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 Violet 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.”
Jane, unsteady on her cramping legs, stumbled to her almost-numb feet. Turned to Isabel, who cowered against the linen-stacked shelves, eyes wide.
“Jane!”
“They’re okay,” Jane reassured her. “Hostage Rescue. That’s us, sister—we are out of here.” She extended her hand, and Isabel grabbed it. “You did great,” Jane said. “You’re brave as they come.” Then into the phone, “Wu? Anyone? We’ve got to—”
“Get off that phone!” one uniform ordered. “Now!”
“Jane?” In her ear.
“Situation, Wu,” she said. “Gotta go. They’re taking us out. I’ll call you soon as I can.”
“But—”
A buzz-cut hulk in black, Velcroed with radios and blocky gadgets, snatched her phone. Clicked it. “I said now.”
He handed the now-powered-off phone back to her, one insistent hand clamped around her upper arm, propelling her forward. Jane’s toes almost dragged over the floor tiles as she and Isabel were hustled toward the main entrance.
“Is it over?” Jane had to know, had to ask. He had to tell her.
“Yes,” the officer said. “Ma’am. You both okay?”
They were halfway there. She saw daylight, and the relief on Isabel’s face, and the whirl of blue lights through the expanse of wide glass doors. Jane tried to imprint the whole terrifying episode: the sounds, the fear, the uncertainty. This would be a story she could tell on the air. Soon she’d know every detail. But she needed to hear one thing right now.
“Yeah, but is anyone else hurt?” The guy didn’t know she was a reporter—good, maybe he’d give her the scoop without making her call some public relations department.
“No injuries,” the officer said.
“Were any police involved?” Jane tried to sound neutral. “What about the suspect? And the hostage?”
“Two in custody,” the officer said. “And that’s all I’m gonna say, Miz Ryland.”
The glass door wheezed shut behind them, leaving Jane and Isabel alive, and free, and savoring the morning sunlight and shockingly fresh air.