by M. C. Sutton
Mac squatted down next to Jon and stared Chris right in the eyes. “Then here’s an idea,” he said, curling a lip. “Let him die.”
Jon had to restrain himself from beating the hell out of him.
“For heaven’s sake, man,” Chris pressed. “He’s the friggin’ vice president. You really want to be known as the guy responsible for his death?”
Hackett knelt next to Emma. “If you get him to a hospital, do you think there’s a chance they can save his life?” he asked Chris.
“A better chance than he’d have lying here, I can tell you that.”
Jon wanted to scream. Or cry. He wasn’t sure which.
“Please,” said Emma. She put her hand on Hackett’s. “Please don’t let him die just because I screwed up.”
Hackett studied Emma. He sighed. “All right,” he said quietly. “You can take him.”
“Thank you.”
“What?” Mac exploded. “Have you lost your freakin’ mind? You really think I’m just going to let them walk out of here with one of my hostages?”
“Your hostages?” Hackett snapped.
“Yes, my hostages. You lost any say in this operation the minute you got cozy with the doctor over there.”
What the hell does that mean?
“What if I stayed?” said Quinn. “If it saves Vice President Allred’s life, then let him go, and I’ll stay here in his place.”
“No,” Hackett immediately responded.
“What do you mean, no?” barked Mac.
“I mean no. The vice president leaves. Both the EMTs go with him.”
Mac narrowed his eyes. “If you’re going to let one of the hostages go, why can’t we keep that guy in his place?”
Hackett erupted on Mac. “Because I don’t want him here! And to be honest with you, Mac, I don’t give a damn what you think. This is still my operation, and you are going to do exactly as I say. Is that understood?”
Mac took a long, deep breath. It reminded Jon of the wind blowing through an old organ in an abandoned church. One of those mid-century gothic things that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
“All right,” Mac said coldly. “We’ll do it your way. If Sanchez doesn’t call back in the next thirty minutes—if they don’t meet the timelines that you set down for them—then I am going to do exactly what you told them we’d do. I’m going to start shooting hostages. And I’ll begin with your little friend over there.” He pointed at Emma. “And if that means I have to shoot both you and the tough guy over here—” Mac nodded toward Jon. “—then so be it. I’m getting sick and tired of these games.”
He shouldered his rifle, stood, and headed to the surveillance monitors.
Chris went off to retrieve the stretcher he and Quinn had wheeled in with them.
“Okay. Does somebody want to explain to me what the hell is going on?” said Jon under his breath. Why was everyone suddenly acting like they knew each other, and what did Mac mean about Hackett getting cozy with his wife?
“Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know,” Quinn said to Hackett. “Why don’t you just let me stay? That guy doesn’t exactly seem like the type you’d want to piss off. Besides, I’m an EMT. I could help if there’s trouble again.”
“Because, Agent Larson,” Hackett replied, “you’re about as much of an EMT as I am a terrorist.”
Quinn stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“Sam,” said Emma, putting her hand on his again. “This has gone far enough. Don’t you see there’s no way you’re going to be able to keep any of us from getting hurt?”
Seeing Emma’s hand on Hackett’s burned Jon up inside. “Well,” he said coldly, “now that we’ve established that we’re all buddy-buddy, can we please get back to what’s really important? Like keeping Jack alive.”
“It’s nice to know I haven’t been forgotten,” Jack whispered softly.
Jon leaned toward him. “Uncle Jack?”
Jack barely even opened his eyes. His face was so pale it looked like something out of a horror movie. “Son?”
Jon was terrified that whatever words were about to come out of Jack Allred’s mouth would be his last. But when Jack did speak, it wasn’t to Jon.
It was to Hackett.
“Young man,” he said, taking Hackett’s hand.
Jon’s eyes burned into Hackett. This was the guy about to use up whatever few precious moments Jack had left?
“Yes, sir?” said Hackett.
