Red Hot BOX SET: Complete Series 1-4: A Patrick & Steeves Suspense (2 page)

E
mily groaned
and reached for her newly issued phone buzzing on the nightstand. She squinted at the screen. Her new boss. Shit. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she hit the green Answer button and cleared her throat. “Emily Patrick,” she said. Should she also say American Embassy? Was she expected to be on call at … what time was it anyway?

“Emily, it’s Jack,” came her boss’s voice, raspy with a hint of sleep. Whatever it was had woken him, too.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “how can I help you, sir?”

“You don’t have to be so formal outside the office, Em. I mean, I’m still your dad’s best friend and we’ve known each other a long time.”

“Uh, okay. What time is it Jack?”

“Just before midnight. Look, I need you to take a drive down to Las Flores.”

“In Mexico?”

“That’s the one.”

She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep. “Tonight?”

“Right now. How soon can you be ready?”

She shook her head again, glancing around her tiny apartment and wondered if she’d need to pack anything. “Uh, half an hour?”

“Not soon enough. Pull on some clothes and get on the road. I’ll be in touch with details later.”

“Is this for real, Jack?”

“Look, an American citizen was in an accident down there tonight. He’s in the hospital and I need someone with him. I realize you’ve only been on the job one day, but—”

“I’m on it, Jack,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “The border should be quiet this late. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Good.”

“What do I need to know?”

“His name is Sandal Steeves, he was in some kind of explosion and he’s in the emergency department in Las Flores. Get down there, make sure they’re taking good care of him, wait to hear from me.”

“Got it.” She snagged the black jeans she’d abandoned in the easy chair when she’d tumbled into bed barely an hour before. She’d fallen asleep fast and hard. Her first day at the Embassy had been a whirlwind of introductions and briefings. Cartons of half-eaten Chinese take-out littered the coffee table as she searched for her personal cell in the dim light of her bedside lamp. “Jack…”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for putting your confidence in me.”

“You’ve got the creds, girl. Now, get on the road.” He hung up and she stuffed the phone into her back pocket before pulling on socks she’d left discarded near the TV. Returning to the closet, she rummaged for a clean t-shirt, pulled a gray hoodie on over it and stepped into the bathroom where she scrubbed her hands over her face and tied her long brown hair into a pony tail. Good enough.

On her way out the door, she turned to snag her toothbrush off the counter and threw it into a small black leather backpack along with a couple of granola bars which she grabbed from the ever-present box on what served as her kitchen counter. Before stepping into the night, she took one last look around her crowded, untidy studio apartment and shrugged. With this job, she’d make enough money to get a decent place to live.

Her car, a nondescript white Toyota sedan that looked like every other damn white four-door sedan on the road, was parked at the end of the lot. She sprinted over, threw her pack in the front passenger seat and turned left out of the lot toward the freeway.

This late on a week night, there weren’t many people moving about which made getting to the border easier. Inside of twenty minutes, the I-5 spit her out at the border and she was inching toward the control booth. One of the things she’d done this morning, as part of a mountain of other administrative forms, was fill out an application for a Nexus pass so she could pass quickly and without hindrance back and forth. Jack had said she’d often be in Tijuana and the Baja, but she wouldn’t have guessed she’d be there in the twelve hours that followed.

Tijuana was one of the busiest border crossings in the world, and a normal day could see waits up to three hours. Thank God things were moving a little more quickly tonight. When she pulled alongside the booth, the customs official sidled up to her window.

“Where you going this late at night, Miss?”

“Down to Las Flores to see a friend in the hospital.” She passed him her identification and he glanced down at the photo then back at her.

“Pretty late to be driving down that coast road on your own,” he said. “You’re not nervous about it?”

Great, well I wasn’t nervous about it. “I’ll be fine,” she replied, wishing he’d just let her go. “I know the road well.”

“All right. Have a safe drive, miss.”

She pulled away slowly, eye on the side-view mirror. Something about crossing the border always made her nervous and a little guilty. Like she’d done something, even when she hadn’t. Probably stemmed from her mis-spent youth running back and forth to Tijuana so they could drink under-age.

Fortunately, her cross-border drinking trips meant she did know her way around the city. Still, she kept her wits about her and focused on getting farther down the highway and into the outskirts as quickly as possible. Knowing your way around wasn’t the same as being invincible and Tijuana could be a scary place after dark.

Plugging her iPod into the dash, she chose a playlist and settled back in her seat. She was fully awake now and wondered about the man she was going to babysit. Who was he? What kind of explosion had he been in? It was 1:00 on the dot and the highway was mostly deserted. She should be in Las Flores before three. She’d have to curb her curiosity until then.

T
he gurney clattered
down the hall. Overhead, lights blasted, shadows leaned in, a voice echoed from far away. His eyelids were glued together. He fought to open them but it exhausted him and he slid back into darkness.

