Chapter 11

Celia didn’t know whether she was going to scream, throw up, or just plain keel over. She clapped one of her hands over her mouth to quell the need to do the first two, and held tightly to the gurney in hopes of staving off the need for the third. But she still felt herself sway. Her stomach still churned. And her throat burned as if the terror and shock were trying to force their way out in spite of her efforts.

Elm Peterson is dead. He’s someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Or dad. And he’s dead. Because of me. Because he needed to smoke. Because he helped us. Because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and—

Remo’s whisper cut off the threatening downward spiral. “We have to go.”

Celia looked up. She tried to answer. To move. To respond in any way. But both her body and her brain had other ideas. They kept her immobilized. Physically. And mentally.

Elm Peterson is dead, her mind repeated. Oh, God. He’s dead, and it’s—

“Celia,” Remo said, still under his breath, but his voice was underlined with urgency now. “That guy out there is moving up and down the hall, opening every door. He started on the other side, but he’s going to be here any second. We need to move.”

At last his words got through—if they didn’t vacate the room, Teller and his gun would find them. The man whose name meant nothing, but who she knew had shot her in the past. Who she could picture on the other end of a gun. Who’d just shot Elm Peterson.

Celia grabbed Remo’s elbow and started to pull herself off the gurney. But her reaction came a little too late. Footsteps were already headed in their direction. Terrified, Celia met Remo’s eyes. She saw fear reflected in his gaze, too. But unlike her, he seemed to have retained his ability to plan an escape.

Wordlessly, he slid his hands under her and scooped her up. He cradled her to his chest and strode purposefully across the room. Without stopping, he bent down, grasped the handle on a door Celia hadn’t noticed before, then pushed it open. Just as smoothly, he turned and closed it behind them, then moved on.

Celia hadn’t even truly noted what type of room they’d been hiding in, and their quick pace didn’t let her take much stock of where they were going, either. It flew by. Cold air. Metal furnishings. A door. Then white walls and the scent of disinfectant. Another door. More ascetic decor. With each new space, the pressure of being followed mounted. Teller might not be able to hear them or see them, or even really know they were there, but his pursuit was relentless, anyway. As quiet as they were, the man with the gun and the malicious intent did little to cover his own noise. Celia could hear each door he opened, and his footsteps, too. He was falling a little behind them as he perused the rooms, but unless they found a route out, the man would eventually have them cornered.

And Remo pushed on.

How many adjacent rooms can there be? Celia wondered.

But the question no sooner popped to mind than it got an answer in the form of an office. It was a dead end. As was evidenced by the fact that Remo stopped abruptly, spun, then growled a curse. Unlike the other rooms, this one had only two doors—the one they’d come through, and the one that led out to Teller.

Celia’s gaze raked over the small, untidy space, her mind trying to churn out an idea. How many more moments did they have until the armed man caught up? Just how thorough was he being in his search? Could they attack instead of hiding? And under all her thoughts was concern for her son’s well-being. Would Teller really kill them if it meant maybe never finding Xavier?

Her subconscious tossed out the dark answer to the last question. He won’t kill you. But Remo...

She wanted to dismiss the idea, but it refused to go, and she had to acknowledge that the more seconds ticked by, the more likely it was to become a reality. And as much as facing down a murderer terrified her, she was far more afraid that Remo would lose his life trying to protect her.

“Hide!” she gasped.

Remo stopped abruptly, midway through his second, futile spin. “What?”

Celia swallowed, then whispered her conclusion aloud. “He won’t kill me.”

“He just killed a stranger, and he’s already threatened you once. And that doesn’t even factor in what you told me about the bullet you took when you were pregnant.”

“I know all of that. But this is a whole different situation. Elm didn’t know where my son is. And that’s what Teller wants. He won’t shoot me until he has Xavier.” She inhaled. “But you...”

Remo’s blue eyes darkened. “Even if I were willing, it’s not like there’s anywhere to hide.”

“Under the desk,” Celia said right away.

“I wouldn’t fit under there.” His gaze moved toward the piece of furniture in question, and then his feet followed. “But you will.”

She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “Me hiding does nothing but put you right in the line of fire.”

Remo’s grip only tightened, and he managed to retain his hold while pushing the chair out of the way and bending down, too.

“That’s not true at all,” he said. “In fact, it’s better if it’s me doing the talking. Because when it comes down to technicalities, I’m the one who knows where Xavier is. Unless you somehow managed to get my mom’s address when I wasn’t looking.”

“I...” Her argument trailed off as the truth of his words sunk in.

He was the one who knew where Xavier was at the moment. And there was no doubt that he’d go with Teller under the guise of revealing that location. He’d compromise his own life for Celia’s son, and nothing could’ve made her appreciate him more. But she still didn’t want him to. Just the thought of it made her throat close up. She needed a solution that would let her have it both ways—keeping Xavier and Remo safe.

