by M. C. Sutton
“Nice to meet you too, Sam.”
“So you’re from Texas, Richard?”
“Born and raised.”
“You’re not one of those bloodsuckers from the FBI, are you?”
“No, Sam, I’m not. I’m a US marshal.”
Sam turned back to the Grants. Dr. Grant was looking at him helplessly, her lip trembling, her eyes red. Then her shoulders dropped and she turned her eyes to the floor, almost as if she had accepted the fact she was about to die. It broke Sam’s heart to see her just give up like that.
And know he was responsible.
“Sam,” Zach whispered.
Sam leaned in and put a hand over the phone. “What’ve you got, Zach?”
“Not much, just basic information, but maybe there’s something here.”
“Let me have it, then,” said Sam, pulling the phone away from his ear.
Zach read the screen. “Emma Grant, born Emma Elizabeth Scott. Originally from Kilgore. Parents: Richard and Narhianna Scott. Graduated from Western Carolina. Height, weight, date of birth, blah, blah, blah.”
“Wait, what?” said Sam.
“I know. She’s like forty-four. She doesn’t look that much older than us, does she?”
“No,” said Sam. “I mean her father’s name.”
“Richard. Richard Scott. He’s a retired US marshal or something.”
Sam’s jaw dropped.
So—her phone call wasn’t exactly what she had led him to believe it was. He should have known she was smarter than that. When Dr. Grant told him she had called home, he assumed she’d called her own house, to talk to her kids. But she had called her father. And not just to say goodbye.
To get help.
Sam returned the phone to his ear. “What’s your last name, Richard?”
Richard was silent.
“It’s hard to trust a man who won’t even tell you his last name.”
“Scott, Sam. My last name is Scott.”
Sam picked up the base of the phone and stepped up onto the stage. He put a hand on Mac’s shoulder.
“Richard,” he said, loud enough for Dr. Grant to hear him.
Her head snapped up.
“Richard, Sanchez has a friend in here. Hasn’t been particularly cooperative. We caught her trying to make a phone call. He doesn’t seem to care whether she lives or dies.”
Mac eyed Sam, but his gun never wavered from Dr. Grant.
Sam squatted down in front of her. “Do you care whether she lives or dies, Richard?”
“Yes, Sam,” he answered quietly. “I care very much.”
Sam smiled. The cold, hard smile of knowing that he was back in control. “Then perhaps you’d like to say hello.”
He held the phone up to her ear. “Why don’t you say hi, Doc?”
She glared at him, then turned her eyes to the floor. “Hi, Dad,” she said quietly.
Sam jerked the phone away and stood. “You want her alive, Scott? You’ve got exactly three hours to comply with our demands.”
Richard sucked in a sharp breath. “Three hours? Sam, if you’re as much of a Texan as I am, you know I can’t pull that off in three hours!”
“Three hours, or we start shooting hostages. And I want updates every hour. Is that understood?” Sam had no intention of anyone else getting shot, but knew that he was no longer dealing with a bureaucrat with an agenda. He was dealing with a father trying to save his child’s life. Sam knew better than anyone what level of desperation that could drive a man to.
“I understand,” said Richard.
“Good. Then I expect to hear from you in an hour.”
“Sam, wait. Sanchez said there was a gunshot. Is anyone hurt?”
Sam glanced at Vice President Allred. “Yes,” he said quietly, turning away. “There was an… incident.”
“Are they still alive?”
“For now.”
“Sam, let me send an EMT in to help them.”
“Out of the question.” It wouldn’t matter anyway. Judging by the amount of blood, not even the best physicians in Texas could save Allred now.
“Sam, look. You want me to help you pull this off? You’ve got to give me something to go on. I can’t do this by myself, and I have to convince these guys that the greatest chance of getting those people out alive is to comply. If you start killing hostages, they’re just going to cut their losses and try to take you by force. So please, let me send someone in there.”