He started awake as they shifted him from the gurney into a bed. His body screamed in pain. No, that was his voice. He barely recognized it. Air cut through his throat like ground glass.

A shadow hovered over him, muffled sounds reminiscent of voices.

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Pain seared through him. He imagined floating above the bed, watching himself lie there, prone, surrounded by medical staff. His face was blistered and red, his hair charred.

“What is your name, sir?”

“Is there anyone you want us to call, sir?”

His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

“Get that shot ready,” the doctor barked.

“Right away, doctor.” A quick, sharp prick in his arm broke through the burning in his face, the furnace in his lungs. His breathing eased, his limbs turned liquid, he had the impression of falling backward, the voices and light around him receding. Morphine. He struggled to speak. No morphine. Oh God, no more morphine. Hands fluttered over his chest, adjusted blankets, from far away a door thudded closed.

He clutched at consciousness, preferring pain to the mental horror. Coming untethered from the physical world around him, he tumbled down the rabbit hole into the endlessly looping memories.

He stood in the stairwell, heat bouncing off the concrete walls in waves. The station’s newest recruit was half a flight ahead of him, hand on the door. In slow motion, exaggerated by his mask and breathing gear, Dal shook his head. Jessie opened the door. The fire roared into the empty space, engulfed him and blasted him backward over the railing. Dal reached for him as he fell, but Jessie dropped like a stone, banging through the stairwell shaft like a pin-ball for two stories until his body wedged between the rails on the edge of a landing.

As he turned to go downstairs, a baby’s cry rang through the air. Ducking his head, he charged through the wall of flames at the opening and called out. Fire licked at his legs, thick black smoke surrounded him. He crouched and moved forward in the direction of the cries, keeping the wall within his reach at all times. Like a sixth sense, he didn’t have to touch it - although he did, periodically, just to assure himself - mostly he felt it, like an electrical field buzzing in his shoulder. The buzzing stopped. He reached out to an open doorway on his right. The cries grew louder.

The smoke in the hall was lighter, he was moving away from the center of the fire. Standing, he hurried forward. At the end of the hall, a beam above him collapsed raining sparks and burning debris down around him. He jumped back and pressed his radio. “Captain, I’ve got a kid here on the 10th floor. Man down in the stairwell, near the 7th.”

“You’re alone Steeves?” Captain Rook’s voice barked through the radio. “Didn’t I tell you to stay with your crew?”

“Captain, you need to get someone up to Jessie, he’s in bad shape.”

“I can try to get Bates over there, but Steeves … we’re running out of men and you are running out of options. I need you to back out. That whole floor is about to go.”

Down the hall, the cry came again. “Can’t do that Captain. There’s some debris here, the rafters are burning, but I’m going in.”

“Hang on Steeves.”

Dal picked his way forward, swinging his axe into the rafter barring his way.

“Steeves, when you get through to the end, hang a right. That hallway will lead you to a fire escape on the north corner.”

“Roger that, Captain.” His eyes watered as he followed the wall against his right shoulder. The wails grew louder as he came upon another open doorway. He followed the door in and edged his way around the room. Stumbling into a crib, he reached down, patting the surface until he found the baby. Murmuring to the child, he unzipped his jacket, lifted the bundle and pressed the infant to his chest, nestling its head in the small pocket of air he’d created. Turning back to the door, he exited the room and followed the hall to the right.

“Steeves?”

“Got him, Cap.”

“We’re set up for you, Steeves. Make your way to the exit.”

An uncharacteristic undertone ran through the Captain’s voice. He checked behind him, flames licked up the walls. The fire was burning hotter. All it would take was a rush of air and it would all be over. He pushed his body faster down the hall. His equipment weighed down on him.

“You close Steeves?” The captain’s voice crackling through the radio was terse.

Ahead of him, another rafter was about to break loose from the ceiling. Jumping, he sailed through a curtain of sparks, the force of the rafter falling behind him propelled them forward. He couldn’t judge distance through the thick smoke, but kept pushing on.

Time slowed. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the welcome sound of water hitting embers and followed the hiss to the door of the fire escape. He pushed it open, stepped onto the landing and waited. As they moved the ladder closer, he zipped his jacket completely closed to safeguard the infant. Discarding his axe on the landing, he stepped onto the ladder grasping the top rung with both hands. Below, they backed the ladder off, away from the flames, away from the smoke.

Before he knew it, he was on the ground, surrounded by flashing cameras. Someone rushed forward and took the baby. To his right, a team of EMTs hustled Jessie, unconscious and broken, to a make-shift triage zone. Around him, chaos reigned. The dead and injured lined the ground like charred furrows.

Dal ripped the mask off his face, stepped forward and collapsed.

L
as Flores
, a small town on the coast, had been a beach-away-from-home for Emily and her friends during high school and university. She’d spent many happy hours here, but had never been to the hospital on the other side of the highway, away from the
palapas
, bars and hotels.

