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When Mr. Johnson was finished, she snapped off her gloves and dumped them. “Tabora and Larry, please wheel Mr. Johnson out and send a gurney back in for our new patient.” She glanced at Casilda and saw those steady eyes she needed. “Casilda and I will get our patient prepped. I’ll let you know if I need assistance.”
“Hey, I’m in charge here. No one leaves without my say so. You don’t get to give the orders.”
Lia heaved out a sigh. “Do you want me to try to save your brother’s life? He’s bleeding heavily from what I’m assuming is a gunshot wound to his abdomen. We can waste time arguing or we can work on saving him. Your call.”
Her knees almost collapsed when he nodded. Larry and Tabora wheeled out Mr. Johnson and in moments, Tabora wheeled in a clean gurney.
“All right, Mr.—” She let her voice trail off. At this point, someone had to be listening in and trying to get them help.
“I’m Sneaks. Call me Sneaks.”
She nodded. “Okay Sneaks, get your brother on the gurney. Casilda and I are going to wash up.”
And hope like hell they all made it out alive.
Joe Cheveyo sank onto a seat in the south terminal of the Atlanta airport. As far as airports went, this one was top-notch, but he just wanted to be home.
Between the recent situations with his family and friends up at Midnight Lake and his job as one of the FBI’s hostage negotiators, he’d bet he’d spent more time in airports and on planes than he had anywhere else in the last few months. Maybe everywhere else combined.
Exhaustion was hitting hard. He wanted to be home, in his own bed, for a very long while.
Strangely, the image that the word home conjured up was of his room in the Vermont lodge on the edge of Midnight Lake he’d inherited with his sister and not the house he actually lived in back in Sacramento.
He’d always lived in Sacramento. He loved the city, loved the people and his job. But he was tired. Tired of it all.
Once he managed to get eight hours horizontal, he’d be fine. He wasn’t burning out. Not like his buddies Nico and Sam intimated. He was just tired. Too many trips to too many places. Too many entitled assholes trying to use other people to get things they hadn’t earned.
A look at the clock in front of him showed another half hour before his connecting flight would be called. Maybe he’d set a timer and catch some sleep. Not that the chairs were conducive to napping, but it was better than sitting there mulling over his life choices.
Better than envying Sam and Nico. While Joe owned part of the Midnight Security business they shared with a few other friends, his best friends were living it. Like him, both were former FBI. Nico had been a top profiler in demand across the country. Sam had chased down the pricks who kidnapped kids. A hell of a job.
Now Sam had married Joe’s little sister. Nico had married a friend and artist. And they were happy as the proverbial pigs in shit up in Vermont.
He’d never thought he’d wanted that. Never thought he had a shot at that. His job was too big, too important. And he wasn’t built for that kind of life. Shaking off the questions, Joe set his timer and leaned his head back against the wall. His eyelids had barely closed when his phone buzzed with a call.
A quick peek showed it was from his boss, Kent Jackson, back in Sacramento. Damn it. This was not going to be good news. “Cheveyo.”
“Are you still in Atlanta?” No personal greeting. Definitely not a good sign.
“I’m at the airport. Flight should be in within the hour.”
“It might be, but you won’t be on it.”
Damn. Home and sleep were looking further and further away. He tried to keep his voice neutral, but he could hear the weariness slipping out. “And where will I be?”
“Across town. Or maybe it’s closer. I don’t know Atlanta well enough to say.”
Well, at least it wouldn’t be another flight. “What’s up?”
“A hostage situation in a hospital.”
Well, that was an unusual one. “A pissed off patient?”
“No. From the information I have, an armed man carried in an injured man. He stormed through the hospital and into an operating room. He’s holding the surgeon and anesthesiologist hostage until they operate on the injured man.”
Joe had his bag slung over his shoulder and was approaching the exit. “I’ll get a cab. Text me the name of the hospital and the address.”
At the taxi stand, Joe flashed his badge and jumped in the first cab. He passed along the address. “I’m an FBI agent and this is an emergency. Hostage situation. Best speed possible.”
