by M. C. Sutton
He knew just the man to call.
A couple of hours later Richard landed at a private airport outside Dallas after a bumpy flight. He tipped his head to Bill, who had told him that he’d be praying for Jon and Emma and hoped that everything would turn out okay. Richard thanked him before stepping out onto the tarmac.
He didn’t have a black sedan or a guy in a suit and earpiece waiting for him.
But what he did have was Ephraim Grey.
Ephraim leaned against the side of his SUV.
“Heya, slick,” said Richard, throwing his bag in the back seat.
Ephraim was thirty years old, six foot two, and black as midnight. He had a tendency to leap before he looked, and a mouth that made you want to smack him, but he was the best damn deputy marshal Richard had ever had the pleasure of training. He’d also do anything for Jon and Emma.
“Hey, old man.”
“Now, what have I told you about calling me old man?”
“Well, what have I told you about calling me slick?”
Richard smiled. “I see you’re still cruisin’ around in this gas-guzzling monster. Does Uncle Sam pay you enough to keep the tank full, or are we going to have to push it most of the way?”
“Nah, I thought we’d just hitch ’er up to yer tractor and haul ’er,” he answered, mockingly slipping into Richard’s accent.
“And how’s that gonna work if I’m sittin’ in the back seat, Jeeves?”
Ephraim laughed. “Whatever, man, just get in the car.”
Richard was grateful to have Ephraim with him. There were checkpoints for miles outside of downtown Dallas, stopping people trying to get out as well as trying to get in. More than once Ephraim had to flash his badge to get through.
As traffic slowed to a crawl, Richard looked around at all the abandoned shops and buildings. The city whose skyscrapers used to sparkle in the sunlight had fallen into filth and disarray. Newspapers covered windows. People sat on the sidewalk holding cardboard signs. Even the plants that lined the streets were dying.
If a city like Dallas could be this bad, then what did the rest of the country look like?
Richard’s phone rang. It was a Dallas number, but not one he recognized. “Hello?”
“Dad!”
“Emma?”
“Dad, listen, I don’t have a lot of time. There’s a bomb in the hotel.”
Richard froze. “What?”
“You’ve got to tell them to get everyone out of the building.”
“I don’t understand. The terrorists have a bomb?” There wasn’t anything about that in the information he’d received. “Is it on one of them?”
“I… I’m not sure where it is, Dad. I don’t think one of them has it, but…”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because I saw it,” Emma said quietly.
Richard swallowed hard. He understood what she meant, but he’d rather she’d told him it was strapped to her own chest. Then at least there would be a possibility that they could disarm it. If Emma had seen it without knowing where it was…
“So what do we do?”
“Get everyone out,” she said. “Get everyone as far away from this building as you can. It’s not going to be easy. Sanchez is heading up the negotiations. I’ve got to be honest, Dad. I kind of wish you were out there right now instead of him.”
Richard smiled. “I think I may be able to arrange that.”
Emma paused. “You’re in Dallas, aren’t you? Jon asked you to stay with the kids.”
“I know.”
“Thanks for not listening to him.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Look, I’ve got to go. But there’s something I need you to do for me, okay? If this thing goes bad—if Jon and I don’t make it home—I need you to tell the kids—”
But Emma didn’t finish her sentence.
Richard pulled the phone away from his ear. The line had gone dead.
He didn’t want to think about why.
“So what’s the plan, Chief?” said Ephraim.
“How far are we from the hotel?”
“I don’t know. Ten blocks, maybe.”
Richard grabbed his bag from the back seat, pulled out his US marshal jacket, and slipped it on. “All right then. I’ll meet back up with you after you’ve made your way through this mess.”
“Why? Where are you going?” Ephraim asked as Richard hopped out.
“To find Victor Sanchez.”
CHAPTER 25
“Well, look what we have here.”
Emma squatted beneath the registration desk, the phone that had just gone silent still to her ear. Sam’s head hung upside down just above her.
“Come on, Doc,” he said, frowning. “Let’s go.”
Emma set the phone back down on the desk before crawling out.
Sam picked it up and flung it at the wall.
Emma slipped her hands into her pockets. “Gee, Sam, you seem a little upset.”
“Who did you call?” he asked coldly.
“I ordered a pizza. We’re all getting pretty hungry in there. It’ll be here in about thirty minutes or it’s free. Honestly, I think the pizza place is getting gypped. There is no way the delivery guy is going to make it through those barricades in thirty minutes.”
Sam crossed his arms. “Who did you call?” he repeated slowly.
Emma looked away. “I called home, okay?”
“What?”
“You know, to say goodbye. I mean, what would you do if you knew you were about to die?”
Sam turned his eyes to the floor, his chest rising and falling in angry, frustrated heaves. “Go,” he said quietly, pointing toward the conference room.
Emma bit her lip. “Sam, please…”
“Just—” Sam raised a hand to stop her, then shook his head. “Just go.”
Emma kept her eyes downcast as he herded her back to the conference room. She had managed to accomplish her goal, but she had lost Sam’s trust in the process. He was angry, and that wasn’t something she could afford. He was the only one left who could get them all out of this.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said. “I had to try.”
