Peril (22 page)

If I claim my name, does it mean instant death?
Just this morning she'd contemplated ending it all anyway. A bullet to the head was certainly less painful than carbon monoxide poisoning. Was this an acceptable “out” from her pain?

“Morgan Adams!”

The voice thundered through the open space. Most of the people in the unit were visibly shaking. Her own knees felt like jelly melting on a hot sidewalk. Through her peripheral vision, she saw one of her nurses, Izabel, form a pointed finger with her hand at her side and begin to raise it in her direction.

Whatever the outcome, she couldn't let a friend identify her, particularly if it ended in her death. Being responsible for someone else's demise was a life sentence of its own.

She swallowed the coalesced fear in her throat. “I'm Morgan.”

Her confession was like calming waters. She heard the sound of Dr. Marshall's voice through the telephone again, begging her for an explanation. The noise of his words receded as she pulled the phone from her ear. Before she laid it in the cradle, she bumped the top end into the panic button, hoping the amount of pressure would be enough to send the signal, yet quiet enough not to draw the gunmen's attention.

With one hand, the lead man motioned to her. “Come around from behind the desk.”

He was a few inches taller than she was, probably just shy of six feet, with brown hair. But it was his eyes—cold, dark, gray with just an overcast of green—that drew the strength from her muscles like iron to a magnet. Fierce hatred emanated from the taut muscles ballooned beneath his shirt. She inhaled deeply; the thoughts of
this-isn't-happening
gelled with what was actually occurring, and she clenched her hands to still their shaking.

“Open your fists!” Captain Gray-Eyes ordered.

Morgan splayed them and walked out from behind the nurses' station. “What can I do for you?”

The phone at the counter began to ring.

“Keep walking toward me,” he ordered.

Morgan stopped midway between the man and the desk. Though the hostage takers lacked official uniforms, their demeanor screamed seasoned military. She chewed at the inside of her cheek.

For several silent minutes they stood there, each eyeing the other. The timed whoosh as the transport medic delivered breaths to the limp, pale infant on the pram behind the gunmen's presumed leader worked at slowing her own heartbeat.
What is he waiting for? What are his demands?

It was the flight paramedic clearing his throat that finally broke her gaze.

Drew. How did he get involved with this mess?

“I have a sick baby here,” he said. “I really need to get this child into a better place than the middle of this room. My oxygen tank is almost empty.”

Morgan knew it was a lie. Any competent flight team member wouldn't run a tank dry from the helipad to the unit. The tank would last several hours.

Helping to save Seth's life bumped Drew up on Morgan's curiosity scale and she learned he had a notable reputation considering he'd been at Sacred Heart such a short time. Questions had been raised by several in the hospital at hiring a man who'd served prison time—even though he'd been exonerated—to work among easy prey. So many people had stepped up to defend him, support his reputation, that it became a public relations goldmine to hire him onto their transport team.

Morgan edged closer to the transport gurney, keeping her eye on Captain Gray-Eyes and his gun. “Can we settle the baby?”

“Not yet.” His stare was frigid, determined. “I need everyone to stand behind Ms. Adams. We're going to have a little chat.”

The staff moved in slow steps to the center of the room. The phone continued to ring. Gray-Eyes signaled one of his cohorts to answer it. Boots stomped against the faux marble tile as the man approached the desk, picked up the receiver, and slammed it back down.

Silence ensued.

The Captain smiled with relief. “Better. Who has cell phones on them?”

Morgan thought quickly. Even though it was against hospital policy
to carry personal phones, she knew several of her coworkers had them tucked into the pocket of their scrubs. “None of them do.”

He sneered. “How are you so sure?”

“It's against policy. They'd be written up. I'm not sure what you want to happen here, but we really do need to get this infant settled. I don't think it's your intention for an infant to die here today.”

He leveled the weapon at her chest. “I'll state what my intentions are. You don't get to decide that. Not like your father decided for me. Thomas Reeves—that's who we're going to talk about.”

Morgan's chest caved a little as her heart sank.
How on earth . . . ?
Now she had to defend her staff for the wrongs of a man she barely knew against a man who threatened her life? What hope did they possibly have?

He stepped closer to Morgan and edged the tip of his rifle into her chest. “But then again, perhaps you should be on my side.” He grabbed her arm and scraped the cool metal over her shunt scar. “Did Daddy Dearest offer to give up any body parts for you?”

Her mouth dried.
How could he possibly know that information?

The sound of sirens drew his gaze briefly to the window. At the turn of his head, Morgan noticed a horseshoe-shaped incision scar on his left scalp. She made a quick decision.
The riskiest move could be the safest
.

Morgan brought her hand down and closed it slowly over the end of the weapon. “If you think holding me hostage will influence a man I didn't know was my father until a few short days ago, you might as well kill me now. Thomas Reeves isn't going to sacrifice anything for me.”

The man's eyes widened, his black pupils thinning out the gray-green speckled irises. He shoved the weapon harder into her sternum, causing her to step back to maintain her balance. She held her hand tight.

He cleared his throat. “Dylan, let's see if Ms. Adams is truthful. Go around and empty everyone's pockets. If anyone has a phone, maybe I'll take her up on the offer to be a sacrificial lamb.”

Attempting to look as if his statement hadn't fazed her took every ounce of self-control she could muster. She closed her eyes, an unexpected prayer on her tongue. The sound of clothing rustled, a key or two jingling etched fear along her spine.

