CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Asher threw the gear into Park and opened the door. “Stay in the truck, PJ.”
“But—”
“Just do it, please.”
The teen jerked, surprise on his face. “Please? My dad would have ordered. Go. I’ll stay here.”
“Thank you.” Asher raced up the front steps and knocked on the front door. “Captain Newell! Brooke!” Nothing. He knocked again with more force. “Brooke! Monica? It’s Asher!”
He tried the door and found it unlocked. He shoved it open. “Monica?” The girl stood frozen on the steps, staring with wide, scared eyes.
A scream to his left sent his hand diving for his weapon. He curled his fingers around the grip and dropped into a crouch. A woman holding a dishtowel gaped at him from the kitchen entrance.
Asher held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m Asher James and I’m looking for Brooke Adams. I was told she might be in danger.”
“I’m Ginny Howard, Yvonne’s sister. Phillip called and asked me to come stay with Monica until he could get back.”
“I don’t know anything about her.”
“She was here,” Monica said, hugging herself with her arms, looking pale and frightened. “She came to talk to me, then Dad sent me upstairs and he—” She bit her lip.
“He what?”
“He pulled his gun and forced Brooke to leave with him,” she whispered. “He told her he’d kill me if she didn’t go.”
Asher gasped. “What?”
His question echoed her aunt’s.
Tears slid down Monica’s cheeks. “I was wondering what had him so mad, so I spied on them.” She let out a sob and dropped onto the step. “What’s going on?”
Ginny ran to the girl and wrapped her arms around her. “Are you sure, honey?”
Monica nodded.
“PJ’s in the truck,” Asher said hoarsely, hardly recognizing his own voice. “I’m going to send him in here, then go after your dad and Brooke. Do you know where he’s headed?”
The teen shook her head and sniffed. “No.” Her head snapped up. “Wait. He said he was taking her to see if Dr. Frasier could use her. Dr. Frasier was the surgeon who did my heart transplant.”
“Where?”
“At the Frasier Center.”
Asher pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Caden.
Monica’s eyes met his once more. “She said he was involved in trafficking orphans for their organs. Is that true?” she whispered. “Please tell me it’s not true.”
Caden answered before Asher could figure out what to say. “This is Caden, what’s up?”
“We know who’s behind everything. It’s Captain Newell. He’s got Brooke and I think they’re heading for the Frasier Center.”
“The organ transplant place.”
“I’ll get a team together immediately.”
“See you there.”
“No! Asher, you have to stay out of this.”
“Brooke’s there. I’m not staying out of anything.” He hung up and turned to see PJ in the doorway, face pale, confusion written all over him. “I don’t have time to explain right now, PJ, but I’ll do my best later.”
PJ gave a dazed nod and Asher darted out the door.
Brooke stumbled in front of Newell as he directed her via the muzzle of his pistol down a hallway. They’d slipped inside the medical facility through a back entrance, with him speaking on the phone in a low voice to someone named Buzz.
“Please think about this,” she said. “You’re going to kill me for nothing. The FBI and others have been working on this case, and they know what’s going on.”
“If that was true, they’d be beating down my door.”
“Maybe, or maybe they’re just biding their time, watching and waiting for the right moment to make their move.”
“Right.” He came to a door and pushed it open. “Get in.”
“Please, sir, think about your kids. They need you.”
“And if I let you live, they won’t get me, will they?” He grabbed her bicep and shoved her into the room. “Besides, we can’t let all of those healthy organs go to waste.”
“Cap—”
He shut the door in her face. The low click of the dead bolt sliding into place chilled her. So that’s why he’d kept her alive this long.
She let out a low scream and kicked the door. Her foot throbbed, but it made her feel slightly better. Then the shakes set in. She lowered herself to the floor with her back against the wall and dropped her forehead to her knees. What was she going to do?
She gave in to the despair for several minutes, then drew in a fortifying breath and looked around. “Think.” Her only hope of survival was escape.
She rose, felt the wall for a light switch, and was rewarded. The space looked like any other storage closet. An old filing cabinet sat tucked away in the corner with one drawer half open. Cabinets lined the upper and lower portions of the wall to her left. A mop and water bucket rested near the coatrack on her right. Two rickety old chairs had been stacked and shoved into the far corner.
Brooke went to work pulling open drawers and cabinets, searching for anything she could use as a weapon until her eyes returned to the filing cabinet. She pulled the drawer open the rest of the way only to see a few paper clips, a rubber band, and a pair of fingernail clippers. Despair clawed at her. She stopped, panting, hands on her hips. Think. Could she pick the lock? That would be a no. MacGyver she wasn’t.
Okay, then . . . no window, locked door, no weapon. No way out. She pressed her palms against her eyes. Think, think, think. She looked up. The air-conditioning vent was too small, but if she could remove one of the drop tiles . . .