Maybe I can negotiate a deal with Teller.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Remo. “And the answer is no. A man like that doesn’t make deals.”

“There has to be something,” Celia insisted, fighting tears.

“There is.”

“Something other than you leaving with Teller.”

“Celia.”

If he’d been about to say more than her name, he was cut off by the rattle of the door handle. This time, panic didn’t make Celia freeze—it made her act. Grabbing Remo’s arm with enough strength that she surprised herself, she turned and shoved the big man against the underside of the desk. Surprisingly—maybe because he was off balance—he folded into the spot without protest. He almost fit. One of his legs stuck out, but Celia saw an immediate solution. She didn’t waste time wondering if it would work. Instead, she made herself as small as possible, then squeezed into his lap, grabbed his outside knee, then yanked it against her. Remo didn’t fight the process, either. He just grabbed the rolling chair and pulled it in, effectively blocking their position from view of anyone who wasn’t already looking directly at the spot. It wasn’t perfect. But it would do. Because it had to.

Celia would’ve held her breath if she’d been able to, but the space was too cramped to let her do more than suck in the smallest amount of air. She settled for closing her eyes and praying that Teller would opt for a less-than-thorough look around.

Please, please, she thought. Let this go in our favor.

And her prayers seemed to receive an answer. As a light squeak gave away the fact that the door was opening, a cell phone chimed to life. A moment later, the tap of Teller’s feet filled the air at the same time as his voice.

He greeted his caller without preamble. “Still down here, and I’m gonna need a cleanup.”

Celia’s muscles tensed impossibly tighter. The gunman was only a few feet from where they sat huddled. His shoes and calves were visible from their hiding space.

If he looks down...

Thankfully, a moment later, he stepped out of view. His voice, though, remained close.

“How long?” he asked. “Yeah, okay. Try to cut it to ten if you can.” He paused. “Okay. Once you’ve done that, can you do me another favor? Look up a guy named Remo. Hospital employee, I think.” There was a second pause, this one longer. “I admit that it’s a little vague, but how many Remos do you think there are hanging around here?” Another pause. “No. Call it instinct. If it doesn’t pan out, it doesn’t pan out. But I didn’t come this far because I’m in the habit of making mistakes.”

Just like he hadn’t issued a greeting at the beginning of the call, Teller also didn’t officially sign off. But after his last statement, silence hung in the air long enough for Celia to conclude that he’d ended the call. And a few moments later, the thump of his feet on the linoleum, followed by the door creaking shut, signaled that the man had finally left the room. Relieved, Celia closed her eyes. She didn’t dare move too early and risk bringing Teller back. But she did let herself relax as much as the small space allowed, and when she felt Remo’s arms tighten in a reassuring hug, most of the pressure in her chest released. She counted off ten somewhat normal breaths, then slid out from the small place and extended her hand to help pry Remo’s big body free.

“Ten minutes until the cleanup guys get here,” she whispered as she gripped the edge of the desk and pulled herself to her feet. “Do you think that’s long enough to...”

Her words died off, and her heart seized. Teller stood at the closed door, a wickedly self-satisfied smile on his face, and his gun pointed in their direction.


When Celia stopped speaking and froze with her eyes fixed forward, Remo was puzzled only momentarily before quickly coming to the sole logical conclusion. Teller’s exit had been a ruse.

Remo cursed himself for assuming the best, and he jumped up from his position on the ground with the intention of shielding Celia from harm. His cramped muscles screamed a protest, though, and before he could properly position himself, he stumbled. The awkward movement had one benefit—it drew the armed man’s attention. Teller swung his way instead of Celia’s, his expression dark.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice laced with assurance that he’d be obeyed. “Put your hands on your head, and I’ll—”

Teller’s words were cut off as something—a heavy-looking, old-fashioned desk phone, Remo realized—came flying at him. It hit the other man hard enough to make his head snap to the side, and before he could recover, Celia darted around the desk and knocked into his gut, shoulder first. As Teller stumbled, Celia then lifted her elbow and jabbed up toward his throat.

Remo was sure the moves had a practiced look, but he didn’t take the time to wonder where she’d learned them. He threw himself into the fray instead. Or tried to. His intervention turned out to be unnecessary. Celia’s lightning-quick maneuvers had sent the already off balance gunman toppling over. Before Remo could deliver a single blow, Teller’s temple hit the corner of the desk. The weapon dropped from his hand, he let out a groan, then collapsed in an unmoving heap on the ground.

Celia immediately sprang toward the gun, snagged it from the floor, and quickly—almost expertly—tucked it into her waistband. Then, with her chest heaving with exertion, she lifted her eyes and met Remo’s gaze.

“I think we’re down to T-minus eight minutes,” she breathed, and held out her hand. “Assuming Teller’s cleanup crew are on the ball.”

Remo nodded, then clasped her fingers and started to let her tug him out the door, but paused as a thought occurred to him.

