Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Jane?” Isabel’s fingers encircled Jane’s arm, clutching.

  “It’s okay,” Jane said. “They know we’re here. Detective Brogan knows, too. Cops on the way, press on the way, a metal door between us and the outside world. It’s all good.”

  “Sending you a photo.” Wu’s voice in her ear.

  “Of what?” Jane asked.

  “Hostage situation, active shooter, so says hospital PR,” Wu said. “And it’s ‘of who.’ One guy. We’re sending you a picture of the apparent shooter. And ‘who’ is exactly what we’re trying to find out.”

  55

  JAKE BROGAN

  Shooter? Hostage? Jake had holstered his weapon, raced full speed down the deserted hospital corridor, caught up with two lumbering BCH rent-a-guards, flapped open his badge wallet. “I’m Jake Brogan, BPD,” he raised his voice over the alarms. “Tell me.”

  The guards explained, pantomiming the two words—“shooter,” “hostage”—then jabbed their forefingers down the hall, where a line of closed doors could have concealed any number of bad guys. And victims. D’d be bummed to miss this. He was still up in some exam room. At least he was safe. From this.

  “Hostage? Shooter?” Jake had said the words out loud, grabbing one black-uniformed arm, stopping them both. “How’d you find out? Who? Where? How many people? What’s the plan?”

  “Plan is, we go code black,” the shorter one said. “Total containment. Doors all on lockdown. Nobody moves. We do nothing. We wait for the big guns. We called SWAT. Hostage Rescue Team. Everyone.”

  “How’d you find out?” Jake needed to strategize. Make a plan. He fingered his radio. HRT should have called him, back channel, looped him in. But they didn’t know he was here. He felt like “We do nothing” was not the best idea.

  “Guy was messing with a patient’s IV, a nurse came in, caught him, he pulled a gun, she ran, bat out of hell, pushed the big red button. He slammed the door, they’re inside. They’ve got security video of the bad guy entering the hospital, nurse ID’d the guy.”

  “And now? What room? Where’s the cavalry?”

  “En route,” the tall guard said. “We’re supposed to wait.”

  “One guy?” No reason for Jake to go be the hero. Except that was his job.

  “Yeah, so says the nurse,” Short said. He waved a .38 down the empty hall. All doors stayed shut. “Shouldn’t we—”

  “What room?” Problem was, the gunman and one hostage were trapped there. There was no way out for the bad guy. And that might trigger the worst possible situation. But there hadn’t been a shot, and sometimes it was worse to make a move, to panic a situation into a crisis.

  No way to know what was going on inside the room. No way to find out except to go look. If he called HQ, they’d tell him to wait for HRT. That was by-the-book for hostage sits. Where the hell were they? “What room?”

  “Four-two-two,” Tall said.

  422? It took Jake’s brain a fraction of a second to connect.

  Grady.

  Grady, who’d told Jake, three days ago, he was afraid of what Sholto’s people would do to him. Since then Sholto’s wife had been murdered, Grady’d been injured in a hit-and-run, and now a guy with a gun had the kid in his hospital room. What Grady feared had hit the fan, and it was Jake’s fault. He should have protected him. But now he had a chance to make up for it.

  “I’m going in,” Jake said. He drew his Glock again. Grady. Damn it. “Back me up.”

  “But we’re supposed to wait for HRT.” Tall exchanged worried glances with his partner. “I’m not sure we should—”

  “I’ll take responsibility,” Jake cut him off. No time to negotiate. “Stay quiet. And no shooting.”

  “But what if—?”

  “Unless I shoot.” Jake gestured, pointed the tip of his weapon down the hall. “I know the hostage. I’ll do the talking. You in?”

  JANE RYLAND

  “You seeing it?” Wu asked. “That’s from the surveillance vid the BCH PR flack just sent us.”

  “Yeah.” Jane narrowed her eyes at the grainy blur on her tiny screen. She’d recognize the guy—sure, if he were made of sand. “Wu, seriously. This is a still photo from a video, right? Can you send me the whole thing instead? This is like a snapshot from Mars.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Wu said. “It’s mostly so we have pictures to put on TV, more than just generic hospital exteriors. Plus, some viewer might recognize the guy.”

