Page 77 of Cole: Bloodlines
“Fuck.” Gabe rubbed his forehead. “Thank God.”
Cruz took out his phone and called Clint. “We’re here. How the hell do we find you in that place?” He listened as the cowboy provided directions through the maze of corroded metal. “We’re on our way.” He tucked the phone away.
The two kids crept from the shadowed alcove, holding each other for warmth.
“Shit,” Cruz breathed.
“I need to get them to the hospital,” Gabe said.
Cruz dug out his car keys and handed them to Gabe. “Take them. Go. We’ll catch a ride with Clint.” He nodded at the kids with deep concern. “Get them out of here.”
“It's dark as a tomb in there,” Gabe said when the two men started for the factory entrance. “You'll need flashlights.”
Sanchez sprinted to their car, returning with a heavy tactical flashlight whose beam cut through the pre-dawn gloom like a laser. Without another word, the two men disappeared into the depths of the factory, their footsteps echoing on the concrete before being swallowed by darkness.
PART SEVEN: THE MEANING OF LIFE
“Love knows no limit to its endurance,
no end to its trust, no fading of its hope;
It can outlast anything.
Love still stands… when all else has fallen.”
— Blaise Pascal
CHAPTER 35: CAROUSEL OF EMOTIONS
Dane sat in a vinyl hospital chair that creaked with his every breath, watching Angel and Abel's chests rise and fall beneath the thin hospital blanket, their faces slack with sleep. Thank God for small mercies. Each time one of them stirred, Dane's heart clenched—fearing the moment he'd have to shatter that peace with news that the kids were still missing. His body felt hollow, his limbs heavy with exhaustion that had settled into his bones. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly green pallor that made the hours since their ordeal began seem like an eternity.
He stood with legs that threatened to give way beneath him, stretching until his spine cracked like kindling. The window offered no solace—only a parking lot stained purple-black by the approaching dawn, where headlights cut yellow tunnels through lingering fog. Overhead, the sky hung like bruised skin, neither night nor day but a sickly in-between where hope traditionally died. The dread that had settled beneath his sternum now pulsed with each labored heartbeat, a malignant growth feeding on his fear, sending irregular jolts of panic through his chest that left him gasping for air.
Please, God… we can’t take any more… please let us wake up from this nightmare…
The wailing siren of an ambulance echoed in the distance, its pitch rising and falling like a wounded animal as it approached. A kaleidoscope of red and blue lights sliced through the fog, painting the gray morning in violent strokes across the rain-slick pavement of the hospital. The ambulance skidded around the corner, tires hissing against wet asphalt, followed by a second one whose lights pulsed with the same urgent rhythm. Throughout the endless night, ambulances arrived in sporadicwaves, each siren sending ice water through Dane's veins, each set of flashing lights igniting the same primal fear that knotted his intestines into sailor's rope. This time was no different—his mouth went desert-dry, and his stomach clenched like a fist.
Casting another look at the sleeping young men, their faces ghostly under the fluorescent lights, Dane left the room with legs that felt borrowed. Devlin sat slumped in a molded plastic chair in the hall, his head buried in trembling hands. Dane lowered himself beside him, the cold surface of the chair seeping through his thin pants, and squeezed Devlin's shoulder, feeling the knots of tension beneath his palm. “They're still asleep,” Dane whispered, his breath visible in the overly air-conditioned corridor. “Thank God.”
Devlin sniffled and lifted his head, revealing bloodshot eyes rimmed with raw, pink flesh. His trembling fingers wiped away moisture that had gathered in the crow's feet at their corners. “What do we say when they do wake up?” The distress in his voice—thin and reedy like an old violin—reflected the hollow ache in Dane's chest. “How do we tell them—”
“Dr. Grant to ER.”The intercom crackled with static, the tinny female voice echoing through the antiseptic-scented corridor.“Dr. Grant to ER.”
The two men tensed together, their spines straightening against the hard plastic chairs. “Why do they want you in the ER?” Dane asked, the unease in his voice causing each word to drop like a stone into still water.
“I don't know,” Devlin murmured and rose on shaky legs that threatened to fold beneath him like wet cardboard. When Dane half-stood, muscles coiled with intention to follow, Devlin pressed a cold palm against his shoulder. “Stay here. If the boys wake up, they shouldn't be alone. If this has anything to do with us, I'll text you immediately.”
Dane nodded, his stomach tightening into a fist-sized knot. “Okay.”
Devlin hurried away, his white coat flapping behind him like a flag of surrender as he disappeared into the brushed-metal elevator at the end of the hall.
Sinking back into the chair that creaked in protest, Dane leaned his head against the institutional beige wall, feeling its cool surface against his feverish skin. He closed his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lighting, the pulse in his temples throbbing in time with the distant beeping of medical equipment. Behind his eyelids, he saw only ambulance lights cutting through fog, wondering with heavy dread if one of those recently arrived vehicles was carrying the broken body of someone they loved.
When Devlin arrived at the ER nurses' station, Penny—a middle-aged woman with close-cropped silver curls and skin the color of burnished mahogany—looked up from her computer terminal. Her navy scrubs were spotless despite the chaos of the trauma ward, and her ID badge hung from a lanyard decorated with cartoon bandages. She immediately directed him down the fluorescent-lit corridor with a flick of her French-manicured index finger, her expression brooking no argument. The almost military precision of her movements revealed the stern authority of a seasoned RN who had spent three decades in New York City's busiest emergency room.
Devlin asked no questions as the nurse led the way, her white orthopedic shoes squeaking against the freshly mopped linoleum. Her stride was quick and purposeful, navigating around gurneys and busy orderlies with the confidence of someone who knew every inch of this complex department. Some doctors with inflated egos didn't appreciate theauthoritative presence of head nurses like Penny, but Devlin had always respected their position. The nurses, with their bloodstained scrubs and extensive knowledge of each patient's needs, were the backbone of any hospital and deserved the utmost respect.
“In here, doctor.” Penny pulled aside a curtain to one of the ER patient stations—and Devlin's world came to a halt. His knees nearly buckled as oxygen fled his lungs.
