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“So she dies?” I ask. “Just like that?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know the kid, I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I have no fuckin’ clue. But Doctor Cleary isn’t taking my calls, and Bower’s coming up against a brick wall when he speaks to the hospital board.”
“If she dies, the hostages die too.” Tim shoves away from our group and pushes his fingers through his hair in frustration. “If she dies, Slade’s not coming out. And before he kills himself, he’ll take the rest of them with him.”
Spinning back, he points a finger in Archer’s face and snarls, “Find someone who can help, and bring them here. If you don’t, I’m walking in the front fucking door myself.”
MINKA
“Isaw Archer.” Time passes. Hours, really, as afternoon turns to night, and sunlight makes way for darkness. As the bank’s fluorescents flicker to life, and the rays beating against the plastic on the doors fade to black. I sit with my back against the bank manager’s desk and take turns with Aubree, using Earl’s jacket to pack his own wound.
He’ll bleed to death before morning. He’s already too weak. Too old. And despite the promises I made to help, I can’t stop this death.
“And I saw Fifi,” I murmur quietly.
Slade sits with his hostages, like he’s one of them, hugging his knees and holding his gun tight. Sometime in the last hour, he found an old box television the size of a cereal box, plugged it in, and fixed the metal antenna. So now we all watch Tiffany Hewitt talk about us.
We see the helicopters in the air. The spotlights set up. The vans in the street, and the dozens—perhaps hundreds—of cops who hide behind steel shields and wait for their bosses to hand down orders.
“She was over by the truck,” I tell Aubs. “Fletch was at the door, vest on, but he took his helmet and guns off.”
“So stupid.”
Aubree’s tired. Scared. Her hands shake, and hair tickles her face, but she refuses to reach up and fix it. She refuses to risk transferring Earl’s blood to her cheeks. So she lets the pink and purple strands send her crazy instead. She sits like me, with her knees up, her forearm resting on her knees. But every now and again, she reaches down and fusses with the chain fused around her ankle.
The best friend charm that her fabulously gay jeweler big brother soldered on each of us.
But while she plays with that, I finger the chain around my neck. The wedding band hung over my heart. The connection I have to Archer who, right now, is sending himself to the brink of insanity to get in here.
I know him, possibly better than he knows himself. Which means I know he’s making mistakes while he panics out there. Putting his career at risk. Telling his captain to shove a gun up his ass and fuck off.
He’s desperate, just as I would be if our positions were reversed.
“I tried to tell them to take the shot,” I whisper. My eyes droop closed, since adrenaline long ago fled my blood and made way for bone-deep exhaustion. My wrists hurt so bad, I feel the ache in my stomach. But I wait for my factor pack and keep my mouth shut about the pain. “The plastic was in the way,” I continue softly. “But they had snipers across the street. They could’ve taken out his legs and ended this.”
“They shoot,” she whispers, “he puts a bullet in your brain.”
I frown and slowly turn my head to meet her sky-blue gaze. “I would’ve ducked.”
She snorts, soft and cathartic, but the sound draws Slade’s attention. His bad mood—which escalates into a full-on rage, when Tiffany Hewitt plasters not only his face on the news, but his daughter’s too.
“Suzanne Slade is twelve years old and a straight-A student in sixth grade,”she announces.“Daughter of Parker and July Slade, whose marriage dissolved early last year.”
“Shit.” Exhaling, I drop my head back to rest it on the desk. He lost his wife. The house. Every cent in his bank account. And he’s about to lose his daughter.
“She needs to stop talking about them,” he grits low on his breath. “She needs to stop!”
“She’s just doing her job,” I sigh and cast a fast look to Earl, then to Aubree’s hand currently lodged in his torso. Then I set my hands on the floor and work my way up to stand tall.
My back aches, and my knees knock together. I’m past due for my next infusion, made worse by the bruising I’ve sustained today. I’ve been sitting on a cold tile floor for hours, and before that, autopsying Marina Georgiana’s body, which means more physical labor, more cold tile.
I’m tired. And my ability to be strong when I need to is dwindling.
“She’s bringing attention to your baby’s medical needs.” I try a new tack and take a step forward. “Tiffany Hewitt is a good reporter, Parker. She’s handling this with grace, and bringing awareness not only to Suzanne’s plight, but to the crookedness of our healthcare system. That has to be a good thing, no?”
“I’m not here to bring awareness to anything,” he bites out. “I’m here to get my daughter the surgery she needs.” He checks the massive clock on the wall and allows a single tear to roll down his cheek. “She’ll be in the OR by now, don’t you think? It’s been a while since I made my demands to that detective.”
I don’t know.
