by M. C. Sutton
“And?”
“And I came to the conclusion that you probably have every intention of following through on your offer. I found out you have an entire foundation set up to make donations for research and treatment for everything from cancer to conditions just like Cole’s. You’re wealthy and connected. But that’s exactly the problem with people like you, Dr. Grant. You’re wealthy and connected, and you always have been. Can you honestly tell me there has ever been a time in your life when you’ve struggled? When you haven’t had some senator or president or massive inheritance you could fall back on for help?”
Emma knew he was right—mostly. Jon’s inheritance hadn’t been dropped at his feet in some massive chunk when his father died. It had come to him in segments, spread out over twenty years, and Robert Grant had made darn sure Jon had to jump through hoops to get it. So, yes, Emma and Jon absolutely knew how hard it was to make ends meet. But they never had to do it alone. There had always been someone there they could fall back on if they became desperate enough.
“Sam, look,” she said, stepping right up to him. “I know how you feel, okay? I know what you’re trying to do. Believe me, I know. Better than anyone in that room—better than anyone else on the planet—I know. But you have got to trust me when I tell you that this is not the way to do it.”
Sam glared at her and lowered his voice. “You have no idea how I feel.”
Emma turned back to the sink and rested her hands on the cool granite countertop, speckled light and dark brown like cigarette burns in the sand. “You see it all falling apart and feel like you have no control,” she said. “Like the entire world is going nuts around you, and as much as you’d like to think you can stop it, you know deep down inside there is absolutely nothing you can do. And as it all goes to hell, you’re terrified that it’s going to take everything you’ve worked for—everyone you care about—with it.”
Sam put a hand on her shoulder. “Dr. Grant.”
“I was like you once,” she said, turning to him. “So convinced I was right that I was ready to just grab them all by the shoulders and shake them till they saw it my way. And why shouldn’t they? I knew. So thoroughly and completely I knew. I could show them the error of their ways, and they’d all be better off for it. But that was the problem, Sam. You quickly learn that everyone is just as passionate about what they believe as you are about what you believe. Everyone thinks they’re right. Because no one ever sees the world the way you do. No one ever knows what you do.
“So all you can really do is stand back and let it blow up in their stupid faces. And pray that the debris doesn’t land in your front yard.”
Sam stared at her, wide-eyed. “Dr. Grant, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you feel that way, and I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in all of this. But I can’t just walk away. I don’t have the money, and I don’t have the means, and I’m not even sure I’d want to. I’m not just terrified that they’ll take away everything I care about. It’s already happening. Those of us at the bottom of the food chain—me, my friends, my family, everyone I love—we’re already suffering for it. And we continue to suffer every day. So, no, I can’t just do nothing. I’m not going to just go hide. This is very much a part of me. It’s who I am. And I can’t ignore that.”
“Your situation doesn’t define you, Sam. It’s what you choose to do with it.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Look, you’re a writer, right? Or at least, you wanted to be once. What method do you use for character development? How do you show your reader what kind of person your character is?”
Sam shrugged. “You use verbs. You want to show what kind of person your character is, you do it through how they act. What they do and say.”
“That’s right,” said Emma. “It’s the same way in criminal profiling and risk assessment. If you want to get an accurate picture of a person of interest, you look at how they act. What they do. It’s supposed to matter even more than how they dress.”
“Yeah, okay, but I’m not sure what this has to do with—”
“Well, I don’t believe that. I believe you can tell just as much about a person by what they’re wearing or where they live or what kind of car they drive. And do you know why that is?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Honestly, Dr. Grant, I have absolutely no idea, and I’m beginning to think you’re just stalling.”
“It’s because…” she said, putting her hands on his arms, “it’s because in the end it’s not about what you do or what you wear. It’s about the choices you make. Because everything we do—from getting dressed in the morning to holding a room full of people hostage—everything first requires a choice.
“You are the choices you make, Sam. So, what’s it going to be? Are you the guy who recognizes when the train is about to speed out of control? Or are you the one who feeds the flame?”
“You know what, Doc?” he said, stepping in close enough to her that she had to press herself against the sink. He put his hands on either side of the counter and leaned in. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get where we are right now. You have no idea what I’ve watched the people I care about go through. So you can keep your psychobabble, Dr. Grant. Because in the end, you don’t have the slightest inkling of who I really am.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” she said quietly. “And neither do any of the other people in that conference room. All we see is a guy in a mask with a gun who’s about to get a building full of innocent people killed.”
Sam’s eyes widened. He stepped back. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Look, Sam, it’s not important that anyone else knows who you are. The only thing that matters is that you know. That your family knows. Your wife and son.”
He turned his eyes to the floor.
“So what you should ask yourself when this all goes bad—because it will, I can promise you that—is what are they going to think of you? When the kids at school tell Cole that hundreds of people died at the hands of his terrorist father, will he understand enough to even want to defend you? When Claire cries herself to sleep at night because you’re not there, is she going to wonder if you even loved her enough to stop and think about how this would affect them? Or will they both just plain hate you for it?”
