Peril (29 page)

“You got what you wanted. Video of your very persuasive threat. Now, I want to go check on my staff and patients.”

He stood and walked to her side of the table. In one swift movement, he clenched her scrub top, yanking her up from the chair.

“Don't assume you can challenge me and get away with it for long.”

He grabbed her arm and pulled up the long-sleeved shirt she wore underneath her scrubs to cover up her shunt scar, to keep it from scaring children. He laid the weapon over it; it thumped at the pressure of her pulse.

“Tell me, Morgan Adams. What would happen if I took my knife and cut your shunt wide open?”

She stiffened her muscles to keep her body from shaking. The closeness of his body to hers, the smell of a musky deodorant, his breath hot against her cheek. Morgan turned her head away.

He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “What happens?”

She begged her body not to betray her. Ultimately, she didn't want to die with the mask of fear plastered to her face—only strength.

“I'll bleed to death.”

He brushed his lips over her ear. She recoiled.

“Something I'll have to remember. SEAL training—discover and exploit your enemy's weakness.”

He opened the door and shoved her through it into the hallway. The door just beyond the staff lounge entrance that led to the stairwell was now barricaded with a smaller-size patient crib. She walked quickly around the corner and was shocked to see what her unit had become in the ninety or so minutes that she'd been away.

Blankets and sheets covered all of the windows, held down along the edges with blue painter's tape. Taking out the sunlight made it appear much later in the day. At the main entrance, two empty patient beds were rammed up against the door. On either side were IV bags taped to the frame with cords hanging down. Scott's comrades were now in Kevlar vests as well.

They used IV solution, normally a child's lifesaver, to build bombs
.

Morgan's heart sank.

Surveying the room, she saw Jose and Dylan positioned in the middle, standing guard. Lisa was forced to remain at the nurses' station, her face creased with worry. The other nurses were near their patients' beds. Trudy held Bree in her arms as Bree cried.

Morgan saw smoke puff underneath the doorway.

Instinctively, she brought her arm up to cover her nose and mouth and glanced Scott's direction. He seemed nonplussed at her distress. She pulled her hand down and ran toward the door. Heavy footfalls followed in her wake. His hand fisted up her scrub top and whipped her backward. As she pivoted his direction on her heel, his hand came up and the butt of the pistol slammed into her left cheek.

Morgan crumpled to the floor.

Pain seared through the nerves of her face and shot through her brain like hot needles. Her vision dimmed and she blinked several times—wondering if the blow had blinded her with that one swift move.

“Everyone!” his voice boomed.

Morgan's heart thundered in her ears as he kneeled down next to her, his open palm against her chest. Morgan reached up and groped for his face to push him away. Grabbing her hand, he held it firmly to the front of his tactical vest.

“You need to breathe, dear Morgan, or you're going to pass out. I need my trusty charge nurse to stay with me. For now.”

She inhaled sharply, the breath fuel to the fiery pain, and black cloudy outlines began to float over her vision like bodiless wraiths. With her other hand, she pressed against her forehead to counteract the hot pokers that bored into her bone.

Scott cleared his throat.

“Morgan thinks she can dictate what happens here today.”

With his hand gripping hers, he yanked her from the floor. The room spun like she'd been trapped on a violent merry-go-round and she buckled onto all fours. The red dots that dripped onto the tile finally focused her vision. Reaching up, she felt the thick fluid slide down her cheek.

“What everyone needs to realize,” he continued, “is that you can't do anything without my permission. Including beg for your own death.” He kneeled beside her and she shrank away from his presence. He clutched
her upper arm and pulled her close. “Do we have an understanding, Morgan?”

She nodded and attempted to jerk her arm free. His fingers tightened. “What do you want to do about the smoke?”

The rough outline of a blue flight suit hovered in her peripheral vision, and she could sense Drew's anger as he neared them.

“It's not enough that you've barricaded us in here,” Drew said, “but you have to beat up on women, too?”

Scott tossed Morgan back. She pulled up on her knees—blurry figures now solidifying. She stood, a little too quickly, on shaky feet and swayed to maintain the upright position. Drew took two quick steps her direction and wrapped his arm around her waist to support her.

Snot mixed with tears dripped from her nose as blood ran down her chin. “It's fine. Drew, I'm okay.” She eased herself down and sat on her heels, determined not to cry. The tilt of the room began to slow. She looked up at Scott. “The children. The smoke could hurt them. We need to put something under the doors to stop it.” She covered the wound with the heel of her hand to stop the bleeding.

He nodded. “Well, that's a very good idea. Now, ask me for permission.”

She eyed him, her eyes narrowed beams of determination. “Scott, may we put something under the doors to keep the smoke from killing our patients?”

The movement was so sudden she couldn't reach down to prevent his fingers from clasping around her throat. Her pulse raced.

He held, lightly squeezing, black venom in his eyes. “Morgan, I know you want to die. But do you want to take everyone else with you?” His fingers cinched at her throat and her pulse jumped in response. “Ask me nicely.”

She placed her hands over his, her vision fuzzy, her blood transferring onto the back of his hands. “Scott, may I please put some wet towels under the doors so that we can keep the smoke out?”

The fire alarm pierced the small space. Those children who were awake covered their ears with trembling hands. Bree's cries were barely audible under the noise. The phone at the nurses' station began to ring.

Scott pointed to Drew. “Would you mind taking care of that wound for Morgan? Looks like she has a phone call.”

