Page 50 of Resuscitation
“Follow me,” he told them, handing his knife to the man who’d come in with the lady with the broken arm. “I work here, I know the way out. We should hurry, I don’t know when they’ll be back.”
The patients moved slowly, unsure. Everyone was holding someone else as if unwilling to venture out alone. And none of them would meet Blake’s eyes. Did they think he was one of the bad guys?
Thomas waved for their attention. “This is Blake, he’s a medic. Saved my life more times than I can count. Come with us if you want to live.”
The kid in the hockey jersey gave a nervous laugh at Thomas’s horrible Terminator impression.
His mom grabbed his hand, strode over to Blake. “Let’s go, people.” Her voice was that of a woman used to corralling young boys. Command presence, they called it in the Army. “Everyone got their hands free? Okay, no one alone, get a partner and follow us.” She lasered her gaze at the ward clerk, Angie. “You’re in charge of making sure no one gets left behind.”
With that, she nodded to Blake, and he draped an arm around Thomas, leading them out to freedom. When they turned into the dark corridor leading to where Alyssa was, a few protested, but Hockey Mom kept them herded in the right direction, no stragglers. Blake wouldn’t have minded having a few of her with him on patrol back in the shitstorm.
He was glad for the lack of lighting hiding Psycho’s blood spattered over the walls and pooled on the floor. It was too cold to have them wait outside into a blizzard, so he sent the kid and his mom to gather chairs so they could sit in the more defensible corridor that connected to the office wing. Just in case.
“The police might come in the rear doors.” He pointed down Alyssa’s hallway to the exit. “Just keep still, hold your hands up, and stay quiet. Follow their commands.”
With the hostages taken care of, he led Thomas into Alyssa’s room where he could check him out properly. Poor guy was going to have a black eye and his nose looked broken, but his sugar was doing okay.
“Potassium’s higher,” he told Alyssa. She’d taken one look at Thomas and waved Blake away from her to evaluate the old man first.
“Needs dialysis,” she told Blake. “Soon.”
Her color was worse, he noted.
“I’m fine,” Thomas protested. “Blake, take care of Alyssa. She needs you more than I do.”
He reached for the stethoscope, but Alyssa batted him away.
“Hemo-pneumo,” she gasped. Shit. “Nothing. You. Can. Do.”
Except pray the cops got here fast and brought ALS medics with them. Unless…Sara. She’d be able to help.
He’d saved everyone else. Except the one person he’d come here to save.
As usual, Alyssa followed his thoughts. “Sara,” she said. “Get. Sara.”
“On it, boss.”
ChapterTwenty-Six
Friday,February 13th, 9:41 P.M.
Mercer releasedConnor and turned to face Brick. His old cellmate held his Glock in one hand, but it was the other hand, the one gripping a nasty-looking hunting knife, that got Mercer’s attention. Brick had a reputation for enjoying carving on people, convincing them to tell him what he wanted to know.
Mercer never thought Brick would dream of using the blade on him. But that was the problem with making friends with fellow inmates. You couldn’t trust any of them.
He didn’t waste time on small talk or bargaining. Instead, he fired his own semiautomatic. It was a quick shot, almost without aiming, so he was gratified to see he’d hit the meaty part of Brick’s gun arm.
Brick shouted in pain, dropping his pistol.
Mercer tried to fire again, but this time his weapon jammed. He cried out in frustration, tossing the pistol aside.
Fueled with rage, he lunged across the room at Brick, who crouched on the floor, scrambling to grab his Glock. Mercer had come too far, sacrificed too much, to let this backstabbing traitor destroy everything.
Brick slashed wildly with his knife, but Mercer’s instincts were already kicking in, honed by years of street fights and prison brawls. He dodged the blade, feeling it whistle past his ear.
Then he grabbed Brick’s wrist, dug his fingers into the flesh, and twisted hard. There was a satisfying crack, followed by Brick’s muffled grunt of pain, and the knife clattered to the floor.
But Brick wasn’t done.