Maybe. She closed her eyes and pictured the hallway. Yes, they’d passed patient rooms before reaching this one. She scooted the old chair next to the filing cabinet, hauled herself up onto the chair, then knelt on top of the filing cabinet. Working quickly, she pushed the tile nearest the edge of the wall up and slid it over on top of the one next to it. Rising to her feet, she pulled herself up until she was inside the ceiling to her shoulders. A quick glance revealed pipes and two-by-fours running above the drop tiles, which meant she could go over the wall into the connecting patient room and out the hopefully unlocked door.
Bracing her hands on the top of the wall and her feet on the portion below, she pushed herself up and scrambled onto the top of the wall, thanking God it didn’t go any higher.
Resting for a moment, she listened. Heard nothing to indicate anyone was in the next room and reached for the ceiling tile nearest her. She managed to pull it up far enough to see the room was empty before she lost her grip and it dropped back into its rectangular resting place.
“Forget that.”
Brooke sat up slowly, keeping her balance on the beam, and stomped her foot through the tile. It broke and fell to the floor in pieces. Thankfully, it wasn’t as loud as she was afraid it might be. Without waiting to see if anyone was going to come bursting through the door, she edged off the beam and into the opening. Hanging halfway out of the ceiling, she looked down and found herself over the computer station.
With a grunt, she swung sideways and dropped.
The landing jolted her down to her bones, and for a moment, she simply sat there, breathing hard, her pulse racing. When she caught her breath, she scrambled to her feet and stepped over to the door. Gently, she pressed the handle and nearly gave a squeal of relief to find it unlocked. Hauling in a steadying breath, she cracked it and peered out into the hallway.
The empty hallway, thank goodness.
She needed to find the orphans—and a phone—but where to start? Since staying in the room wasn’t an option, she slipped out and let the door shut behind her with a soft click. Brooke stepped to the next room and opened the door.
Empty.
The next three rooms turned up the same. No phone and no children.
Maybe she was searching the wrong floor? No. This was a busy facility overall, but this floor was practically a ghost town. Moving quickly, she continued her search room by empty room until low murmurs reached her. She stilled, then scuttled closer.
“. . . ready in about fifteen minutes,” a woman’s voice said. “Make sure they have enough of the drug to keep them out, then bring number zero four seven eight three to me.”
“Of course, Doctor.” Another woman’s voice.
Footsteps hurried from the room and Brooke ducked into the nearest empty room she’d just checked. As soon as the woman was gone, Brooke peered around the doorjamb, only to pull back. Captain Newell was in the hallway.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said to the doctor.
“What kind?”
“The kind that’s not going to go away easily. We may be compromised. I think we should abort and walk away while we can.”
“Meaning?”
“Get rid of the evidence while we can.” Impatience tinged his tone. The stress must be wearing on him. Good.
“Are you insane?”
“No! I’m cautious.”
“I’m not getting rid of already assigned organs. Now get out of here and go do what you do best. Make sure everything continues to run smoothly.”
“Gerry, that’s what I’m trying to do here.”
“Excellent. Because I have surgeries to do.”
Brooke held her breath and tried to control her rampant fear even while comforting herself with the knowledge that they didn’t know she’d escaped yet.
After several nerve-racking minutes, more footsteps indicated the doctor and Newell were walking down the hall, away from her. Still, she waited. Was there anyone else in there? They’d talked pretty openly, so she was going to chance no one else was in there. Brooke scanned the hallway one more time, then slipped into the room adjacent to her hiding place.
Four beds. Four IV poles. And four dark-skinned, dark-haired, beautiful children. Her heart flipped and her stomach clenched. Two girls and two boys. The oldest girl looked to be fifteen or sixteen. The youngest, five or six. She had to be Paksima. The oldest boy appeared to be around ten and the other four. She’d found them. Now she had to figure out how to get them to safety.
The room was large, two rooms converted into one to give them the space to hold four beds, leaving room to work.
Hurried footsteps in the hallway shot adrenaline through her. She scurried over to the small closet, opened it, and squeezed inside, pulling the door almost shut, leaving a small crack to see through.
At first, all she heard were the footsteps, then a woman dressed in green and blue scrubs passed in front of her field of vision. A nurse. The sound of a bed unlocking and then rolling reached her. Heart pounding, Brooke watched it glide past and little Paksima’s face blipped into view, then disappeared.
Brooke drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. She pushed open the door. The nurse screamed. Brooke grabbed her, shoved her against the wall, and threw a right cross that landed on the woman’s cheek. Then a left jab to her stomach and a right uppercut to her face. She needed her unconscious. The nurse’s eyes fluttered and she sank to the floor. Brooke’s knuckles throbbed, but for the first time in her life, she was grateful for her father teaching her to box. She knelt and checked the nurse’s pulse. She’d have a headache, but at least she’d wake up—unlike the children she helped murder.
Quickly, Brooke moved to each IV and shut off the drip. She figured it was a sedative to keep the children sleeping until they were taken into surgery to remove their organs. As soon as the drug wore off, they’d awaken.
She returned to the nurse and felt her pockets.
Bingo.
She pulled out the phone and tapped the screen. Password-protected, but she could still make an emergency call.