  “No way.” She aimed the screen at Isabel. Maybe including the young woman in the process might distract her. “Look at this. Can you possibly see a face? I can’t, that’s for sure.”

  “Video coming to you now,” Wu said. “Gonna take a sec to download.”

  The smell of bleach was about to suffocate her, but at least the danger was contained. Not a masked gang, not biological weapons, not whatever other disasters Jane’s brain had concocted. Only one horrible guy, for some horrible reason, making everyone terrified. Terrorist, Jane thought. No matter what.

  “They’re sending me a video, Isabel,” Jane explained. “Of the bad guy. The police certainly have it, too, and they know exactly where he is. So this is about to end. And we’re fine. It’s—”

  “I know,” Isabel said. “I can hear whoever you’re talking to.”

  So much for trying to protect her, Jane thought. A message pinged on her phone. Your video is ready.

  “Jane?” Wu’s voice. “You’ll voice-over that surveillance video, we’ll roll it when we patch you in. But look at it first, so you know what to say on air. Let us know when you’re ready. You got it?”

  “Got it,” Jane said. “But I have to hang up before I can watch it.”

  “Listen, we got the vic’s name,” Wu said. “PR went crazy because of HIPAA, but heck, it’s a hostage. We’re not using it, okay? Till it’s over. But we’re tracking him down. Don’t even say we have it, PR’ll get nailed for telling us.”

  “Who is it?” Jane asked. She needed to see the video, but a name was a big get. The HIPAA privacy laws protecting hospital patients’ identities were stringent. Amazing they’d revealed this.

  “Grady McWhirter Houlihan,” Wu said. “Welcome to Boston.”

  “Jane!” Isabel had shifted, was now on her knees. Even in the gloom, Jane could see the look on her face.

  “What?” Jane had to see the video. If she were going live, she needed something to talk about. Isabel’d have to chill, just until Jane got off the air. A live shot from a linen closet with a shooter holding a hostage down the hall. Had to be a first.

  “I might know him,” Isabel said.

  “Know who?” Had Isabel recognized the person in the grainy photo?

  “Grady,” Isabel said.

  56

  JAKE BROGAN

  “Noonan? You copy?”

  Tall’s—Noonan’s—hip-slung two-way radio squawked just as Jake was about to lead the two hospital guards toward room 422. To Grady, right now being held at gunpoint. Maybe. They had no idea what was happening. And the clock was ticking. Though that might be a good thing.

  “You standing by?” the guard’s radio asked.

  “Ten-four,” Noonan answered, looking at Jake, acknowledging his lie. “Me and Palmeri.”

  “There’s video of the shooter,” the radio voice went on. “We’re trying for ID. Continue to stand by. HRT arrives in five. Over.”

  Jake’s phone buzzed. Then, with a blast of static, his own radio clicked on. They had him.

  “Detective Brogan, this is BPD dispatch. What’s your location?”

  His phone buzzed again.

  “Detective Brogan?” dispatch persisted. “You copy?”

  Crap. Noonan and his partner Palmeri fidgeted, their eyes darting toward 422, then back to the elevators.

  “We should wait,” Noonan said.

  “Screw that.” Palmeri lifted his weapon. “Brogan says we go.”

  “This is Brogan.” Jake shook his head. No way out of this. Keyed his r
adio. “At BCH. I’m aware of the situation. I have a—” He looked at the two guards, unabashedly listening to everything he said. They could not find out Grady was an informant—it’d kill the kid’s cover. “I have a known hostage. I’m going in.”

  Jake’s phone rang again. Kidding me? “Are you contacting me by phone, too, dispatch?”

  “Negative,” dispatch said. “Supe says stand by. Do not move. Do not take action. HRT arriving in less than two.”

  “You’re breaking up,” Jake said. “Reception’s no…” He paused, clicking the transmit button a few times. “… you anymore.”

  He clicked off his radio, and with that, accepted the inevitable consequences and the unavoidable repercussions of disobeying orders. So what. Grady, who he’d promised to protect, needed protection. Jake was the only one who could provide it.

  “Let’s—” he began, and then his phone rang again. Jane. She’d better not have left that closet.

