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.