He didn’t answer.
She stopped mid-stride and spun on him. “I can’t just sit back and let these people die.”
Sam had his AR-15 in his hand. Would he have shot her if she’d tried to run?
“I already told you, Dr. Grant. I’m not going to let that happen.”
“And what makes you think you can stop it? Do you trust the men in that room? Do you trust Mac? Deep down inside, do you think he cares at all what happens to us? Or even what happens to you?”
Sam’s narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care what Mac thinks. I am overseeing this operation. Me, not him. I am the one who controls what goes on here today.”
Before Emma could respond, a gunshot sounded from inside the conference room. She froze, unable to move. Unable to even breathe. Sam stared at her, wide-eyed.
There was only one person in that room Emma could think about at the moment.
“Jon,” she whispered.
They both ran for the door.
Emma tried to keep the tears from her eyes. No, no, no. If Jon had been shot, then she was the one who had gotten him shot. She was the one who had quite possibly just gotten him killed. Emma hadn’t thought about what they might do to him if she tried to pull something.
They pushed through the door, Emma’s eyes darting to where she had left Jon. She fully expected to see him lying on the floor, covered in his own blood. But he wasn’t. He was seated against the wall, Aaron on one side of him and Rachael on the other.
Emma headed toward them.
Sam ran past her toward the stage.
“Honey?” Emma said once she reached Jon. He sat with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs and his chin on his knees. Rachael had her arm around his shoulder.
Emma knelt in front of them. “Jon?” she said, her hand trembling as s
he pushed a lock of hair back from his face. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks tear-stained. He stared past her as if she weren’t there.
Emma looked him over, still half-expecting to find a bullet hole, but saw nothing. She turned to Aaron. “What happened?”
Before Aaron could answer, his eyes widened and darted to a spot above her head.
Mac grabbed her by the arm.
He dragged her up onto the stage and threw her down against something soft—against something sticky and wet. She held a hand in front of her eyes and stared at the bright red on her skin. Emma had been on the scene of dozens of horrific tragedies in her life, but she had never seen blood quite so red.
She forced herself to look. To see who it was that was lying behind her. Based on the traumatized look in Jon’s eyes, she already knew. It could only be one person. The one person in the world that he had looked up to and loved his entire life.
Emma had thought she’d gotten Jon killed, but she was wrong.
She’d gotten his Uncle Jack killed instead.
“Jack,” she said, trying to steady her hand as she put her fingers to his throat to check for a pulse. Is that…? Maybe. The slightest hint of a heartbeat. But it was sickeningly faint.
And there was an awful lot of blood.
Emma turned back to Jon. She was only faintly aware of Sam standing in front of her, asking her something. “Barely,” she answered him quietly without thinking, but she couldn’t bring herself to take her eyes off Jon. He just sat there, staring at nothing, his face pale and distant. Emma had never seen him like that before. Never seen him that completely devastated. Like a child who’d just lost a parent.
She knew Jack must have done something to Jon, must have Pushed him to keep him from interfering and getting himself killed, too. That’s why he was acting the way he was now. Jon would never allow himself to be that emotionally exposed, no matter what had just happened. He’d keep a straight face, determined to be strong for everyone else. But that wouldn’t change what he was feeling.
And Emma had been the cause of it.
It made her want to throw up.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” said Mac, stepping in front of her. He pointed a handgun straight at her head.
“Go ahead,” said Emma, closing her eyes and resting her head on her knees. It didn’t matter now anyway. Her hope was shattered. As shattered as the inside of Jack’s rib cage. She cradled her head, determined not to let Mac see her cry. This was all her fault. When Jon snapped out of it, when he realized what had happened, what was she going to say to him? How was she going to face him? Judging by the heartbroken look on Jon’s face, he might as well have been shot in the chest himself.
“No,” said Mac, pulling her to her feet. He dragged her to the front of the stage and dropped her back down with a thud. “That’s not how this is going to work, Doc. If I’m going to enjoy this, then you have to give a damn.”
Emma stared up at him, expressionless.
“Fine, you don’t care if you die? Then maybe you’ll care if he does,” said Mac. He hopped off the stage, walked over to Jon, and grabbed him by the arm.
Emma gasped. “No.”
Mac dragged him up the stairs and threw him down on the stage right in front of her. Jon shook his head. “Em?” he said, his voice thick with confusion.
Emma scooted closer to him. “Honey, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, resting his head in his hand. “Except for this massive headache. Emma, what the hell is—”
Mac stepped in front of them.
And pointed his gun at Jon.
Jon looked up at him. “Emma,” he said, turning back to her. “What did you do?”
Emma’s eyes began to tear again. She shook her head. I’m so sorry, Jon.
The haze of whatever Jack had done to him lifted from his eyes. It was replaced by a level of outrage Emma hadn’t seen in him in a long time. Jon grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her closer. “Damn it, Emma. Do you have some kind of death wish?”
