The Summer House(87)

Pierce moves to a nearby orange plastic chair. “Got it, Chief.”

The chief opens the door leading to the department’s offices, making sure to slam it good and hard.

Huang sits down next to Pierce. “Good job,” he says to Pierce.

Pierce just nods, then points to a sign over the doorway leading into the jail.

ALL CONVERSATIONS SUBJECT TO AUDIO AND VIDEO RECORDING.

Huang nods in return, getting the message.

Then Pierce shifts in his chair, pulls out his 9mm SIG Sauer pistol, and slides it between his right leg and the chair.

Huang gets that message as well.





Chapter 79



SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ is walking to the nurses’ station at the entrance to the Trauma ICU when he stops and quickly looks back.

The security guard who chased him out of York’s room is still in there.

Why?



Bo Leighton spent a summer years back working as a volunteer EMT-firefighter for Sullivan County ’fore he was let go on suspicion of lifting some painkillers—which was true, though nobody could prove it—so he knows to disconnect the bitch’s breathing tube before putting the pillow over her to smother out her life.

There.

Pillow down.

The body is so banged up and hooked up it doesn’t even move as its airway is cut off.

There’s beeping, booping, and bleeping from various instruments, and then the door slides open with a hard slam!

He looks up in surprise, seeing that Army agent standing right in the doorway.

One hand still on the pillow, he goes for the borrowed utility belt…





Sanchez steps in and sees the security guard smothering York with a room pillow.

He snaps up his SIG Sauer as the guy reaches for his utility belt and— Pop! Pop! Pop!

The man falls away and crumples to the floor.

Shouts and yells come from outside.

He steps over to Connie, sees the fake security guard splayed out on the ground like a clumsy starfish, the pillow torn up, and blood starting to pool on the tile. The guard’s skin is rapidly graying out.

Sanchez turns as a frightened-looking woman nurse peers in, her face pale in shock.

He holds up his pistol in his right hand, his badge and identification in the other.

“I’m a federal agent!” he calls out. “Special Agent Sanchez, United States Army. This man was trying to murder your patient! Please! I need help in here!”

The nurse ducks back. More yells, shouts out there. He can just imagine the chaos he’s caused with the shooting.

Sanchez yells, “Your patient is dying! The man here tried to smother her! Please…somebody come in and look at her! Again, I’m a federal agent!”

A strong woman’s voice says, “Put your pistol on the floor, then I’ll come in.”

Sanchez doesn’t want to disarm himself but decides there’s no other option. He steps forward, puts his SIG Sauer on the tile. “My weapon’s on the floor, so you can come in and fix things. Okay?”

A female nurse in light-green scrubs and white sneakers comes in, looks down at the pistol, and then goes right over to York’s bed and, in a series of quick, fluid movements, seems to get everything put back in place.

When she’s finished, she says, “All right, I’ve reattached her tube…The man on the floor?”

“Not a security guard, I’m sure.”

She starts to walk over. “His condition?”

“Most definitely dead,” Sanchez says, and then he scoots over, leans down, and picks up the man’s Desert Eagle.

The nurse steps back in shock. “You promised.”

“That I did,” he says. “So you could come in and fix things. Now you can leave.”

The nurse heads to the door. “Mister, you better be what you say you are, and that man better be an imposter. The ICU out there is filling up with every cop and SWAT team member between here and Atlanta.”

“I’m sure,” Sanchez says. “And if you get a moment, tell them I’m here, and I’m not leaving. The only people who get in and touch that woman will be two medical personnel at the same time, with full identification.”

The nurse says, “That must be some woman. Who is she?”

Sanchez looks over to the grievously wounded Connie York.

“She’s my boss,” he says.





Chapter 80



LIEUTENANT JOHN HUANG wakes up in the hard plastic chair, back aching, mouth dry, with Captain Allen Pierce tapping his shoulder and whispering in his ear.

“Somebody’s coming,” he says. “Wake up.”

The tone of voice from Pierce has definitely gotten Huang’s attention.

He sits up, rubbing at his eyes. The place is dimly lit. There are three closed doors: one leading to the jail cells, another going into the police department proper, and a glass one leading outside.

Shadows are moving out there.

“What’s going on?” Huang asks. “Reporters?”

“I wish,” Pierce says, standing up. “It’s two in the morning. You ever run into journalists at 2:00 a.m.? Most of the time they’re sleeping it off or getting drunk in a motel bar, complaining about their editors.”