Sam’s eyes darted up to meet hers. “Dr. Grant, I just… I just want things to change. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Emma closed her eyes and sighed. “Then it’s not too late, Sam. It’s not too late to stop all this. My father is a US marshal. I have friends in the FBI. I can make sure—”
“Hackett!”
Emma’s heart jumped into her throat. Standing just inside the doorway was the scrawny kid with the broken nose.
She wanted to scream at him.
“What are you doing?” the kid said as he stepped into the room. He curled a lip and ran a finger slowly down Emma’s arm. “Having a little fun?”
Emma pulled away.
“Though I think I would have left my mask on if I were you, man. She knows your face now.”
Sam clenched his fist, a hint of disgust as well as anger in his eyes. “What do you want, Rat?” he said, retrieving his mask.
“Mac sent me to find you. That FBI guy is on the phone again. Deputy something-or-other Sanchez. He wants to discuss our demands.”
“Fine, you found me. Now go wait outside.”
Rat didn’t move. He just stood there, undressing Emma with his eyes.
Sam punched him in the arm. “Hey, kid, enough. I said go wait outside.”
“All right, jeez,” said Rat, rubbing his arm. “Get some for me too, then. But make it quick. I don’t think Sanchez is the type of guy who likes to be left waiting.”
As he walked out the door, Emma suddenly had the urge to shower.
“We should get back,” said Sam. “It’s going to look bad enough as it is.”
“Yeah. For your sake, I hope that Rat kid doesn’t go running his mouth, or Jon’s going to kill both of you.
”
Sam smiled. “And I wouldn’t blame him for it. But it’s much better than them knowing what was really going on in here.”
“You mean me trying to talk some sense into you?”
Sam looked at the floor. “Nothing changes, Dr. Grant. Unless you know something I don’t, I think you’re just scared. It’s understandable. But I have absolutely no reason to believe that things won’t go exactly as planned.”
You have no idea. Emma didn’t doubt at all that things would go according to plan. The question was, according to whose plan?
“We are the choices we make,” she whispered.
“You’re absolutely right, Doc. And this is my choice. No matter what sacrifices I have to make for it. And if you’re convinced that the best way to deal with this is to hide and wait it out, then I think you’re no better than anyone else in that conference room.”
Emma narrowed her eyes at him. “And if you continue to go through with this, then you’re no better than him,” she said, nodding toward the door. She was tired and nauseated and angry at herself now. She’d lost him, and she knew it. If she was going to stop all this, she was going to have to find another way to do it.
Sam shook his head. “Come on, Doc, let’s go,” he said, reaching for her arm.
“No.” Emma pulled away from him.
He cocked his head. “Are you really going to make me drag you out of here at gunpoint?” He glared at her for a moment, then dropped his eyes, as if he was embarrassed to even have entertained the idea.
“I just…” Emma sighed. “I just need a few minutes, okay? I’m afraid if I step back into that conference room now I’m going to throw up all over the floor.”
Sam rubbed his forehead. “All right, fine. Ten minutes. That’s it. Rat will be right outside the door. I’ve got to go take a phone call.”
“Yeah, tell Victor I said hi,” she mumbled.
He pulled his mask back on. “Ten minutes. Not a second more. And don’t do anything stupid, either. I’d hate to have to…”
“What, shoot me? Guess you’d be breaking your promise then, wouldn’t you?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Hell hath no fury…” he muttered, then walked out the door.
And Emma lost it.
“Damn it!” She slammed her hands down on the countertop. She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. She could have stopped it. She could have stopped it! Now what the hell was she supposed to do?
“Think, Emma, think,” she said. She turned on the faucet and cupped her hands beneath the water. She took a long drink and splashed her face.
We are the choices we make. It was the same thing Jon had said to her only days before. It felt more like months. But it wasn’t the first time she had heard it. She already knew. Probably better than anyone. And that’s what worried her.
That doesn’t help, Emma. Yes, it worried her. More than anything else. But at that moment, that wasn’t what was important. At that moment, there were more pressing things to worry about.
Like Victor Sanchez.
Yes, she had friends in the FBI. People she liked. People who did their job, and did their job well. People who were patriots, who would lay down their lives for their country and their leaders. But Victor wasn’t one of them. He was an arrogant prick who had no idea how to deal with a hostage situation. On the few occasions when she had been forced to work with him, it hadn’t ended well. People died. Innocent people who didn’t have to. And it hadn’t bothered Victor at all. Take out the threat, get the job done—that was his only objective. Anything outside of that was just a bonus. Pair that with a guy like Mac, and you’d have an accident waiting to happen.
A bomb waiting to go off.
Emma needed someone on the outside she could trust. Someone who was equipped to deal with the situation. Who cared about what happened to the people inside that building. Someone she could talk to, who would believe her when she tried to warn them what was going to happen.
