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Feeney understood the message. Stay where you are as long as possible. “Sure. I’ll sit right here while we work this out.”
“It’s hot in here. It’s too goddamn hot in here.” As he spoke, Halloway used his free hand to swipe at the blood that trickled out of his nose.
Seeing it, Eve went cold. “I’ll have the climate control adjusted.” She gestured off-screen to Gates. “We’ll cool it down in there for you. You feeling okay otherwise, Halloway?”
“No! No, I’m not feeling okay. This son of a bitch has me working until my damn eyes bleed. My head.” He grabbed a handful of his own hair, yanked viciously. “My head’s killing me. I’m sick. He made me sick.”
“We can get you a medical. Will you let me send a medical in? You don’t look well, Halloway. Let me get you some medical assistance.”
“Just leave me alone.” When a tear dripped out of his eye, it was tinged with blood. “Leave me alone. I need to think!”
He broke transmission.
“Status,” Whitney snapped from behind her.
“He’s sick. He’s showing the same symptoms demonstrated by Cogburn. I can’t explain it, Commander, but he’s dying in there, and he could take Feeney with him. We need to get him out, get him medical assistance.”
“Lieutenant. Ah, Commander.” Another detective hustled up. “We’ve got your eyes.” He managed a wan smile. “And ears with them.”
With Whitney, Eve bent over a monitor. She could see the whole of Feeney’s office now—the sun and the privacy shades lowered. There would be no outside visual for the sharpshooters. Feeney was in his desk chair, restraints locking his arms to its arms.
Halloway paced behind him, his young, pleasant face ravaged. His own blood smeared it like war paint. He tore at his hair with one hand, waved the weapon wildly with the other.
“I’m the one who knows what I’m doing around here.” He raged, kicking Feeney’s chair viciously as he passed. “I’m the one who’s in charge. You’re old and you’re stupid, and I’m sick to death of your orders.”
Feeney’s response was quiet and measured. “I didn’t know you were feeling that way. What can I do to make things right with you?”
“You want to make them right? You want to make them right?” He jammed the weapon under Feeney’s chin again and had Eve braced to hurl herself at the office door. “We’re going to write us a memo, Ry.”
“Okay, okay.” She let out a long breath. “Keep him busy.”
“Sir. Negotiator’s on-scene.”
“Bring him up-to-date, Dallas,” Whitney ordered. “Then we structure alternatives.”
She briefed the negotiator, set him up with a ’link. And turning, saw Roarke striding through the door. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Media bulletin.” He didn’t speak of the terror he’d lived with since hearing the report that there had been weapons fired, officers wounded, and a hostage taken at Cop Central. And from his quick scan of the room, he sized up the most vital aspects of the situation.
His wife was unharmed. And Feeney was missing.
“Feeney?”
“The hostage. I don’t have time for you.”
He laid a hand on her arm before she could walk away. “What can I do to help?”
She didn’t waste time asking how he’d gotten into a secured area in the first place. He was a man who went where he wanted to go. Nor did she ask how he expected to help when the sector was loaded with cops whose job it was to deal with a crisis.
Nobody was better at cutting through a crisis.
“McNab was hit.”
“Christ.” He turned, as she did, and found Peabody, on the floor with the first medical team.
“I don’t know his status. I’d feel better if I knew one way or the other.”
“Done.” There was anger in him now, a kind of frigid fury more deadly than heat. “Lieutenant, if it’s money he wants, the department will have unlimited funds at its disposal.”
