Peril (26 page)

“I work for Dr. Reeves.”

“Why not send it to him?”

“Maybe they thought I'd be more sympathetic.”

Nathan turned back to Lee, who was standing near. “Don't we have a still shot of the three men?”

Lee walked a few paces back and picked up a sheet of paper from the middle of the table.

Nathan slid the photo Tyler's direction. “Do you know them?”

“The middle guy is Scott Clarke. He's likely the leader.”

“Why do you say that?” Lee asked.

“He was head of his SEAL unit when he served in the military.”

“And the others?” Nathan prompted.

Tyler tapped the photo. “That's Jose . . . Jose something. I can't remember his last name. He and Scott were in the same squad. The third guy with the spiked hair . . . I'm fairly certain that's Dylan Worthy.”

Maybe Brett really is on to something.

“Is Scott telling the truth? They were all part of a research experiment?” Nathan asked.

“Scott and Jose, yes. I'm not sure about that third guy, but there are a few subjects I haven't worked with.”

“And can you share the particulars of what the study entailed?” Nathan asked.

Tyler looked as if he might collapse onto the table. “I'd have to talk with Dr. Reeves before I say anything.”

“Where is Dr. Reeves? Did you try to reach him after you received this?” Lee asked.

“I don't know and I haven't spoken to him. He's upset with me.”

“Over what?” Lee pressed.

Tyler pointed a finger into the table. “There are issues with the protocol. We're not sure what is going on. Reeves may not be willing to figure it out.”

Lee leaned down. “What are the issues, Dr. Adams? Are these men unstable?”

Nathan frowned at the comment. Didn't they meet crazy criteria already—holding nurses and sick children at gunpoint? He knew what Lee was driving at. There was proving a point, for someone's perceived grievance over an issue, and then there was doing all of those things under an insane, maniacal mind. Maybe even psychosis. Both Lee and Nathan knew what that was like and what it could mean for hostages.

“Are you asking me if they have mental health issues?” Dr. Adams posed, his voice thin and tight.

“That's too narrow. Do these vague problems you refer to have any potential to skew their judgment?” Nathan asked.

“Yes, probably. I can't say for sure.”

Lee edged off the table. “Why don't you give us an idea of what to expect.”

Tyler inhaled and settled his elbows onto the laminate tabletop as if willing himself to disappear into the furniture. “I could get fired for saying this, but my wife is in there and I'll do whatever I can to save her life. What I can say is they all have had brain surgery.”

“All of them?” Lee asked.

“Yes, and some of the patients are having unpleasant side effects.”

“Such as?” Nathan prompted.

“Seizures. Hypersensitivity to noise. Some claim their arms and legs have stopped working even though testing shows good nerve conduction. We can't find a reason why they would experience that particular symptom when they don't have evidence of stroke or tumor.”

Lee crossed his arms over his chest. “So we have armed men that could seize at any time?”

“That's unknown,” Tyler said. “Morgan will know how to handle a seizure if it happens.”

“That's going to be real hard for her if they accidentally discharge a weapon in the throes of a convulsion. They injure someone else in the
process. Then she'd have two additional victims. And what if she's the one that's injured?”

Nathan held up a hand. “Lee, that's not getting us anywhere.” He turned back to Tyler. “What do you think their mental state is? Why have they gone to such extremes?”

“The morale among the participants is low. These men are brave. The toughest. Combat injuries are different in their minds—those are earned. What they are suffering now was inflicted on them—friendly fire, I guess you could say. They want answers for their symptoms. And maybe to protect others from having the same things happen to them.”

“And Reeves is unwilling to concede to problems with the protocol?” Nathan asked.

“He's getting pressure from elsewhere. That's all I can say.”

“Are you friends with these men?” Nathan asked.

Lee glanced Nathan's way. “We're not sending him in there.”

“I didn't say that. I'm just trying to establish why they pulled him into the loop rather than just going for Reeves.”

Tyler cleared his throat. “I think we've established Dr. Reeves hasn't been very responsive to their concerns. But what you may not know is that Morgan recently found out that Dr. Reeves is her biological father.”

Nathan's stomach cramped. This was the half sister Lilly spoke of? She'd mentioned their meeting, but they'd yet to discuss it in detail. Schedules prevented him from seeing Lilly the last couple days. He reached into his pocket for the foil-wrapped tablets that would ease his discomfort.

“So they're holding his daughter hostage? That's why they're here today. That's why it's that unit,” Nathan surmised.

“How long ago did Morgan learn this?” Lee asked.

“Only a few days—just Wednesday.”

“How do you think these three men found out?” Nathan asked.

“I know Morgan's mother visited Dr. Reeves on the unit. She disclosed this information.”

Lee shifted, placing his black boot on a chair, and leaned forward. “With military types, we should assume the office is bugged. We need to get someone over there to check it out.” He nodded at Tyler. “Your residence as well.”

Nathan crossed his arms over his chest. “How old is your wife?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Why, after all these years, did your mother-in-law pick this time to divulge the news?” Lee asked.

Tyler locked eyes with Nathan. “Morgan needs a kidney transplant.”

“She's on dialysis?” Lee asked.

“Yes.”

“When is her next treatment due?” Lee asked.

“Monday.”

“And if she doesn't get her treatment?” Nathan followed.