Drew looked blankly at her. He didn't know where most of their
supplies were kept. Another nurse approached her with tentative steps, holding out a washcloth. Scott raised an expectant eyebrow.

Morgan folded her arms over her chest to ease the chill that permeated her bones. “Scott, may I take this washcloth to control the bleeding, and can Lucy help Drew with the towels?”

He nodded. “I see we understand one another.”

She took the cloth from Lucy's hands and applied it to the cut. “Can I answer?”

The alarms ceased. Scott acquiesced with a faint tip of his head, and she neared the nurses' station. Lisa stared at her with the wide eyes of a child. Morgan picked up the receiver.

“Morgan?”

One hand held the phone. The other held the washcloth to her cheek. She could hear the man's quickened breath on the other side. His voice was different. Slightly higher in pitch. Concerned.

Troubled.

Like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

“Yes.”

A quick exhalation of relief. “Good to hear your voice. My name's Nathan Long. I'm the negotiator on duty today. We're getting reports of smoke up there.”

She eyed Scott, who was a mere two steps from her position. “He wants to know about the smoke.”

“Tell them they need to figure it out.” Scott walked away.

“Morgan?” the voice in her ear asked.

It was the lean of Drew's shoulder toward Scarlett's crib that caused her skin to prickle with concern. Her response died in her throat. Sometimes, when the soul struggled to edge out of the body, there was a gentle tug of good-bye noticed by body-bound spirits, if they listened. A spiritual summons before the physical body leaked evidence of its inner fire burning out.

The baby's monitor alarmed.

Drew's eyes were pensive and beckoning at the same time. “Morgan . . .” His voice was not panicked, but steely with need for her presence at his side. His boots quick across the tile. Scott turned and aimed his weapon Drew's direction.

Morgan's mind slowed her view of each person's actions.

Scott's finger on the trigger.

Nathan's voice urgent in her ear. “Morgan, what's happening? I need you to answer me so I know you're okay.”

Morgan raised her hands up. The phone crashed to the desk and the washcloth to the floor. Her sister-in-law jolted in her chair.

She picked the receiver up and slammed the phone into the cradle. “Scott! Please, the baby. Her heart rate is slowing down. She's dying.”

He nodded his approval and lowered the weapon. Morgan scurried around the desk just as the heart rate monitor triple-toned at the deadly rhythm. Izabel pulled the red metal crash cart to the end of the infant's crib and snapped open the lock. From the top drawer, she raked her fingernails at the plastic that covered the medication tray and tore at the small cardboard boxes that housed lifesaving vials of medication. Epinephrine and atropine.

Drew's hands encircled the infant's chest as he began compressions. Morgan pulled the baby off the ventilator and began to manually assist breaths.

Izabel eyed Morgan, holding up the medication like a kindergartner with the right answer.

“It's the epi dose,” she said.

Morgan pulled the baby's eyelids up.

Pupils are blown. Just as I feared.

The problem was not really the baby's heart, but her head. The injury from shaking had caused the brain to swell. When the pressure within the skull became too high, structures moved where they were never intended to go. Because of the shearing forces, the edema, the baby's brain stem was being shoved down into her spinal column.

Brain herniation means death.

“Izabel, give that epi and then go into the pharmacy and get me some mannitol and succinylcholine.”

“We don't have any orders.”

“I'll write verbal orders from Marshall. We're in a little bit of a tight spot here.”

Izabel eyed her quizzically. “What do you need the succ—”

“Just do what I tell you!”

The nurse slipped the adrenaline into the IV and followed it with a quick normal saline flush. Hopefully, that would drive the baby's heartbeat
higher and they could stop doing compressions. Drew eyed her continuing CPR as they waited for the medication to take effect, but his eyes questioned her intentions.

Mannitol would help with the pressure in the baby's head. Succinylcholine was a paralyzing medication, and the baby was already on a continuous drip of just such an agent.

Drew mouthed. “Why?”

Morgan shrugged and continued to ventilate.

Chapter 33

1300, Saturday, August 11

M
ORGAN LAID THE INFANT
'
S
pale blue body in the middle of the sheet, leaving the endotracheal tube and lines in place. A quiet dreariness settled over the unit. The three armed men took staggered positions throughout the open space, guns always at the ready but at least pointed toward the floor. To her right, on the bedside table, were two solidifying gel molds of Scarlett's hands.

After Teagan died, similar molds had formed plaster sculptures of her tiny fists. Morgan had expected their arrival at some point during her bereavement leave, but when they finally came to her home, Morgan couldn't contain the grief and joy that spilled from her eyes. Those casts and the small clips of Teagan's hair meant everything. The staff also gave her a book of thoughts on their experiences caring for her family, and she often reviewed it still.

These tokens given to families upon the death of their children were a tradition in the PICU. Fact of life: children died. Families suffered losses like this every day. Memorializing their grief was part of giving some joy back. Knowing that their children had touched the hospital staff helped them in their grief. Having these mementos was a way to remember their short lives and the large impact they'd had. Echoes of a life's imprint on others.

Even though this baby ultimately died at the hands of an abuser, Morgan thought of the woman who was Scarlett's mother.
She's probably out in the front of the hospital right now
.
Her daughter died, and she was prevented from being here to hold her
.

Morgan wouldn't deny giving these gifts to her.

Thoughts of Tyler filled her mind.
What was it like for him to receive that video of me giving the hostage-takers' demands?
If there was anything she was sure of, it was that he was likely overwrought with the thoughts of her possible death.