  He answered. Probably another terrible decision, his better judgment buried by responsibility. And guilt. His fault she was in this mess, too.

  “You okay?” He needed to be sure.

  “It’s Grady,” Jane was saying. “The hostage. Your Grady.”

  “I know,” Jake said. “How the hell do you know?”

  “From Isabel. And, Jake?”

  He heard something in her voice. Hesitation. Fear? He had to hang up, but what if he never saw her again?

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I know, and ditto. But listen, Jake?” she said.

  The phone went static, crackled, went silent. The buzz of connection returned.

  “Jane? What?”

  “Jake? Did you hear me?” she said. “I know who the shooter is, too.”

  JANE RYLAND

  Grady. Grady Houlihan. The confidential informant Jake had told her about, the one she’d warned him to be careful of. Bad enough he was the BCH hostage. But that wasn’t even the whole story. What had churned her stomach even more … When the surveillance video had finally downloaded, Jane had recognized the intruder.

  Baby face. The guy who’d confessed to the hit-and-run. The one McCusker linked to the Sholto crew. She’d promised not to discuss it, but Jake needed to know. She could not, under any circumstances, allow him to walk cluelessly into a life-and-death face-off with a member of the ruthless Sholto organization because of an agreement she made with the DA. This very moment proved exactly why lines should never be crossed.

  Now she had to cross. Phoning a cop who was on the trail of a hostage-taker had been a ridiculous move, but her only other option was to open the closet door, go out, find him, somehow, and tell him in person.

  Now she could hear the tension in his voice. I love you, he’d said. As if it might be the last time.

  “The shooter is Rourke Devane, he’s twenty-five, twenty-six or so,” Jane went on. “A Sholto lackey.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Too long to explain,” she said. “Trust me.”

  “Are you still in the closet? With that girl? Do not come out, Jane, either of you. This is about to go down.”

  “Yeah.” She nudged Isabel, who Jane knew had heard it all, including “I love you” and “about to go down.” She smiled at her—We’re in this together—but the girl did not smile back. “We’re safely here,” she told Jake. “Behind closed door.” No need to mention she was about to broadcast live.

  “Do not move,” Jake told her. And clicked off.

  U all set? The text from Wu pinged on her phone. We got a 2:30 commercial break, Marsh sez go after that. Anchor intros u, u take it. Open-ended. Calling u now.

  Jane, huddled in the dim bleach-stench of the closet, pictured what was about to happen. Thought about her live broadcast, from Jake’s point of view. What if the TV was on in Grady’s room? What if the shooter was watching? What if her live broadcast put Jake in danger? And Grady?

  It was a jaw-droppingly bad idea.

  She certainly couldn’t report that cops were in the hallway, or that something was “about to go down.” Might her broadcast make a terrible situation even worse? Her worlds were colliding. Was there any way to stop it?

  Her phone rang.

  It was her job to report breaking news. That’s what kept local TV stations in business. It would warn people away from BCH, and allow those now cowering inside to have some inkling, however murky, of what was going on in their building. So yeah, there was value in what she’d been told to say. But that wasn’t the whole story. Even for a reporter, sometimes it was better to say nothing.

  The phone rang again.

  “Ryland.”

  “Connecting you to control,” Wu said. “Stand by. You’re on in two.”

  57

  JAKE BROGAN

  Nothing to do but go.

  Striding down the hospital’s green-tiled corridor, Noonan and Palmeri behind him, Jake reset the event-timer in his head. Forty seconds away. Thirty.

  What would they find behind the closed door of room 422, barely half a hallway in front of them? HRT was on the way. If those guys got here first, fine. But this thing—Grady at gunpoint?—had gone on long enough.

  He turned, checking on his new colleagues. Noonan gave him a thumbs-up, Palmeri a nod. Both had guns drawn. Jake did, too.

  Twenty seconds.

  Had Grady Houlihan murdered Violet Sholto? Or could he finger the killer? Was that why a Sholto operative was in his room right now? Had they attempted to silence Grady with the Gormay hit-and-run—and when that failed, sent a shooter to make the hit?

