when he tackles me to the ground. I feel no pain, but I hear the crack of bone against bone. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear over the ringing in my ears.

  We tumble over the scorching blacktop until Tyler manages to pin me down. The asphalt burns the exposed skin on my back and arms, but I ignore it and focus on getting his bulk off of me.

  “Calm down, goddammit!” he shouts in my face. “Christ, Gabe, listen to me!”

  “I swear to fucking God, Ty, if you don’t get off me right now I’ll do something we’ll both regret.”

  His meaty arms wrap around my neck and he holds me down in an effective—and irritating—chokehold. “I said, listen.”

  “Fuck!” My voice is hoarse from the pressure of his forearm against my throat. “All right, say what you’re going to say so I can go, but hurry the fuck up about it.”

  Tyler studies me. “If I let you up are you going to sucker punch me again?”

  “I’m not gonna make any promises,” I say.

  He spits out a mouthful of blood on the concrete next to me. “Fair enough.”

  He gets to his feet and helps me up. A crowd of officers press in around us, but Tyler waves them away. He pulls me to the open door of his cruiser and shoves me into the driver’s seat. “There’s a gunman with an estimated ten to fifteen hostages on the ferry, but your daughter is safe.”

  A wave of welcome relief crashes over me. The allaying of guilt and fear is so monumental, betraying tears sting my eyes. Tyler presses a hand to my shoulder until I suck it up. When I speak, my voice is still hoarse, though not from Tyler’s very effective methods of restraint. “Where is she?”

  “She’s at the hospital with Taylor.”
>
  Guilt assaults me again because I didn’t even think about her. What kind of fucking man am I? “Is—” my throat closes around the words. “Is Taylor okay?”

  Tyler nods. “She’s fine. Little bump on the head, possible concussion, but otherwise, she and Emily are very lucky. Get in the car. They’ll fly us over so you can see her.”

  I slide across the bench seat to the passenger side and Tyler follows me. The air inside the car is too cool and I shiver even though it’s gotta be a hundred degrees outside. “Explain.”

  Tyler shifts with ease and backs out of the parking lot, tires squealing. “There isn’t much information as the story is still developing. All we know is an armed man boarded the ferry about a half hour ago. There was a struggle and Taylor was thrown off the dock. She hit her head on the way down.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I bite out.

  “Two witnesses say another woman shielded Emily from the perp. They say she saved her from becoming a hostage.”

  We make it across the island in record time. Rockaway isn’t big to begin with, but Tyler breaks every speed limit on the way to the small helipad we have for emergencies. He doesn’t bother parking in the designated spots and we dash out of the car to the waiting pilot.

  “You Gabriel Rossi?” he asks. I nod and he gestures to the back, “Get in.”

  Tyler follows close behind me, but as soon as we get in, I focus on the space in front of us and he fades to my periphery, im-fucking-patient to get to my daughter.

  The beat of the helicopter blades drowns out anything else and then we’re lifting up off the ground and moving forward. My stomach drops and once again I’m transported back to the desert where I spent the majority of my time traveling back and forth in the choppy carriage of a helicopter. I have to focus on the cool blue of the water below and the salt in the wind coming in through the open sides to keep from having a bitch of a flashback.

  Emily needs me now. She’s what matters.

  The ride across the channel between the coast of Florida and the island is mercifully short. Soon, we touch down atop the hospital and I jump out running. A pair of officers greet me at the rooftop entrance and lead me down a flight of dark stairs to a bustling hospital floor. I don’t even have to ask where to go before they lead me to a bank of elevators.

  A police officer puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder before the elevator doors swing open to chaos. I nod to him in thanks before I’m enveloped by a sea of nurses. A young, male doctor leads the pack and rushes to my side.

  “Mr. Rossi, this way.” He elbows his way through the crowd and leads me down a hall of doors. “Mrs. Rossi is awake, but weak. Her condition is stable.”

  Thank God. “And my daughter?”

  “She’s here. Your wife’s mother is watching her.”

  I don’t bother correcting him and by the time I think to, we’re arriving at a closed door. The doctor pushes it open and reveals a frail-looking Taylor hooked up to monitors and Emily asleep beside her in the hospital bed.

  Tears fill Taylor’s red-rimmed eyes and trail down her cheeks. “Gabe.” When her voice breaks she reaches for tissues and covers her face, her shoulders trembling.

  I leave the doctor in the doorway and fall to my knees by her bedside. Even with as much animosity as there’s been between us during our divorce, I’m reminded I’ve been inside this woman. She’s been by my side, a friend, for years. We may have our moments of anger, but we married each other for a reason. I loved her then, and still care for her now. The part of me who stood by her side for four years burns to annihilate the man who hurt her.

  “I’m here.” I don’t know what to do with my hands. The side of her face is black and blue where it must have connected with the dock. There’s a bandage taped from her temple to her chin. “I’m here. I’m sorry.”

  Her hand comes to my cheek, and I lean into it. Wires trail down from a clip on her finger to a beeping machine. “Shh. Don’t be sorry.”