As she stared back at him, unable to answer, Jon glanced briefly toward the back of the stage. For a moment, he seemed not to realize what he’d just seen. Then his shoulders fell. He let go of her wrist and turned his eyes to Jack.
“Jack?” Jon whispered.
Emma started to reach for Jon’s arm, but she stopped herself, her hand trembling in mid-air.
Jon looked at Mac. “You bastard.”
“I take it he was a friend of yours?” said Mac.
Jon glared. “I swear to you, before this is all over, I am going to kill you myself.”
“You know what?” Mac said with a smile. “I think I’ll go ahead and shoot her first after all.” He turned his gun on Emma.
But Emma looked only at Jon.
Jon, you’ve got to do something, she pleaded with her eyes.
His jaw was clenched, his cheeks bright red. Emma wasn’t sure what was worse. Having a gun pointed at her head, or having Jon look at her the way he was right then.
Then Emma turned to Sam. He was standing next to the surveillance monitors, talking to someone on the phone. She gave him the same pleading expression.
He just stared at her.
Finally, she dropped her shoulders. She had thought she could convince him. She had thought she could stop this. But all she had done was make things worse.
Emma closed her eyes. She listened for the sound of Mac cocking his gun, then realized that she wouldn’t hear it. The last sound she was going to hear was the pop of the bullet just before it shattered her skull, if she heard anything at all. Emma wondered if she would be dead before she even noticed.
No, Mac didn’t have to cock his gun. He’d already used it to kill one person that day.
And he was about to kill another one.
CHAPTER 26
SAM’S EYES DARTED TO THE side of the stage as he stepped into the conference room.
Good, Grant was still alive.
But if Grant wasn’t the one that Mac shot, then who was?
Sam ran past Dr. Grant, who had stopped just inside the doorway. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her heading slowly for her husband. Sam let her go. Her little scheme was no longer his biggest problem.
Keeping her alive was.
At the back of the stage lay a body, surrounded by a ton of blood. From this angle, he couldn’t tell who it was. He could worry about that later. Right now he had to prevent a second murder.
“Zach, please tell me you found something,” said Sam, stopping at the surveillance desk.
“I’m sorry,” said Zach. “I’m trying, but there just isn’t much.”
Sam peered over Zach’s shoulder. “What do you mean there isn’t much?” He had found plenty of information about the Grants when he’d looked them up while trying to figure out if they could help Cole.
“Sure, there’s tons of stuff about them. Him being captured in the war. Coming home to find her in the hospital. Her recovery. The Grant Foundation. Lots of stuff in the newspapers about their story, but nothing specifically about her past. At least, nothing useful. In fact, there are entire years of her life where she just kind of disappears.”
Sam rubbed his forehead through his mask. He looked over his shoulder to see Mac dragging Dr. Grant up onto the stage. “Zach, please. You’ve got to get me something. Anything.”
“I can get you some of her basic information. Birth certificate. Profile sheets. She did work for the government for a while.”
“Whatever you can find. There’s got to be something I can use. She’s from Texas. Maybe they’re from the same friggin’ hometown or something.”
“All right, man, I’ll see what I can do.”
Sam jumped up onto the stage. Dr. Grant was leaning over the victim’s body, her hand to his neck. It was then that Sam recognized who Mac had shot.
My god. We’ve just killed the vice president of the United States.
“Mac, don’t do this,” said Sam, taking h
im by the arm.
Mac pulled away. “We told them if they tried anything, this is what would happen. Do you want them to know we’re serious or not?”
Sam looked down at Dr. Grant. “Is he still alive?”
“Barely,” she mumbled, staring across the room as if he wasn’t there.
Behind him, the phone rang.
Sam turned to Mac. “Just wait a minute, okay.”
Mac glared at him.
Sam hopped down and picked up the phone. “I’m not really in the mood right now, Sanchez.”
“We heard a gunshot.”
“Your little friend isn’t being particularly compliant, I’m afraid,” said Sam. He watched as Mac dragged Jonathan Grant up to the stage too.
“Yeah, that sounds about like her,” Sanchez said casually.
Sam tightened his jaw. Sanchez cared about what happened to the people in that room about as much as Mac did.
“Look,” said Sam, “I thought I said I was through talking to you.”
“Now hold your horses there, cowboy. I’ve found you somebody else to talk to, okay? A Texan. Somebody who ‘gives a damn,’ as you say.”
Up on the stage, Mac had both Dr. Grant and her husband on their knees in front of him, his gun pointed right at her head. Sam swallowed hard. If it came right down to it, would he use force to stop Mac from shooting her? Would he jeopardize everything he’d worked for to save their lives? Or would he let them die?
Sam wasn’t sure. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.
“Hello?” said a voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes?”
“Young man, my name is Richard.”
“Nice to meet you, Richard.”
“Can I ask your name?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“Son, it’s hard to trust a man who won’t even tell you his name.”
“And what difference does it make whether you trust me?”
“Because if you and I are going to work together to get those people out alive, we’re going to need to trust each other.”
Sam sighed. Finally, someone he could talk to. “Sam. My name is Sam.”