Chapter Eight

 

 

 

A sudden gust of wind shifted shards of glass across the floor. Olly watched with morbid fascination. When Rocky had shot out of the window, only a little of the shattered glass had landed back in the ward, but it was enough to make the floor sparkle. It helped to focus on something other than the armed soldier pacing and muttering in front of him. Rocky whirled around, waving the gun erratically.

“Over here, all of you.” He gestured at Razor’s bed. “You need to be in one place where I can keep an eye on you. They’re coming. Too many targets. Too much distraction.” His face contorted into a snarl. “Move!”

Dr. Sharma scuttled across the room to perch on the end of the bed. Olly helped Nick stand and gave him some support as he walked, drip in tow. He got Nick settled as best he could then shifted Razor’s pillows so he could sit up a bit more. Olly took the space next to the doctor at the foot of the bed.

“Have you given any more thought to what you said earlier, about Rocky not having PTSD?” Nick whispered in Olly’s ear.

“I’ve worked on psychiatric wards before,” Olly whispered back. “He’s doing a good job of faking it, but the repetition is a bit too studied, almost as if he’s counting in his head. He has a plan, I’m sure of it. He’s using mental illness to cover up some other motive.”

“But what?”

Before Olly could answer, the whirr of helicopter rotor blades became evident in the distance.

“Oh no.” He glued his gaze to Rocky, who dashed back to the window. This was exactly the kind of disturbance Rocky might use to his advantage.

“They’re coming! Gotta make them stop!” Rocky fired another random shot out of the window. The retort was ridiculously loud. Rocky wasn’t bracing his arm and the force of the shot made him take a couple of unbalanced steps backwards.

Olly pressed his hands over his ears and shook. The noise of the approaching helicopter got more and more overwhelming. Rocky’s shouting became garbled, inarticulate. He flailed around and took another shot. This time he wasn’t aiming out of the window. He wasn’t aiming at all.

Dr. Sharma gasped, the sound little more than a hiss of expelled air. He clutched his upper arm then slumped forward. Viscous red liquid seeped from between his fingers.

“Doc!” Olly scrambled to prevent Dr. Sharma from slipping off the bed onto the floor. “He’s been hit! Help me!”

Despite his injured arms, Nick managed to assist enough that he and Olly heaved Dr. Sharma onto one of the other beds. The doc’s skin had taken on an ugly gray pallor. He was conscious but taking short, rapid breaths.

Olly ignored Rocky’s continued ranting. “Keep him distracted while I try and assess the wound,” he ordered Nick.

He tuned out the racket and focused on his friend. He prayed the bullet hadn’t hit anything vital. A through-and-through would be the best option but if the bullet had encountered bone, the bone would almost certainly be smashed. A pneumothorax was a possibility if the area near the collarbone had been impacted.

“Fuck! I need scissors to cut away his clothes,” Olly muttered.

“There are some nail scissors in the wash bag in my bedside cabinet,” Razor said. “It’s over in the barrier.”

Keeping his head down, Olly scuttled across to the wall of furniture. Any minute he expected the burning pain of a shot to the back. He fought down his fear and ripped open the cabinet door. He grabbed Razor’s wash bag and tipped it upside down, scattering the contents across the floor. He searched frantically for anything silver and spotted the scissors. Next to them was a folded cutthroat razor. He managed to palm it at the same time as he scooped up the scissors, praying that Rocky hadn’t noticed.

He quickly returned to the bed. Nick was on his feet facing Rocky, who had his back to the window. Olly was struck again by the incongruity of the sunshine streaming in. It was far too beautiful a day for such horror to be happening. He ran across to Dr. Sharma, whose face glistened with perspiration, his eyes unfocused.

“It’s going to be okay, Doc. I’m going to take care of you.” Olly set to work with the tiny pair of scissors, slitting the fabric of the doctor’s white coat, now stained a horrifying scarlet. He took his time, cutting carefully. Once he’d made a big enough hole, he started on the blue cotton shirt beneath. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he was able to part the layers and examine the wound.

“How’s he doing?” Nick murmured.

Olly didn’t turn around. “I need to see if the bullet hit the brachial artery in his arm. That can cause severe blood loss—he could bleed out and die. Same if it hit the subclavian artery below his collarbone.”

“Shit. Why doesn’t someone get rid of that fucking helicopter? It’s a bloody news network, can you believe?”