  “I should have been there.” I kiss her palm and then take it between my hands. “I’m sorry I was late. You were right. You’re always right. I shouldn’t put other people in front of my family. I should have been there,” I repeat, this time with a trace of anger.

  She shakes her head, winces, then licks her chapped lips. “Don’t say that.” I press my head over our clasped hands and will the waves of emotions back. “Don’t ever say that. I didn’t realize before what it meant to you to rescue everyone.” At her words, my eyes lift to hers. “I didn’t realize how important people like you are. That if you weren’t rescuing people, no one would. I wish I’d never given you such a hard time.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I tell her. “You should rest.”

  “Let me get this out before they come back with more drugs and I’m too tired to finish it.” She wipes away a tear with her free hand. “The woman who saved Emily, there won’t be any way for me to repay her. And I realized when I woke up she reminds me of you. If you were there, you would have done the same thing. You would have put yourself in front of a man with a gun without a second thought.” Taylor cups my cheek and lifts my eyes to hers. “Our daughter is lucky to have a man like you for a father. And I’m lucky to have you for a friend.”

  My shoulders heave and I have to suck in hot, humid gulps of air as emotions assail me. Taylor’s hands sift through my hair until I can control myself.

  By the time I stand, straight-faced, Emily is stirring awake. I lean a hip on the side of the bed and hold Taylor’s hand in mine. When her eyes open, Emily finds me and smiles.

  “Daddy, you’re here!” She climbs across her mother’s legs and launches herself into my arms. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “I’m so glad to see you, too.” If I were standing my knees would have buckled. I close my eyes and press my face into her hair until the emotion causing my arms to tremble diminishes. When I let her go, I say, “What do you say we break out of here and get your mom a milkshake?” To Taylor, I say, “Is chocolate still your favorite?”

  They both look at me with identical frowns.

  A crease forms between my eyebrows. “What? Don’t tell me you like vanilla now.”

  “You can’t mean to say you’re planning to stay here?” Taylor purses her lips in a familiar expression.

  “Yeah, Daddy, you have to go save her.”

  “Uh, save who?” I narrow my eyes at the pair of them.

  Emily scoffs and waves an arm. “That lady.”

  I look at Taylor for backup, but she’s giving me a look identical to Emily’s, a mix of frustration and confusion.

  “What?” I rub the back of my neck and wonder where the hell all the nurses are.

  “The woman who helped Emily, Gabe,” Taylor explains finally. “You can’t just leave her after what she did.”

  “Yea, Daddy. You told me you saved people from bad things.”

  “There are other policemen and a lot of other trained professionals who will help the people on the ferry,” I explain with measured patience.

  “But Mommy said you’re the best.” Emily’s blue eyes shine up at me, and they are filled with a pride and admiration I’m not sure I live up to.

  Taylor smiles at me when I glance at her. Then I look at my daughter and say “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to leave you now.”

  “Daddy,” Emily says, then presses her lips into a firm line like I’m the child and she’s the adult. “I’m fine. But the lady isn’t.”

  “My mom’s with us,” Taylor says and at the mention of her name, her mother comes to stand by her side. We’d gotten along, barely, when Taylor and I were married, but for the first time, she looks at me without disgust. “You should be there,” Taylor is saying. “You know you want to be.”

  Emily grins and squeezes my hand. “Go, Daddy.”

  I cup her cheek and kiss her forehead. “You’re sure about this?” My eyes meet Taylor’s over our daughter’s head.

  “More than anything. She risk
ed her life for Emily. The least you can do is try to save hers.”

  Chloe

  There are thirteen other people on this boat, heading God-knows-where, including the captain still driving the ferry and the attendants who are huddled in their blue button-up uniforms. The man with the guns strapped to his chest and back like a vest full of bombs—and just as lethal—has said nothing to anyone other than giving the captain vague directions.

  From what I can see, we’re going at a low speed, based on the distance between us and the shore. I can still see miniature people at the dock where I’d saved the little girl, except now there are scores of policemen, paramedics, and journalists. Their lights flicker like a funhouse ride and I can hear the occasional whir of a helicopter overhead.

  So far, no one has tried to contact us via the onboard radio, and the man hasn’t attempted to open a line of communication.

  But what’s worse than his threatening presence is the tension between the hostages.

  Beside me, a woman huddles with her two children, her husband hovers nearby, his face angry with a combination of indignation and fear. Every few minutes he mutters something under his breath about doing something about this shit and I want to slap my hand over his mouth—not that I have much room to talk.

  Just a short while ago, I myself did something about it and wound up as a hostage on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic with a gun pointed at my face. So I’m content to sit in my little corner with my head down and my lips zipped unless I have to do otherwise. The others around me, however, don’t feel the same.

  “You might want to sit down,” I whisper through the corner of my mouth. So much for keeping your lips zipped.

  The mother’s eyes dart in my direction, harden. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in this position,” she hisses.