“Who?”
The doors from the hallway opened onto chaos.
Lights, sounds, screaming, crying.
Blood.
This wasnota normal scene for his department.
The long hallway of the thruway that connected the nurse station and adjoining rooms was at a standstill. His eyes found Mendez, his larger bodyrecognizable over his team. He was on his knees, holding his nose in both hands, with Ava at his side, shaking.
Reyes was standing beside a large, beefy man with tattoos covering his exposed arms. He had a shaved head and a Nazi symbol on his chest, which told John everything he needed to know. Reyes had his hands out in a defensive gesture, his upper lip swollen and his eyes focused on the surgical knife in the man’s hand, which was pointing directly at…
John’s heart stopped.
No.
Wyatt’s body was unusually stiff, as though his survival instincts were telling him to freeze at the sight of the predator who had him in his sights. The large bald man with tattoos held a knife to Wyatt’s throat, blood already slowly seeping from beneath the blade.
No!
John stepped forward, unable to stay back.
“The police are almost here, John,” Steph whispered frantically, grabbing his arm and attempting to stop him.
“We don’t want any more violence, sir,” Wyatt’s voice dropped into that steady, deep octave. The same voice that soothed horses, patients, and John.
The tattooed asshole with the knife snorted angrily through his large nostrils, glaring at Wyatt.
“We’re just tryin’ to do our jobs,” Wyatt reassured. “It’s safe here…”
John saw a brief movement from Wyatt’s hand. Blood was rapidly descending his arm. His fist was clutched tight as thick wet droplets coated the white tile floor beneath him.
He was hurt. And if he had been cut with a surgical blade, it could be bad—or go bad very quickly, depending on where he was cut.
“Fuck you, faggot,” the man with the knife hissed. “Get out of my fuckin’ way.”
John realized then that Wyatt was braced against a gurney, protecting an elderly woman whose eyes were wide and confused.
“She needs treatment…” Wyatt said gently. “We’re not gonna hurt her.”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey, hey…” John stepped slowly toward them, hands out. “Whatever is happening here, we can talk about this like rational adults.”
The large man lurched forward, doubling down on his attempt to control the situation, but he didn’t cut any further into Wyatt’s throat—yet. John held out a hand, forcing himself not to react.
Nurses screamed, and Reyes glanced uncertainly at John. He shook his head slightly, indicating for Reyes to stay back. Mendez, upon seeing John, slowly got to his feet, his eyes locked on Wyatt and the man with the knife. Samuels, whom John couldn’t see but knew was there, was also probably waiting in the wings, ready to tackle this bastard if they had to.
Wyatt’s direct, pale blue eyes never once left the man’s face, holding perfectly still.
“Police are almost here,” John said calmly. “There is no need for any of this.”
The man with the knife was at least a foot taller than John and weighed considerably more.
“Why don’t you lower the knife…?” John said in his steady, even tone.
“Fuck off!”