“Looks like she was telling the truth, Scott. No one has a phone.”

Morgan's eyes popped open as relief flooded over her.
The threatening e-mail our nurse manager sent out actually worked? Not possible
.

Morgan leveled her gaze back at the lead gunman.

Scott
.
Captain Gray-Eyes' name is Scott.

“Now, Scott,” she said, “can we get this baby settled? Or will we be standing here all day?”

He motioned the weapon to an empty bedspace. “Hurry up.”

“I need Izabel to come with me.”

“Fine, everyone else stays right here.”

The group huddled together as Morgan helped Drew pull the gurney to the bedside. “Scott,” she said, “we're going to need a respiratory therapist in here to manage the ventilators.”

He stepped closer in her direction. “That's not going to happen. No one else is going to come in or out of this unit until our demands are met.”

She glanced his way over her shoulder. “That's not reasonable. These children require advanced care. Depending on the nursing staff to do this isn't safe for the patients.”

He thumbed his nose. “You're going to have to figure it out.”

“How long do you think this is going to last?”

He smacked his lips—an annoying dismissal of her question. “Why worry everyone about that right now?”

Drew laid a hand on hers as she worked to unsnap the buckles. “I can do it.”

Morgan looked up. “What?”

“The ventilators. They can't be much different than the transport vents, just fancier.”

At the cuffs of his flight suit, she could see the kaleidoscope of rich, pigmented colors that had been injected under his skin and tried to remember the design.

Drew disconnected the breathing bag from the tube. Morgan gathered the small bundle into her hands and settled the baby into the middle of the bed. Careful not to dislodge any lines, Drew watched to ensure nothing snagged then rounded to her side of the bed.

“Just bag her for a minute from the tank until I get this thing going.”

Morgan reached out and took over providing breathing for the patient while Drew set up the vent. Once completed, he tapped her on the shoulder and she edged back, letting him disconnect the bag and place the baby on the machine. As he worked, Morgan traded out the ECG cords from the transport monitor to the large, PICU monitor that sat above the bedspace.

Izabel's pale green eyes looked at her blankly.

“Can you do an assessment?” Morgan asked.

She nodded and pulled her bright pink stethoscope from her neck. Her hands shook as she listened to breath sounds. She rubbed light fingers over the baby's soft spot. At each bandage site, blood seeped through the gauze. Placing a glove on her hand, Morgan crossed a finger over it.

Still wet.

“How long has this bleeding been happening?” Morgan asked Drew.

“Just as we left the outlying hospital.”

“She's in DIC.”

“I know.”

Morgan turned to their captor. “Scott, I know something must be very concerning in your life to warrant drastic measures like this. To take hostage nurses who are caring for critically ill children. For sure, you are going to get the attention of the news media. Your message will get out.” Morgan folded her hands, trying to assume the least aggressive posture. “But I need more people here. I need a doctor to help us care for these children. Do you see all this blood on the baby's dressings?”

He leaned her direction, his eyes dim.

“This little baby is going to bleed to death. Her blood is not clotting the way it should. I need a doctor in here to assess her and write orders for blood products.” Morgan glanced at the monitor. “Her blood pressure is very low. She needs special medicine to bring it up.”

A monitor behind her began to alarm. Morgan turned, noting the slight drop in another patient's oxygen level.

Seth
. She groaned inside.

She turned back to Scott. “I need to go check that patient. What is the plan here? Are you going to give us what we need? A doctor? A respiratory therapist?”

Drew held his hands up. “I'm going to check that young man over there,” he said, picking up on Morgan's concern that Seth's oxygen levels were low. If it wasn't corrected soon, his heartbeat would fall as well in protest to its lack of oxygen.

He began to back slowly to the bed.

Morgan stepped between Drew and Scott and locked his eyes with hers. “A dead patient is only going to worsen your hand. Let them see that
you are allowing for compassionate care of these kids. It will only help your case.”

Drew silenced the alarm behind her. She held Scott's eyes with hers. “Well?”

At first, she saw his mouth relax as he considered her argument, but just at the moment she thought he would acquiesce, something in his eyes changed—hardened.

He began to move away from her. “You're a nurse. Figure it out.”

“I can't write doctor's orders. It's outside my scope of practice.”

“Come on, Morgan. It's your chance to make Daddy proud. Isn't that what you want?”

She shook her head. “I only care about these children and my staff and making sure they come out of this alive.”

“Well, let's just consider any forthcoming deaths collateral damage. Just like we are.”

Chapter 27

1000, Saturday, August 11

D
ETECTIVE
N
ATHAN
L
ONG
surveyed the crime scene, his mind going through his obsessive checklist. His missing something would be a defense attorney's biggest gift. It wasn't in his nature to easily allow a police slipup to be the reason someone got a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Nearby, Brett methodically searched through the victim's belongings again. At Nathan's request, of course. He wanted to ensure they had that
one
thing—a single piece of evidence that could prove the truth about what they saw.

It appeared to be suicide.

The body of a well-muscled male, late twenties, lay fully clothed in combat fatigues atop the covers on his bed. The bed was made with military-tightened corners. Dog tags identified the body as Brian Nelson. He appeared to be active duty. An empty bottle of sleeping pills and a half-drunk bottle of water stood on a black nightstand to the soldier's right side. In the living room, Brian's sobbing widow matched the volume of the television, and the two seemed to be competing with one another for who could sound the most distressed.