“Yep, I can.” Olly gently probed the wound. Only a little blood welled from the hole. He felt under the doctor’s arm, and to his relief found an exit wound. “Thank God. I’m fairly sure the bullet has gone straight through and hasn’t hit anything life-threatening. It’s a fairly easy thing to recover from providing he gets proper treatment soon. He won’t die from blood loss, at least.” There would be fragments of cloth in the wound, making infection a risk. Shock and pain would have a psychological impact. There wasn’t much else Olly could do. He had nothing to clean the wound with and no access to drugs. Fury turned his vision red. He marched toward Rocky, wagging his finger.

“What is the matter with you? You just shot one of the good guys. He needs proper medical assistance.”

“Olly, what are you doing?” Nick snapped. “Don’t antagonize him.”

“Why not? He’s a soldier. He’s supposed to help people and we are not the enemy.”

“Sit the fuck down.”

Rocky grabbed Olly’s biceps and propelled him back toward the bed. He shoved him hard and Olly lost his balance. He did a graceless pirouette and landed on his knees. He slipped his hand beneath the blankets and shoved the cutthroat razor into its namesake’s palm. Razor’s eyes widened but he said nothing. Olly scrambled to his feet and sent a withering glare Rocky’s way.

“Shit. For a little guy you sure have some cast-iron balls,” Nick muttered.

“He’s pissing me off. The doc will be okay for a while but he must be in terrible pain. I hate that I can’t help him more. And what’s with that fucking helicopter? It’s like a scene from Apocalypse Now out there.”

“I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” Nick muttered.

“My preference would be coffee and freshly cooked pancakes.” Olly tried to get a look out of the window but it was a bit too far away. He wondered if Joe knew what was going on yet. And Aiden, thank God he’d decided to wait in the car. His friends would be doing all they could to help if they did know the situation. Olly clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the gasp trying to escape. His phone! He’d only just remembered that it was still snugly hidden in the back pocket of his jeans.

Rocky took a pot shot at the helicopter, yelling obscenities. Olly squeaked but used the distraction to sneak his phone out. Using Nick’s body as cover, he tapped SOS into a message and sent it to Joe. He switched the phone to silent mode, then shoved it back in his pocket. He did it just in time, because someone with a brain cell had obviously told the helicopter pilot to get clear. The whirr of rotor blades diminished and an eerie silence descended. Even Rocky became quiet for a moment.

“Sounds like you’ve fought them off for now, Rocky mate,” Nick said. “Good job.”

“Yeah, what’s next? What do you need us to do?” Razor joined in.

Olly slipped from the bed and went to check on Dr. Sharma. To his relief, Rocky ignored him. He seemed a bit confused that Nick and Razor were talking to him, but his attention remained on them. Olly felt his friend’s forehead. The doctor was hotter than Olly would have liked considering the room was quite cold, with a stiff breeze blowing through the broken window.

“Hey, Doc, how are you doing?” Olly found a pulse point and began a mental count. “Hmm, pulse is a bit thready. Try to relax. We’re all going to get out of this just fine.” He kept his voice to just above a whisper. “The bleeding has stopped but I know it must hurt like a bastard.”

“That would be putting it mildly.” The doc’s voice sounded rusty.

“You want some water?” Olly glanced around. There was a half-full jug and a sealed plastic cup within reach.

“Please.”

Moving slowly so as not to attract Rocky’s attention, Olly fetched some water, then brought it back to the bed. Nick was still engaging Rocky in nonsensical conversation. Dr. Sharma sipped when Olly held the cup to his lips.

“I wish I had some painkillers to give you,” Olly said.

“I wish you did too.” Dr. Sharma gave him a wan smile.

“Can I ask you a question, Doc?” Olly kept an eye on Rocky as he spoke. “Is it usual for someone to display such an extreme state without having been diagnosed with PTSD before?”

“I’m no psychiatrist,” the doctor replied, “but, from the basics I remember, no. It’s much more likely for symptoms to escalate, but it’s not an exact science. After a traumatic event, the memory of it, the emotions at the time, even sensations like taste, touch and smell can present as nightmares, flashbacks, even daydreams. That in itself can be terrifying because the sufferer is essentially reliving the original trauma over and over again. I can only imagine the kind of things these Special Forces guys have seen.” He coughed, then winced. “Remind me not to do that, it bloody well hurts.”