Sam looked over his shoulder. Mac had moved Dr. Grant and her husband against the wall at the back of the stage, by Allred. Dr. Grant sat next to the vice president, his hand in hers, stroking his hair.
Sam sighed. “Fine. You can send in the EMT.”
“Thank you, Sam. Maybe you’re a better man than I thought.”
“Three hours, Richard.”
“Three hours.”
CHAPTER 27
Richard Scott had exactly two hours and fifty-eight minutes.
The abandoned coffee shop a block up the street from the hotel had been taken over by the FBI for use as a command center. Though what exactly they were “commanding,” Richard wasn’t sure. The place was chaotic. There were people staring at surveillance monitors, maps and papers spread out across tables, agents on phones, and guys in jackets running this way and that, none of them seeming to get anything accomplished.
Richard grabbed one of them as they rushed by.
“Listen, young man,” he said. “One of the hostages has been shot. I need you to find me a negotiator, all right? And get me a couple of EMTs along with him.”
The kid stared blankly back at him.
“Go, son,” said Richard. “Now!”
The kid ran off, passing Sanchez, who was making his way toward Richard. Richard wondered where in the world Sanchez had disappeared to while he was on the phone with Sam.
“Just like old times, huh, Scott?” said Sanchez, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Richard narrowed his eyes. Sanchez knew darn well this wasn’t the type of thing Richard was used to. He’d spent his career chasing down fugitives and protecting court officials, out there on the front lines risking his hide to keep his country and the systems that kept it going safe. Not hiding behind some desk in a cushy DC office getting fat off the taxpayers’ dime, like Sanchez. Because unlike Sanchez, Richard actually cared what the hell happened to all those people who had to live outside the protection of those bureaucratic brick walls.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Sanchez, smiling. “This isn’t something you normally do, is it?”
“Look, Sanchez, there is a bomb in that hotel. We’re going to have to get everyone out of there as soon as possible.”
Sanchez smirked. “A bomb? Where’d you get that intel?”
“Let’s just say I have my sources.”
“Yeah, and so do I. Tons of them. I have literally hundreds of pieces of intel pouring into this room every second, and not a single bit of it leads me to believe that there is a bomb anywhere near that hotel. Unless, of course, you’ve heard something I haven’t?”
Richard looked at the floor.
“Oh, wait, I get it,” said Sanchez. “Little Miss Crazy Town told you, didn’t she?”
Richard sucked in a long, deep breath just to hold himself back from socking the guy right in the nose.
“Oh, stop the presses,” said Sanchez, throwing his hands in the air. “Let’s notify the American people that we’re all going to just lie down and surrender to the will of some crazed terrorist group, all because Emma Grant had one of her freaky little vibes again.”
“Damn it, Sanchez, we don’t have time for this! I’m going to need—”
“No, Richard, I don’t believe you will. Because, if I’m not mistaken, you’re retired. And even if you weren’t, I don’t recall asking the marshals for help.”
“You asked for my help, remember? Something about them refusing to do business with you? So it sounds to me like you could use all the help you can ge
t.”
“And it sounds to me,” said Sanchez, stepping in closer, “like your little girl’s in there, and you’re willing to make whatever deal it takes to get her out.”
So that’s what Sanchez had been doing. He’d gone off to listen in on the call—no doubt to catch Richard saying something he could use against him. Typical sleazy Sanchez. The guy probably had surveillance cameras set up in his own house.
Sanchez put a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “But hey, it’s understandable. I mean, I’m sure I’d do the same thing in your situation. If I, you know, had a daughter. Or any family at all.”
“It doesn’t really matter anyway, does it?” said Richard. “They’re not going to negotiate with you.”
“They don’t have to. Because from what I understand, Jack Allred’s been shot. And in my book, shooting a vice president effectively puts an end to the negotiation process.”
Richard’s jaw dropped. Jack? Sam hadn’t mentioned who’d been shot. What made Sanchez think it was Jack Allred?