Tyler's eyes darkened. “She'd be okay for a day or two, but the longer she goes without dialysis, the more potential there is for her to—” His voice broke and he couldn't hold Nathan's gaze any longer.

“Die. You were going to say die?” Nathan asked.

Lee motioned for Nathan to join him in the corner. “This is bad, Nathan. What do they do if their prized possession suddenly keels over and they can't use her as currency anymore?”

“I don't know. It just means we need to resolve this thing before anything like that happens.”

Lee closed his eyes. “This is going to make the Samuals case look like a cakewalk. SEALs? They're experts at everything. Hiding, booby traps, hand-to-hand combat. Their training is designed to flush out great men—mentally and physically.”

One of the battalion officers from the fire department approached their position; his look of concern caused Nathan to pop another antacid. “We're getting reports of smoke in the hallway outside the PICU.”

Nathan turned to Lee. “Pull your quick response team back.”

Lee nodded. “We need biohazard suits on everyone. We don't know what that substance could be. Hopefully, it's just a smoke canister.”

“What could it be if it's not smoke?” Tyler asked.

Lee inhaled before answering. “Nerve gas.”

“How do we find out the difference?”

Nathan picked up the phone that went directly to the PICU. “If no one answers the phone, that's going to be bad. Very bad. If it's nerve gas—they'll be dead.”

Chapter 31

1200, Saturday, August 11

B
RETT PARKED HIS VEHICLE
and stayed for a few moments collecting his thoughts.

Just being on a military base made his skin feel like worms were burrowing under it. The black shiny boots, green combat fatigues, and crew cuts of various colors reminded him of the harshness of his father. Not that he was abusive, but there were lines that should never be crossed—and those lines weren't always clear.

Probably where his sarcasm originated from—as a litmus test for determining his father's triggers. Trouble was his nature.

The military never had the same appeal for Brett that it did for his father. He abhorred order, and it still perplexed him how he and Nathan got along so well—especially considering Nathan's OCD-type habits. They reminded him of his father's stringent standards.

Maybe he'd found Daddy in his partner.

Brett shook the thought free. He and his old man had a functional relationship. A visit every ten years sufficed on both ends.

Exiting his vehicle, Brett straightened his clothes and then wanted to slap his own hands for doing so.
How are you supposed to act on one of these bases?
He didn't want to do anything that would raise the ire of the bigwig he was seeing—lest he be even more unwilling to give information.

He referenced the map from the entry gate and double-checked the building. After he entered, he walked up to a short desk hosted by an equally short assistant, in military dress, hair off the collar. She looked at him expectantly.

He extended a hand. She didn't take it.

Okay . . . off to a swimming start.

“I'm Detective Brett Sawyer. I'm here to see Lieutenant Colonel Markel.”

“Please, have a seat.”

He did.

Nathan would like this place.

Freshly waxed, brown-swirled tile. Wood chairs. Nathan detested sitting on cloth cushions because of what they could absorb and hide. It was surprising Nathan didn't carry a pocket Wood's lamp to verify that what he was sitting on didn't contain any sort of vile substance from another individual.

For Brett, however, the prison-like feel was causing him heat rash, and he thought about taking his tie off and shoving it in his pocket.

He heard the swift steps of heavy boots coming down the hall. Brett stood from his chair as a man emerged from the corridor. Despite himself, Brett couldn't resist giving a salute—though it was half-hearted and full of indecision. He hoped it hadn't come off as a mocking gesture. The man reached for his hand, and his fingers clamped on Brett's like the sticky appendages of a Venus flytrap.

Even the man's pinky has biceps.

Brett tried not to grimace as Lieutenant Colonel Markel comfortably squeezed the bones in his hand to dust. Perhaps that's what he used instead of salt on his food. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Detective, would you like to come to my office?”

Brett's stomach rolled his insecurity. “Yes, sir.” Why hadn't he at least brought a uniformed officer with him? He wanted a chaperone.

Markel's face was taut. Teeth clenched. Sharp blue eyes searched Brett's face for more seconds than he found comfortable. His military cropped dark brown hair echoed the roughness of old acne scars on his face. Before he turned on his heel, Markel set his jaw and tilted his head as if pondering what sort of karate move he could put Brett through to assert his dominance.

Really, the piercing stare, strong facial muscles, and almost shirt-ripping biceps were enough alpha male for Brett.

A warrior in every sense of the word. Body. Mind. Soul.

Brett followed down the hall and felt his feet itch to start marching. What was it about the military? How did the aura of the dress, the ordered feel of the station induce an average citizen into sitting up straighter just by putting feet on their soil?

Markel entered the room first and motioned Brett to sit.

“I appreciate you seeing me today,” Brett said as he positioned himself in the chair.

“I'm always willing to help our counterparts on the police force. Lots of places need order to be brought forth.” Markel motioned to Brett's tie. He looked down and lined it with the buttons of his shirt.

Great. A mean version of Nathan Long. At least Nathan lets me be me.

Brett cleared his throat. “I understand that Dylan Worthy used to serve under your command.”

“Well, not directly under me, of course. But I am aware of the man and his difficulties.”

“What were those difficulties?”

Markel steepled his fingers and leaned back into his chair, resting his elbows on the arms. “Mr. Worthy was not an asset to us. We didn't value the same things. He was dishonorably discharged.”

“He was a trained SEAL, correct?”