“But how long would a flashback go on for?” Olly asked.

Dr. Sharma frowned. “I can hear the cogs whirring. What are you thinking, Nurse Glenn?”

“I’m thinking that our gun-toting psycho over there is faking it,” Olly whispered. “He’s been at it for over an hour now. Yesterday those jets triggered him—today it was the fire alarm, then the helicopter. He brought that gun in with him deliberately, that’s not a random act.”

“You might just have something there.” Dr. Sharma frowned. “But why? Why on earth would he want to fake a mental condition? His wounds are real enough. In fact, I’m amazed he’s still standing, considering the state of his legs.”

“Adrenaline, I imagine. As to why, I have no idea. He must have an agenda and I think we’re going to find out pretty soon what it is. The local plods will have called in back-up. That means men with attitudes almost as scary as Rocky’s. With more guns. I don’t like guns.”

“Me either.” Dr. Sharma’s wry tone brought Olly’s attention back to his patient. “I’ve treated plenty of gunshot wounds in my time—perhaps this is payback for not being sympathetic enough.”

Olly snorted.

“Sergeant Drayson. This is Inspector Caldwell. I’m with North Yorkshire Police and I’d like to talk.”

Whoever was using the megaphone had a calm, firm tone. Olly wished he could get a peek out of the window to see what was going on. He prayed Rocky wouldn’t shoot the negotiator. Rocky stood to the side of the window, back to the wall. Olly noticed one of Rocky’s eyes was badly bloodshot. The streaks of red gave him a feral, dangerous appearance. He’d stopped rambling. Olly got the feeling things were about to change for the worse.

 

* * * *

 

Pacing didn’t do much for Joe’s agitation but it was better than standing around listening to the police debate their next move. At least the D.I. had gotten rid of the press helicopter. When it had hovered overhead, rotor blades beating the air and raising dust, Joe had quite fancied shooting at it himself. At some point a polystyrene cup of tea had been thrust into his hand. If he’d had a spoon it would definitely have stood up in the brown liquid. He drank it anyway.

New people arrived and someone, presumably a trained negotiator, produced a megaphone and walked closer to the hospital. Joe didn’t want to listen to dialog straight out of the siege handbook, he wanted action. He needed Olly back by his side where he belonged. He moved away a few yards to lean against a panda car, debating whether or not it was too soon to call Heath and Aiden. In his pocket, his phone vibrated. He yanked it out and to his astonishment saw he’d received a text from Olly. All it said was SOS. Joe’s heart stuttered. He gripped the phone as if it were made of ice, determined to slip from between his fingers. He desperately wanted to text back, to offer some comfort, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he called Heath.

“Olly got in touch.” Joe spoke as soon as the call connected.

“That’s fantastic. Is he safe?”

“No. He’s still inside. He sent a shout for help.”

“He’ll get it. I’m glad you called. I have some news too.”

“Tell me.” Joe held his breath then remembered that oxygen was quite important. He breathed out slowly.

“Aiden has been digging. He’s accessed the hospital records.”

“By accessed, you mean hacked, don’t you? Does Dave Becket know what Aiden’s up to? I don’t want him getting into trouble.”

“Dave is fully informed.”

That didn’t quite answer Joe’s question, but he wasn’t going to push the point when he wanted the information Aiden had gotten his sticky mitts on.

“He got the names of the three soldiers on Olly’s ward. They are all SAS. From what Olly told us yesterday, Aiden worked out that the one with PTSD is Sergeant Darren Drayson. Aiden’s gotten into their Army records too.”

Joe shook his head. Aiden could be terrifying at times.

“Their last operation, the one where they all got hurt, was in—”

“West Africa. Olly said.”

Heath growled. “Let me finish, will you? They were in Liberia. Now that in itself isn’t the issue, though what the hell they were doing there I can’t imagine. Aiden went further. He cross-referenced the dates of their operation with sources in Liberia and the surrounding countries and he came up with something very interesting.”

Joe fought back the urge to scream at Heath and tell him to get on with it.

“Two days before the explosion in Monrovia that injured the team, there was a raid on an illegal diamond mining operation in the south-east of the country. It’s rumored that the raiders got away with a huge haul, but because the mine wasn’t sanctioned there’s no way of knowing exactly what it was worth.”

“Blood diamonds?” Joe’s mind was spinning.