“As for your help, Scott, I do appreciate it, believe it or not. You’ve given us exactly what we needed.”
“And what is that?”
“Time.”
Just then the kid Richard had sent off returned with a couple of guys in EMT uniforms. One was a short Indian kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old or so. His badge read Chris Capitan. The other EMT’s badge said Michael Ashcraft, but Richard knew darn well that wasn’t his real name. Because Richard already knew this guy’s name.
It was Quinn Larson.
“Sir?” said Quinn, glancing only briefly at Richard before turning to Sanchez.
Richard tried to hold in his satisfaction at seeing Quinn there. And why wouldn’t he be there? He was an FBI negotiator, after all, and Quinn and Emma had once been practically inseparable. Just because they’d had a falling out didn’t mean he wouldn’t still care about her. It was too bad, really. Richard had no idea what had happened, but it had to have been pretty bad for Emma to completely walk away from a guy who’d been her best friend since grade school.
“Yes, Mr. Ashcraft?” said Sanchez. Apparently he didn’t know who Quinn really was.
“Sir, we were told that one of the hostages has been shot.”
Richard could have kissed him. When Quinn heard that Richard had sent for a negotiator along with the EMTs, he must have caught on to the plan. Posing as an EMT wasn’t something a negotiator would normally do, because of the risks involved. If Sam or any of his boys found out Quinn was FBI, they’d probably shoot him on the spot. But it was essential that they get someone on the inside to try to defuse the situation, and Sanchez would probably never go for that. Richard knew that, and apparently Quinn knew that too. Which was why he’d taken it upon himself to sneak in.
Sanchez turned to Richard. “You can’t be serious. You’re willing to risk sending in more potential hostages?”
Richard shrugged. “Hey, it’s your operation, remember? I guess if you want to be known as the guy who could have saved the vice president’s life, but didn’t want to take the chance…”
Sanchez glared. “You boys understand how dangerous this is, right?” he said to Quinn and Chris. “I’m not going to be held responsible if you don’t come back out again.”
Richard shook his head. How did this guy even get his job?
“We understand, sir,” said Quinn. “We just want to help.”
Emma sure knew how to pick her friends. Too bad she didn’t know how to hold on to them.
“All right, fine. You go do what you have to do. But if anything happens, I just want you to remember whose idea it was to send you in there in the first place.” Sanchez looked meaningfully at Richard.
Richard ignored him. “You’ll be fine, boys. You just do your jobs the best way you know how, like you always do. And I’m sure your country, and the people you help, will appreciate it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Quinn.
Chris simply nodded.
“Well then, gentlemen, what are you doing still standing here?” said Sanchez.
Quinn looked to Richard for confirmation.
Richard nodded. “Good luck, boys.”
Quinn and Chris turned and walked out the door.
“You too, Scott,” said Sanchez.
“Excuse me?”
“Go on. You’ve served your purpose. Go find a golf course somewhere and let the big boys handle this one.”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “You know, one of these days, Sanchez, that arrogance of yours is going to come back to bite you right in the keister.”
“Is that a threat, Scott?”
“Of course not.” Richard laughed. “Consider it more of a prediction.”
“Whatever. Just get out of here.” Sanchez turned to go.
“Victor, wait,” said Richard, grabbing Sanchez by the arm. “Before you run off, there’s something I need to know.”
Sanchez stared at Richard’s hand on his arm. He didn’t say a word until Richard let go. “What?”
“What do you intend to do about that bomb?”
Sanchez scoffed. “There is no bomb in that building. I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of giving these lunatics a single thing they want. And if they don’t like that, I’m sorry, but they can shoot every last person in that conference room. The federal government does not yield to terrorists.”
Without waiting for a reaction, Deputy Director Victor Sanchez turned on his heel and walked away.
“So that’s that, I guess,” a voice said behind Richard.