“He isn’t going to let any of you out of here alive,” said Jack, so quietly Hackett had to lean in closer. “You know that, don’t you?”
Hackett shook his head. “Everything is going to be all right, Mr. Vice President. These guys are going to get you out of here and get you all fixed up, okay?”
“No!” said Jack, suddenly jerking himself upright.
Emma grabbed him above the elbow and Jon slipped an arm behind his back to support him. He couldn’t believe that Jack even had the strength to move.
“Everything is not going to be all right! Don’t you see that now?” said Jack, his pale cheeks flushing with the slightest hint of red.
Hackett glanced uncertainly between Jon and Emma.
“How many have to die before you get that through your head, son? What happens to me doesn’t matter. This convention doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now except keeping Jon and Emma alive, and he’s not about to let that happen. He will not let that happen. Do you hear me?”
Jack broke into a fit of coughing and sank back down to the floor.
“Uncle Jack, please don’t,” said Jon.
But Jack continued to address Hackett. “You’ve got to make me a promise, young man. You’ve got to stop this. You’ve got to put an end to it right now, before things get any worse. Can you promise me you’ll do that, Sam? Can you promise me you will keep Jon and Emma safe? That you’ll do whatever it takes to get them out of here?” He added, slow and raspy, “Consider it a dying man’s last request.”
Hackett still didn’t respond. He just stared blankly at Jack.
Jon sucked in slow breaths, his anger the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely. Emma’s hand still rested on Hackett’s, and it ate at him. Badly. Not because Jon was jealous, but because it represented everything that had ever infuriated him about Emma. Because her own husband’s uncle was lying here dying, and she was still attempting to console some guy she hardly knew.
Because she still thought she could save everyone.
Hackett noticed Jon staring. He pulled his hand away from Emma’s.
Chris returned to the stage, pulling the stretcher behind him. He slapped Quinn on the shoulder and nodded to Jon. “You two, help me get him onto the stretcher.”
“No,” said Jack. “Not yet.”
Chris’s mouth dropped. He was clearly as amazed by Jack’s sudden recuperation as Jon was.
“So what’s it going to be, Sam?” said Jack. “Will you give me your word? You’ll do whatever it takes to keep them alive?”
Hackett met Jon’s eyes. For a moment the two men glared at each other, both just as straight-faced and unforgiving as the other.
“We are the choices we make, Sam,” Emma said quietly. She rested a hand on Hackett’s shoulder.
He turned to her. Emma had the same sincere, vulnerable look on her face that she would get only with Jon, when she was being completely open with him about how scared or upset or worried she was. Like the night before they’d left for the convention. And it was a look even he didn’t see very often.
“Sam,” Emma continued, “I don’t want to die. But that’s not up to me. It’s up to you. Please don’t be the reason Jon and I never see our children again.”
Hackett turned his eyes down to the bandage covering Jack’s chest. He stared at it as blood seeped through it with each of Jack’s labored breaths, like fire ants pouring from a dilapidated anthill.
Then something in Hackett’s expression changed. His
face softened. His shoulders sank. He closed his eyes and dropped his head. This wasn’t at all the look Jon had been watching for since Jack took Hackett’s hand—the look of a man being Pushed into something. It was the look of a man who’d been thoroughly convinced he knew exactly what he was getting himself into.
And who’d realized he was wrong.
“Yes, Mr. Vice President,” said Hackett. “You have my word.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Okay,” said Chris. “If you’re all done now, do you mind if I finish trying to save his life?”
Jon and Quinn helped Chris lift Jack up onto the stretcher. Jon stayed with Jack as long as he could, gripping his hand as Quinn and Chris rolled the stretcher across the stage and carried it down the steps to the floor below. Jon wanted his uncle to say something, anything, before they parted for what would likely be the last time. But Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t even move. He just lay there, his eyes closed, with the most serene, peaceful look on his face that Jon had ever seen. As if Jack had managed to complete his final objective in life and was now ready to move on.