But how in the world was she supposed to pull that off?
“All right, come on, Emma,” she said to her reflection. “What do I do?”
What you always do.
Emma wrinkled her forehead. What you always do? It was the last thing Jack had said to her before she left the conference room, and even now it made no sense. What in the world was it she always did?
And that’s when she saw it. She looked up at the corner of the mirror, at the reflection of the ceiling behind her. She turned and stared at it, wide-eyed.
There was a vent just above one of the bathroom stalls.
“What is it you always do, Emmy?”
Whatever you have to.
CHAPTER 22
“HEY, WHERE’S YOUR HOT LITTLE friend?” Rat leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, a sucker stick hanging out of his mouth.
He looked like an idiot.
Sam smiled and winked. “She needed a few minutes to, uh… compose herself.” The words disgusted him, but he had to keep up the façade. Any form of kindness toward one of the hostages would be seen as a sign of weakness. It was sad to think that to these men, there was more dignity in dragging a girl off and having your way with her than there was in showing her some decency.
Where the hell did Mac find these people?
“Wow, that was quick. She shouldn’t need too long to recover,” Rat said with a laugh. He got a crazed look in his eye. “How about I go help her?”
“Leave her alone, man. She’s already had enough.”
“Not until I’m done with her, she hasn’t. But, hey, I get it. She’s gorgeous, and you want to keep her all to yourself. Didn’t your mamma ever teach you to share?”
That was as far as Sam was willing to let it go.
He slammed his fist against the wall, right next to Rat’s head. “I said leave her alone.”
“What the hell, man?” Rat let the sucker fall out of his mouth.
“I mean it, Rat,” said Sam. “You’re going to stay here, and you’re going to keep an eye on this door. But if you touch her, I swear to God, I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”
“You wouldn’t do that,” said Rat, narrowing his eyes.
Sam backed up and grinned. “You’re right. I won’t have to. I’ll turn her husband loose on you instead.”
Rat reached up to lightly touch his nose.
Sam smiled as he headed back to the conference room. It was a good thing Reynolds was a hormone-crazed pervert, or he might have picked up on what Dr. Grant had been trying to do. What she had almost been successful in doing.
Talking him out of it.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Things had already gone too far. He didn’t care who she thought she was or what kind of connections she had. There was no way she could get him out of this now. And what about Zach? They’d already broken too many laws. If they turned themselves in, they’d never see the light of day. All their work, all their sacrifices, would be for nothing. And even if, somehow, they could all just walk away—if he and Zach could just lay down their guns, say they were sorry, and head home—what then? What would there be to go home to? A dying country? A dying ranch?
A dying son?
As he stepped through the conference room door, Sam made a special effort not to look toward Jonathan Grant, though he could still feel the man’s eyes on him. Grant was no doubt furious to see that his wife hadn’t come back from the bathroom with Sam. But Sam had someone else to deal with.
Someone who was a lot more dangerous when mad.
“Where the hell have you been?” Mac barked at him from the stage.
“Taking care of something,” Sam snapped back.
“Where’s the girl?”
Sam ignored him and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
Mac sneered at him and walked off.
“Ah, well, look who finally decided to join us,” came Sanchez’s voice.
Sam tightened his jaw. “Sorry, I was busy accosting one of your hostages.”
Sanchez was
silent for a moment. Good. Sam wanted him to understand he was serious, not someone he could push around.
“Not one of the important ones, I hope,” said Sanchez.
What was that supposed to mean? “I guess that depends on who you consider important. Friend of yours, from what I understand. She says to tell you hi.”
Sam could hear the muffled sounds of Sanchez holding his hand over the phone. As he waited for the guy to answer, he noticed Zach looking up at him. Zach glanced across the room at Mac, then back at Sam.
Something was wrong.
Sanchez came back. “Look, Boss,” he said. “Can I call you Boss?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“All right, listen. Before we start to wheel and deal, I need to ask you something.”
Wheel and deal? Seriously?
“Exactly how far are you willing to go?”
Sam hesitated. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, I can appreciate your efforts. Really I can. All of us out here are suffering too. We want to see some changes made just as much as the next guy.”
Sam highly doubted that. These were government employees, with government health insurance and fat pensions waiting on them. When the cutbacks started, did they touch the paychecks of the bureaucrats? The FBI, the CIA, the NSA? Any of the people in that conference room? No. They took it straight from the average American. From Social Security, assistance programs, even military pay.
This guy didn’t care. He didn’t care at all.
“But,” Sanchez continued, “I just don’t think what you’re asking is feasible.”
“What are you saying, Sanchez?”
“What I’m saying is, do you have any idea how ludicrous your demands are? I mean, think about it, Boss. What in the world makes you believe, even if we could manage to pull everyone we’d need together to discuss it, that they would come to an agreement in a realistic time frame? These are politicians we’re talking about here. And who’s to say the Texas governor and half his cabinet aren’t already in there with you as it is?”