Richard turned to find Ephraim standing nearby. He must have stepped in unnoticed.
“That’s that,” Richard answered.
Ephraim took a deep breath. “You ready?”
“Yep.”
And with that, Deputy Marshal Richard Scott and Deputy Marshal Ephraim Grey stopped by the closest table, grabbed a copy of the building plans for the hotel, and slipped out the front door.
CHAPTER 28
It wasn’t her fault, Jon.
It wasn’t her fault.
It was all Jon could do to keep it together. He sat at the back of the stage, his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth in an attempt to stop himself from shaking. Lying next to him was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. The man he’d looked up to more than anyone else in his entire life. Who had accepted him for who he was, even when no one else would.
And that man was about to die.
Jon had seen some pretty disturbing images in his life. Men tortured and beaten. Women and children burned to death. People he’d served with blown to pieces right in front of him. But there was something about Jack lying there, cold and pale, the life slowly draining from his body, that Jon just couldn’t handle.
Damn it, Emma. Why the hell do you feel like you always have to be the hero?
Jon was so mad he wanted to scream. To yell at her about how this never would have happened if she hadn’t tried to pull something. But deep down he knew the person he was really angry with was himself. Because the problem wasn’t that she had done something—it was that he hadn’t. He could have stopped all of this from the very moment it began.
But he’d been too worried about her.
Jack’s hand lay limp beside his body. Jon wanted so very much to reach out and take it—to hold on to his uncle before he slipped away. But Jon was afraid that Jack would use whatever energy he had left to Push some image of the ocean, or a sunrise, or Christmas, just to comfort him. Because that was the kind of man Jack Allred was. He put others before himself.
Maybe Jon could have done something. Maybe. Maybe not. The truth was, the only time he had ever been able to successfully use his abilities was when it meant keeping Emma out of danger.
And right now, he was too mad at her to care.
“Honey?” Emma whispered.
Jon stared straight ahead.
“Jon,” she said, a little louder.
He turned. “What?” he snapped under his breath.
She shrank back.
Jon took a deep breath. “What?” he repeated, softening his tone. Judging by the hurt and guilt in her eyes, though, she already knew how angry he was.
“Look,” Emma whispered.
She nodded toward the door of the conference room, where two men in EMT uniforms stood. Jon recognized one of them immediately.
Was Quinn completely nuts?
“What the hell is this, Hackett?” said Mac to the other leader. The two men waited at the front of the stage, watching the EMTs approach.
So the other one’s name is Hackett.
Hackett hopped off the stage without answering.
“We heard someone was shot,” said Quinn. He caught Jon’s eye, but quickly scanned past him like he didn’t exist. Jon didn’t care. He knew Emma was the real reason Quinn was there.
“You’re the EMTs?” said Hackett.
“Yes,” said Quinn. “Who else would we be?”
Hackett glanced over his shoulder at Mac. He looked uncertain.
“Look, pal, I’m just here to make sure that man doesn’t die,” said Quinn. “And the longer we stand here and wait, the more likely that is to happen.”
“Fine,” said Hackett. “Go help him.”
Jon scooted closer to Jack as Quinn and the EMT neared. It was the first time Jon had gotten a good look at Jack’s chest wound. A tingling cold washed over his body in a reminder of how long it had been since he’d last eaten.
Quinn and the other EMT—Chris, his name badge said—knelt on the opposite side of Jack, next to Emma. “Are you all right?” Quinn whispered.
“I’m fine,” Emma whispered back. “Just help him.”
Quinn turned his attention to Jack. “How is he?” he asked Chris.
Chris had his stethoscope out and was listening for a heartbeat. “We need to get him out of here,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” said Mac.
Jon looked up. He hadn’t even noticed Mac and Hackett approach.
“Look, he doesn’t have much time,” said Chris. “I can’t do anything for him here. We’ve got to get him to a hospital if there’s to be any possibility at all of saving his life.”