Jon tightened his grip on Jack’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Uncle Jack.”
Finally, Jack spoke. “It isn’t your fault, son,” he whispered. “And it isn’t hers, either. This was my choice. I want you to know that. I want you to remember that in the end, I chose you.” Jack turned his head toward Jon and opened his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek. “Because I believe in you.”
The image of Jack’s familiar face was blurred by the tears welling in Jon’s eyes.
Mac stepped in front of the stretcher as they neared the conference room door. “That’s far enough, Grant,” he said, motioning toward the wall with his gun. “Sit down.”
Jon didn’t argue. He returned to his seat between Aaron and Rachael, who he was sure had been watching him from the moment he left their side, waiting for some cue to jump up and do something. But that cue hadn’t come, and likely never would, because Jon was now even more lost and heartbroken than before.
Emma stood on the stage, staring after Jack. Quinn looked back at her, his forehead wrinkled. Her expression remained unchanged, as if she refused to even acknowledge that he’d ever been there. Eventually, Quinn stopped looking.
Rachael took Jon’s hand.
Jon was grateful for the gesture.
“We’re going to get out of here, Jon,” said Aaron. “Even if it means Mac has to take on all four of us. We’re not going to let them get away with this.”
“All five of us,” said Bennett, leaning over Aaron. “I may be many things, Mr. Grant, but I’m not heartless. They’ll get what’s coming to them in the end, I assure you.”
Maybe Stephen Bennett wasn’t as out for blood as Jon had thought he was. At least Bennett had never killed someone he loved right in front of him. Not yet, anyway.
Emma came down the steps and took a seat on the other side of Rachael. But Jon kept his eyes on Hackett. The guy just stared at the floor, at the bloodstain on the carpet, the expression on his face a mix of disgust and guilt. Then, as if sensing Jon’s eyes on him, Hackett looked up. Again, the two men stared at each other, but this time their expressions weren’t hard or unrelenting.
They were grave and broken.
“What do we do now, Jon?” said Emma.
Jon didn’t answer. He knew the question now wasn’t what they were going to do.
The real question was whether or not Sam Hackett was a man of his word.
CHAPTER 29
Dr. Grant had been right. He was about to get them all killed.
Sam couldn’t get the image of Allred out of his head. Every time he closed his eyes it was there, like a scene from the very first horror movie he ever watched. The one he knew he was entirely too young to see but his parents let him anyway. The sight of Allred lying there, blood pouring from his chest, had played through his mind for the last half hour, until it was no longer Jack Allred he saw.
It was Emma Grant.
“They’re late, Hackett,” said Mac.
Sam willed the phone to ring. As if by simply ringing it would solve all his problems. But he knew that wasn’t true. Even if Sanchez or Richard Scott or whoever called, it wouldn’t change anything. The fact of the matter was, Mac was determined to see the Grants dead.
And Sam had a feeling he was going to get his way.
Sam squared his shoulders. “You’re right, they are.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Sam pulled his gun from where it hung over his shoulder. “Exactly what I said I’d do.”
Mac followed as Sam walked over to the Grants. They stopped just in front of Dr. Grant, their figures overshadowing her like a child beneath an oak tree.
“Dr. Grant,” said Sam. “Stand up.”
“Sam?”
“Now.”
She stood.
“You too, Grant.”
Grant just sat there, his arms resting on his knees, staring across the room.
Mac grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up. “The man told you to get up!”
It figured Mac would finally show Sam some support once he thought he was about to kill someone.
“All right, let’s go, you two,” said Sam.
“No!” barked the man who had been sitting next to Grant—Rachael Dallin’s husband. He jumped to his feet.
Stephen Bennett jumped up too. “We’re not going to just sit back and watch you kill them the way you did Vice President Allred.”
“Oh yeah, tough guy?” said Mac, pointing his gun at Dallin. “And how exactly are you going to stop us if you’re already dead?”