“Hang on,” he said.

“T-minus seven and a half minutes,” Celia warned.

“Give me ten seconds,” he replied.

He freed himself from her warm grasp before she could argue, then stepped back into the room and moved toward the unconscious man. Quickly, he knelt and gave the guy a rushed pat down. His search came to fruition in the form of a leather wallet, which he tugged out of Teller’s lapel pocket.

“Three more seconds,” Celia called softly. “Hurry, Remo.”

“Hurrying,” he called back.

He wanted to know more about who Teller was, but he also wanted to get out of the hospital in one piece. So he stood up and shoved the procured ID into his own pocket without looking, then turned back to Celia. But once again, he saw a reason to delay. A red splotch a little bigger than a quarter had appeared on Celia’s pants. He knew without checking that her stitches had to have come loose.

Dammit.

She followed his concerned gaze, then let out a little gasp. But she also immediately lifted her eyes and shook her head.

“We don’t have time to worry about it,” she said.

“We don’t have the luxury of not worrying about it. You won’t be any good to your son if you bleed out, and we have to go past the room where we left the first aid kit, anyway. Come on.”

Ignoring her attempt to protest, he grabbed her hand and gently pulled her up the hall to the room where they’d first taken cover from Teller. There, he paused, kissed her lightly, and sprinted through the door. He grabbed the bag from the gurney, then hurried back out again.

“See?” he said. “Future crisis averted, and still T-minus six minutes.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “Less talking, more running for our lives.”

“Happy to oblige.”

This time it was she who did the hand-grabbing, tugging him to the stairwell, then opening the door wide so that they could step through together. As they started up the first flight of stairs, Remo expected to see some sign of strain on her part. He was ready to swoop in and carry her up if need be, but she didn’t seem affected by the reopened wound. She took the steps as easily as he did. But when they’d nearly reached the first-floor landing, a new problem presented itself. From above them—maybe two or three levels up—a door whooshed open, and they both went still as two men’s voices filtered down.

“You ever get tired of doing his dirty work?” said Man One.

Man Two laughed. “It’s all dirty work. That’s why we get the pay upgrade.”

That was all Remo stopped long enough to hear. Silently, he pointed at the door on the first-floor landing. Celia nodded back. They took the final two steps, and Remo reached out and gave the door handle as gentle a tug as he could. A rush of air still filled the stairwell, and he tensed, ready to run out at full speed if necessary. Thankfully, the men above were too involved in their own debate to notice. Breathing out, Remo gestured for Celia to go first. He tossed a final glance up—the men still hadn’t come into sight yet—then followed her through the door. Then stopped abruptly at the chaos all around them.

It was just a hallway, but it was filled to capacity. Beds lined the walls, people sat in randomly placed chairs, and medical personnel swirled through it all.

“What’s going on?” Celia asked, her voice low.

“This is the emergency overflow area. Nobody in or out, so they can’t discharge people, and anyone who needed to be admitted might’ve been delayed. Busy night in the ER, and it could easily pile up like this,” he explained, then added, “At least the crowd will help keep us hidden. Speaking of which...we should get moving. Make our way to another set of stairs and get up to that second floor walkway so we can get out before things settle down.”

He started to walk, but Celia didn’t move when he did, and their hands slid apart. He turned to face her, surprised that she no longer seemed to be in a rush. Her expression was pained, and concern flooded in.

“What’s wrong?” Remo asked. “Is it your leg?”

“No, not that. It’s just such a waste. Of resources. Of time. All these people...stuck here and scared and probably not really knowing what’s going on. Some of them are probably really sick, or hurt, too. And I don’t like it one bit.” She shook her head. “Whoever Teller is, I hope he gets caught and has to answer for this, just as much as he has to answer for Elm’s murder.”

Remo studied her for a moment. There was more than a hint of vehemence in her voice, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was completely related to the current situation, or if it had something to do with the bits of her past she couldn’t remember. He opened his mouth to ask, but stopped abruptly as he remembered that he had at least a partial answer to her concerns. Right in his pocket, in fact.

“Let’s find somewhere a little quieter,” he said. “We can have a quick look at his ID and check that leg of yours before we go.”

“His ID?” Celia replied. “What do you mean?”

He patted the spot where he’d stored it. “In here. What did you think I went back for?”

“I don’t know?” She said it like a question. “But...you stole his wallet?”

She sounded so incredulous that Remo couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping his lips. “You’re worried about me, stealing from Teller?”

Her cheeks went a little pink. “No.”

“Liar,” he teased. “Come on. I’ll find us a spot.”

She sighed, but let him take her hand and lead her through the crowd. Remo made sure to walk with purpose so that no one would look twice at them as they passed. But it wasn’t until they were clear of the overflow area and halfway there that he realized his goal wasn’t just a random, more secluded space. He had a specific destination in mind.