She followed the signs through the dark, mostly deserted streets, navigating past several well-lit taco stands and packs of starving street dogs. Spotting the red lights of the Emergency Department sign, she pulled in under a street light near the doors, locked her car and headed inside.

Bright florescent lights blazed overhead. She glanced around at the hard green plastic chairs and half-sleeping sick and slightly-wounded. Babies cried. Couples argued or wept. It looked like every other emergency department she’d had the misfortune to be in.

She stepped up to the empty admissions desk and rang the bell. Behind the cement divider, someone shuffled around and rustled plastic. She tapped the bell again. A head of curly black hair and jet black eyes poked out. “I’ll be right there,” the woman snapped.

Em gazed over the chairs and collected patients again. Everyone awake was watching her. When she glanced over, they looked away - to the floor or to the TV blaring in the far corner. She tapped her foot, adrenalin still pumping. She’d been on high-alert for the last few hours and standing still wasn’t working for her.

“Senora,” she called. “I just need to know where to find a patient.”

“Hang on,” came the reply. Thirty seconds later, a rotund woman in a faded peach uniform ambled back to the desk, wiping flakes of Doritos from her lips. She squinted her disapproval at Emily, dropped her large frame into the battered black chair and rolled it to the desk. “Who are you looking for?”

“Sandal Steeves. He’s an American.”

“The explosion guy. He’s down the hall. I’ll page the doctor.” Grabbing the phone, she punched in a couple of numbers. Her voice squawked through the loud-speakers overhead.

“How is he?” Em asked. “I don’t have any information about his condition or even what happened.”

“Wait over there.” She lifted her chin to indicate the chairs near the hallway and focused on the papers before her on the desk. Emily had been dismissed.

Ignoring the chairs, she paced the open area near the hallway and craned her neck to see down the hall. Damn, if only Jack had told her something more. She was drowning in a vacuum of information. She hoped the doctor could fill her in.

She’d had some time to think in the car and figured that once she knew what his condition was, she needed to get in touch with his family. That would be job one. Next, she would get in touch with Jack again.

“Miss…?” The doctor appeared at her side. So much for being vigilant.

“Patrick. Emily Patrick.” She extended her arm and shook hands with the doctor. He was probably the same age as her father and Jack, but striking to look at. Intelligent blue eyes lit up his face, and just a touch of gray at the temples lent him an extra air of distinction.

“I’m Dr. Rodriguez.”

“I’m here from the Embassy for Mr. Steeves. How is he?”

“Sit, please.” He indicated a spot and waited for her to sit before lowering himself into the chair beside her. “Mr. Steeves’s injuries aren’t life-threatening,” he said, and as an afterthought added, “Do you know him?”

“I don’t,” she said. “The Embassy sent me.”

“Oh.” He leaned back in his chair and gave her a closer look. Emily figured they were thinking the same thing. Normally a family member would show up, not someone from the Embassy. She wondered again about Mr. Steeves. “Well,” he said, leaning forward and holding her gaze, “how much do you know about the accident?”

“Nothing, Doctor. If you could fill me in, I’d be grateful.”

He nodded. “I just know what I’ve been told. The person who called 9-1-1 told the operator Mr. Steeves ran into a burning truck. He got the driver out, but then the truck blew up.”

“Did anyone die?”

“Both men in the truck died. Mr. Steeves is suffering from typical flash explosion injuries. He has some light burns, his hearing has been affected - we don’t know yet to what extent - and his vision is quite blurry.” He rested the chart he’d consulted in his lap and folded his hands over it. “And his respiratory system has been affected. Somewhat by the smoke we think, but mostly the pressure from the blast.”

“You mean he’s having trouble breathing?” It was important that she understand everything so she could adequately relay the information to his family. She wondered how much detail she should give them when she called.

“Some trouble breathing, yes, but generally these types of injuries are temporary.”

“That’s good news. Have you been in touch with his family?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. “We’re under staffed tonight. I expect you’ll want to see him.”

She nodded and rose when he did. “How long will you need to hold him?” She followed him down the narrow corridor, crowded with beds, each filled with a patient.

“In a perfect world, I’d want him under observation for a couple of days. But we have no beds, so I can’t admit him. I’ll keep him in emergency for twenty-four hours. After that, I’ll have to release him or you can transfer him to San Diego by ambulance. Depending on his condition at the time.” He pushed his glasses down and peered over the top of them into her eyes. “Do you understand, Miss Patrick?”

She nodded. Did he think she was an idiot or what? “Is Mr. Steeves aware of his injuries?”

The doctor stopped and hung the chart on the end of a bed. “He’s in and out of consciousness. We have him on morphine for the pain.” He glanced at his watch and turned as a nurse called out his name. She hurried down the corridor toward him. “I’ll check in with you later.”

“Thanks, Dr. Rodriguez.” She didn’t believe him for a second. He didn’t think she was an idiot, he was simply aware that he wouldn’t have time to come back to provide more details and needed to confirm she had a firm grasp on the situation.