  It made sense, in the underworld’s perverted brand of justice. But if that was the case, why was there no shooting?

  Maybe something else was going on. Maybe once a rat, always a rat. Maybe Grady had turned on the cops. Had the nurse specified which man had the gun?

  He softened his footsteps as he approached the hostage room door. Signaled to the others, Quiet. They nodded, hanging back. Like him, they were disobeying orders, and if the three of them blew this operation, it would be a career-ending disaster. Might be anyway. Insubordination. Disobeying orders. Frowned on.

  Jake held up a palm as they reached the door. Cocked his head, finger to his lips, signaling the guards to stand by. He flattened himself against the pale green wall beside room 422, the raised numbers pressing into his back. Listened, hard as he could. Nothing. No voices. No TV. Not even the beeps of the monitors Jake knew had kept track of Grady’s vitals.

  What if the shooter needed no weapon other than pulling a plug? Or using a pillow? And that’s why it was so quiet?

  Still, Rourke Devane, if Jane had it right, must still be inside that room. With a gun. What would he do when Jake broke down the door? If Grady was dead, Jake would blast the hell out of the shooter if he had to.

  If Grady was alive, and a murderer, screw him. But if he was alive, and was a hostage whose identity as an informant was a certain death sentence, then Jake needed to save him.

  Screw him? Or save him?

  Jake hit on a plan. Either way, he’d have his answers soon enough.

  Door opened in. Good. Assess for the weak spot? Under the doorknob. He stepped back, planted his weight on his back foot. Ready to smash the door with his heel. Took a deep breath.

  “Doors don’t lock,” Noonan whispered. “It’s a hospital.”

  Shit. In one swift motion, Jake grabbed the doorknob, twisted, swept open the door. Felt Noonan and Palmeri right behind him. And finally, down the hall, the drumbeat of pounding footsteps.

  Grady in the bed. Kid in the chair beside him. No gun. Why?

  Jake hit his stance, arms stretched in a V, weapon pointed dead ahead.

  “Nobody move,” Jake ordered. The footsteps—now accompanied by clamoring voices, bellowing commands, and squawking radios—were right behind him.

  Now or never.

  “Grady Houlihan,” Jake said, aiming. Then broke every rule in the book. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Viol
et Sholto.”

  JANE RYLAND

  “Thirty seconds,” the director’s voice cued her over the phone. Jane, still crouched in the darkness, both legs asleep and Isabel beside her, had considered pretending her phone’s battery was dying, considered pretending they had a bad connection, considered simply hanging up and pretending to be baffled about whatever had happened to ruin the live shot.

  But she couldn’t do it.

  “Sorry, Isabel,” Jane said. “It’ll be a good tale for you to tell later, won’t it?” Might as well make the best of it for poor Isabel, who was here only because Jane had insisted—well, suggested—that the right thing to do was to tell Detective Brogan herself, in person, how she knew Trey Welliver was not a murderer. As a result, Isabel had wound up in a storage closet, fearing for her life. She’d have been better off staying in her little apartment. The young woman was right about one thing—the outside world could be a dangerous place.

  “Twenty.” In her ear.

  “I’m on in twenty seconds,” Jane whispered. “Keep quiet, okay? No need for anyone to know you’re here.”

  “Okay, yeah. I can hear the guy on the phone,” Isabel said.

  There was no way out now, not one that wouldn’t get Jane fired. She was a pro, and she’d been assigned to do a live report, exclusive, big-time breaking news, from her hiding place during a hostage standoff in a major metropolitan hospital. It was the stuff careers were made of.

  Tears came to her eyes, like this was some sort of turning point, or precipice, but she couldn’t decide which way to turn or whether to jump. She hoped with all her being that she wasn’t putting Jake in more danger. She’d never look at television the same way again. It could be a joy, providing a platform for the good she and Fiola would do with their documentary, revealing the ugly truth about college crime and exposing a tragic campus-wide reality.

  TV could also suck. Like it did right now.

  “Ten.”

  The light changed. Air rushed in, and the door swung open. Black-uniformed men, she had no idea who, reached in, pulling her and Isabel to their feet.

  “Get out now,” one ordered. “We’re HRT. Front door. Go.”