Page 1 of Her Last Escape

PROLOGUE

The tires of Rachel’s car squealed as she yanked it hard into the Goodrich Hospice parking lot. A queasy feeling was riding waves in her stomach, and her hands were somehow both firm and trembling on the wheel. The morning sun seemed to be shining down like a spotlight on the scene before her: five police cruisers, their light bars spinning silent red and blue patterns across the building's brick facade. She also took notice of two unmarked sedans she recognized as local detective units. And there, dominating the space near the entrance—a massive black van that she knew was a bomb squad sent in by the State Police.

They were all working together to evacuate the residents. Too slowly. God, it was happening too slowly. Of course, she supposed no one really trained hospice employees on what to expect or how to handle a situation like this.

Rachel's throat constricted as she watched two nurses wheeling a frail woman wrapped in blankets through the bitter December air. The woman's head lolled to one side, oxygen tubes trailing from her nose, her thin white hair whipping in the wind. Oddly, there was a look of curious excitement in the woman’s eyes; it was likely the most exciting thing to happen to her in years. Behind her, another resident shuffled with a walker while an orderly and a cop hovered nearby, ready to catch him if he fell. More residents waited inside—she could see them through the glass doors, a cluster of wheelchairs and worried faces. They were doing their best to remain organized and orderly—which Rachel knew was the right move—but everything seemed to be happening far too slowly.

The call from Anderson had come just twenty minutes ago, yanking her from a quiet morning at home. She'd thrown on comfortable slacks and a cream-colored sweater, barely remembering to grab her coat and sidearm before racing out the door. Her heart hadn't stopped pounding since. Now, she slammed the car into the park behind a cruiser and burst out, her FBI credentials already in hand. Her shoes crunched on salt-covered asphalt as a uniformed officer moved to intercept her, hand raised.

"Ma'am, you need to stay back—"

Rachel thrust her badge forward. "FBI, Special Agent Rachel Gift." Her voice cracked; she forced it steady. "I’m a volunteer here. What's the situation? I want to help." A gust of wind cut through her coat, but she barely felt it. Her skin was burning with adrenaline.

The officer—her nameplate read Lorenz—studied the credentials, then her expression shifted from stern to relieved. "This way." She led Rachel toward the bomb squad van, where a burly man in tactical gear studied a tablet screen, his face illuminated by its glow. "Commander, this is Agent Gift,” Lorenz said. “FBI and facility volunteer. Can you give her an update?"

The commander barely glanced up, his jaw set in rigid lines. His tactical vest bore the name RICHARDS. "Seven-sixteen AM, local precinct gets the bomb threat. Seven-thirty-seven, K-9 unit confirms." He spoke in clipped, efficient bursts. "The device is in the men's room, affixed to the inside of a toilet tank." He turned the tablet so Rachel could see the bodycam feed he was looking at. "My tech's on it now."

Rachel's breath caught as she studied the image. The bomb was a nightmare of precision and malice—red and blue wires sprouting from what looked like C-4 modeling clay. It was all wrapped around a digital timer that glowed an angry red. The wires snaked through the tank's mechanism like parasitic vines, some disappearing into the porcelain itself. Her years of FBI training screamed that this wasn’t professional work, but it was enough to get the job done. To have created such a thing without blowing yourself up was more than enough knowledge to be dangerous.

The tech's gloved hands appeared at the edge of the frame, probing delicately at the wiring. Rachel could hear his controlled breathing through the feed.

"Can you remove it?" she asked. The question came out as a whisper.

Richards' mouth tightened. "Maybe. But one wrong move..." He shook his head. "The triggering mechanism is complex. Multiple redundancies. Pressure switches in the tank, mercury switches on the device itself. Motion sensors." His finger traced the screen. "See these secondary wires? They're not connected to the detonator. They're connected to timers. Cut the wrong one, the other timers activate. Whoever built this wanted to make damn sure it went off one way or the other."

Rachel's mind flashed to Cody Austin's face—that bland, unremarkable mask that hid a monster. Was this his work? He was already connected to the hospice through his murder of Scarlett. Was this doing? He'd already taken Scarlett from her, murdered her just when she'd beaten cancer and had a chance at life again. Now this. The rage built in her chest, threatening to choke her. Deep within her, she knew he was behind this.

A commotion near the entrance of the building snapped her attention back. An elderly man had fallen while being evacuated. Two nurses struggled to help him up while maintaining their grip on other residents. One of the nurses—Rachel recognized her from the night shift crew—was crying silently as she worked.

"I'm going in to help," Rachel said, already moving.

"Agent Gift—" Richards started, his voice sharp with warning.

She was already running, flashing her credentials at the officers stationed by the door. The lobby's Christmas decorations seemed to mock the chaos—a small tree tucked in the corner, its lights still twinkling, casting colored shadows on the walls. Fake silver bells and turtledoves hung above the entrance, swaying slightly in the draft from the constantly opening doors. The air smelled of antiseptic and fear, undercut by the lingering scent of morning coffee from the nurse's station.

"Where do you need me?" she called to a nurse who was crying while trying to organize the few wheelchairs that were left. The woman's nametag identified her as Helen, though her scrubs were so disheveled the tag was barely readable.

"Second floor," Helen choked out, wiping her eyes with a shaking hand. "We still have four residents who can't walk. The elevator—we're not sure if we should use it—"

"I'll take the stairs," Rachel said, squeezing the woman's shoulder as she passed. "Just keep everyone moving."

She took the stairs two at a time, her heart hammering against her ribs. The stairwell echoed with distant shouting, the sound of wheels on linoleum, the controlled chaos of an evacuation moving too slowly. On the second floor, she found a familiar face—Rose, one of her regular poker partners, sitting in her wheelchair while two nurses struggled with her IV stand. Rose's usually immaculate silver hair was uncombed, her face pale with fear and exertion.

"I've got her," Rachel said, taking the handles. The older nurse's hands were shaking so badly she could barely let go. Her younger colleague looked shell-shocked, moving on autopilot. "How many more?"

"Two," the younger nurse said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Mrs. Chen and Mr. Garfield. From what I understand, the transport bus is almost here."

Rachel guided Rose's chair toward the stairs, where a team waited to help carry her down. Rose's paper-thin hand found Rachel's wrist. "Didn't expect to see you today, dear." Despite everything, there was still a hint of her usual wry humor in her voice.

"Couldn't let you get out of here so easily," Rachel tried to smile, but her face felt frozen. "You still owe me five dollars from the last time we played."

"Trying to collect from an old lady at a time like this?" Rose managed a weak laugh that turned into a cough. "Shameless."

They reached the stairwell where a large orderly and a much smaller, younger one was waiting. Rachel helped them secure Rose's wheelchair and made sure her IV was stable. “Can you guys get her down there?” she asked.

“It’ll be the fourth one so far and there have been no accidents yet,” said the larger one rather proudly. “Could you manage to get the IV stand while we work the chair down?”

“Absolutely.”

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