“Wait,” said Sam, putting his hand on Mac’s gun. “Not here. Let me take them to another room.”
Mac narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“For the same reason you never should have shot Allred! Because of this,” said Sam, nodding toward Bennett and Dallin. “Because if you shoot them in front of the other hostages, what’s to stop them from rising up? Right now, they still think they have a chance of getting out of here alive. But if you start killing off their friends right in front of them, they’ll have nothing to lose.”
Mac crossed his arms, then nodded.
“I will take them out of here and deal with them myself,” Sam continued. “That way the other hostages have no idea whether they’re alive or dead, which will make them even more terrified to try something. It will also eliminate the ones who’ve been such a problem in the first place.” He glared at the Grants.
Then he called for Zach, who was still behind the surveillance monitors.
Zach jumped up and ran over.
“Forward any calls to the front desk. I’ll take them down there.”
“Yeah, sure thing, buddy,” said Zach.
“And you three are coming with us too,” Sam told Bennett and the Dallins.
Rachael Dallin’s husband pulled her to her feet.
“Why?” she asked.
Sam smiled. “Because thanks to your husband’s lame attempt to be a hero, you’ve all just volunteered to be next in line after I’m done dealing with the Grants.”
Sam noticed Mac open his mouth as if he were about to protest, suspicion showing clearly in his eyes.
“Rat!” Sam shouted.
Rat stood nearby, pretending to hover over some of the hostages in a sad attempt to listen in. “Yeah, boss?”
“You’re coming too.” Sam turned toward the door.
Mac grabbed him by the arm and whispered. “No funny business, Hackett. You put an end to them now and stop jerking around.”
Sam yanked his arm away. “Consider them already gone.”
CHAPTER 30
JON FOLLOWED BEHIND HACKETT, GLARING so intently at the back of his head that it was a wonder it didn’t explode. Perhaps if he concentrated hard enough, Hackett’s head would pop like a watermelon wrapped in a thousand rubber bands. Jon doubted it, though. With as high
as his blood pressure was, his own head was more likely to blow first.
Emma walked beside him through the prefunction area outside the conference room, every so often glancing over at him. He felt guilty for how he’d treated her. He shouldn’t have gotten so upset with her. He knew she felt responsible enough as it was.
It had become clear to him now, though, that Jack had arranged the entire incident. For what purpose, Jon wasn’t sure. To give Emma the chance to make that phone call? To get Jon worked up enough to do something? To convince Hackett that things weren’t going to turn out as he’d planned? There was no way of knowing what Jack had been thinking, or whether he knew his plan would get him killed.
And Jon was never going to get the chance to ask him.
“I’m sorry, Em,” he said. “Things are bad enough without me biting your head off. I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.”
“You had every right to,” she told the floor.
“No, I didn’t. I was upset about Jack, but that’s no excuse to take it out on you. Can you forgive me for being a jerk?” Jon held out a hand.
She took it and smiled. “Considering we’re about to be shot, how could I possibly not forgive you?”
“Good,” said Jon. He raised his voice at the back of Hackett’s head. “Because I would hate to die thinking you were mad at me.”
“Oh, you people make me sick,” said Rat. “Will you just shut up and walk?”
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Jon,” Aaron said from behind him. “He’s just upset because ol’ Sammy up there is about to shoot the woman of his dreams.”
Bennett laughed. “Well, isn’t that pathetic? Don’t you have children older than him, Grant?”
Jon wasn’t sure if that was an insult about how young Rat was or how old Jon was.
“I mean it!” said Rat, his voice shaky. “Shut up or I’m going to pop you right in the back of the head!”
Bennett stopped suddenly and turned around. “I would just like to see you try, young man. Do you have any idea who I am?”
“No, and frankly I don’t give a crap.”
Hackett stopped too. He stepped between Jon and Emma and walked straight up to Rat. “That’s enough, Rat. Knock it off.”