“Precisely. Special Ops teams operate under their own rules. What they got up to in that country is known only to them. They’re self-sufficient while they’re on a mission.”

“So, what are you getting at? Are you suggesting that they’re all part of some smuggling plot? Not sure I buy that.” Joe scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Not all of them, no. One of them.” Heath paused as if waiting for Joe to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

“The gunman.” Joe moved farther away from the center of operations. “But how can you be sure? And even if he is involved in diamond smuggling that still doesn’t explain why he’s holding a ward full of people hostage.”

“Think about it.” Joe could almost hear Heath’s unspoken Use your brain, idiot. “Who are the hostages? One doctor, one nurse who shouldn’t even have been there, and two fellow soldiers. One or both of the soldiers has to be his target. Whatever he’s planning, he had to take advantage of the situation as it arose. Yesterday, the noise of the jets gave him a great excuse to set the scene but there were far too many people around to take it any further. This morning, he got lucky, but I think he’s running out of time. He can’t sustain the illusion much longer. He’s going to have to make his move.”

“And Olly’s right in the line of fire. Fuck. Does Becket know what you suspect?”

“Yes, he’s contacting the military police. Aiden has carte blanche to keep digging. There’s smoke rising from his keyboard his fingers are moving so fast. He’s going to need some dedicated attention once this is over.”

“He’s not the only one. I can’t imagine what kind of state Olly will be in. Do you think I should contact him? I don’t want to put him at risk.”

“He has a ring tone for calls, doesn’t he? I don’t know how the gunman would react to the Nom Nom song. It drives me nuts, so I guess it would likely push Sergeant Drayson right off the edge of the cliff.”

“It doesn’t play for texts. The phone just vibrates.” Joe would have given anything to hear the irritating tune at that moment, signaling Olly’s presence.

“What’s going on there at the moment?” Heath asked, jogging Joe back to reality.

He glanced around. “A negotiator with a loudspeaker is trying to make contact with the gunman but not getting any response at the moment. It looks like an armed response unit has just arrived.” Two vans with blacked out windows were pulling up. “I can’t see anyone at the ward window. Damn it, I hate not knowing what’s going on in there. He’s fired several shots and there’s no way of knowing what he was aiming at. There’s been a news helicopter hovering overhead but that’s gone now. He could have just been taking pot shots at that.”

“You might get away with a text by the sound of it,” Heath said. “With all that action the gunman should be distracted enough to miss a buzz or beep. Look, do you want me back there? Aiden’s safely tucked away in his basement. All I’m doing is maintaining his supply of Irn-Bru and wine gums.”

Joe knew that, despite his offer, Heath wouldn’t want to be pulled away from Aiden, who was a hell of a lot more vulnerable than his spiky attitude suggested. “There’s not much you can do here, either.” He peered at the sky, which was turning an interesting shade of purple-tinged black. “It’s going to rain soon. There’s a storm brewing. You stay back at base and keep in touch with Becket.”

“If you’re sure. Take care of yourself, Joe. Stay out of the line of fire. Olly is going to need you to be strong when this is done.”

Joe disconnected the call. He rubbed his thumb over the keys on his phone, debating what he should put in a text to Olly. He brought up the screen and settled on some simple words.

 

I’m here. I love you. Be safe.

 

He didn’t abbreviate the words or use emoticons—that wasn’t him. He wanted Olly to know he was there waiting for him. The warmth of Olly squirming in his arms was Joe’s addiction and he needed his fix like never before. He pressed Send and whispered a short, heartfelt prayer.

A fat drop of water slapped on to Joe’s cheek. He brushed it away, noticing for the first time how dark it had become. Malevolent thunderclouds towered in billowing stacks. The breeze sharpened into a serious of violent gusts. The initial scattering of rain intensified into a torrential downpour.

Joe ran for the relative cover of the command center tent. In seconds his clothing was soaked, clinging to his skin. His hair was plastered to his skull, rivulets of water sliding down his neck. The first rumble of thunder was just a low growl, the second an escalating build of sound that ended in a crack that sent vibrations down Joe’s spine. He counted off the seconds.

“One… Two…”

A bolt of lightning sheared through the blackened sky with a streak of silver. The storm was almost directly overhead. Temporarily blinded by a second, even brighter flash, Joe peered through the downpour toward the hospital. His heart pounded. If Darren Drayson needed an excuse to act, he’d just gotten it.