"Yeah." He looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. They were on the floor in the back of the squad room, the area cleared out around them. Brad was stacking filing cabinets in front of the fire door. Jeffrey's office window and door were similarly barricaded. Bodies were scattered around with the debris. Burrows, Robinson, Morgan. Morgan had five kids at home. Burrows was an avid animal lover fostering a pair of rescued greyhounds. Robinson…Robinson was new. Jeffrey could not even remember the man's first name, though he had hired him less than a week ago.
Jeffrey's vision blurred and he closed his eyes as the vertigo brought on a wave of nausea.
"Breathe," Sara coaxed, smoothing back his hair. His head was in her lap and, judging by the blood on her skirt, had been for a while. He tried to move, but found that his feet were tied together with his own belt.
Suddenly, a man stood over them, pointing a shotgun at Marla while keeping a military-issue Sig Sauer trained on Brad. He had two more guns holstered to his chest along with a full complement of ammunition.
Smith. Jeffrey remembered he had given his name as Smith. He remembered it all now: Sara screaming his name, Matt's head exploding against the front door, the ensuing gun battle, the deaths. Sam. The new patrolman's first name was Sam.
The killer gave Jeffrey a cold look of appraisal. "Sit up."
Sara said, "He needs to go to the hospital." She did not wait for a response. "The children are in shock. They all need to go to the hospital."
Smith cocked his head like he had heard something. He turned toward the lobby, where another man rested an assault rifle on the front counter, pointing it toward the front entrance. He was similarly dressed with a dark coat and Kevlar vest. A black ball cap was pulled low on his head, casting his face in shadow. The man did not look Smith's way, but he gave a curt nod.
Sara took advantage of the brief exchange, whispering something to Jeffrey that sounded like "Stall it."
Smith turned back to Jeffrey. "Sit up." He kicked Jeffrey's feet, and the movement jarred his shoulder enough to make him yell from the pain.
"He needs to go to the hospital," Sara repeated.
"Hey," Brad said, like a child trying to get between his arguing parents. "I need a hand over here with this one."
Smith pointed the shotgun in Sara's face. "Help him."
Sara stayed where she was. "Matt needs medical attention," she said, keeping her hand on Jeffrey's good shoulder. Her words came out in a rushed panic. "The pulse in his arm is thready. The bullet probably nicked the artery. He lost consciousness for God knows how long. His head wound needs to be assessed."
"You don't seem too worried about me," Smith said, indicating a piece of white cloth tied tightly around his left arm. A circle of dark blood spotted the center.
"You both seem capable of taking care of yourself," she told him, then looked past his shoulder to his partner in the front lobby.
"Damn right," Smith said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jeffrey tried to get a good look at the second man's face, but the overhead light was so bright that he could not keep his eyes open.
Brad stumbled and dropped a filing cabinet. With lightning speed, Smith and the second gunman turned around, both ready to shoot.
Brad held up his hands. "Sorry," he said. "I just -"
The second shooter turned back to the front door as Smith walked over to Brad. Sara kept her eyes on the second man as she slipped her hand under Jeffrey's back. Wallet. She had said "Wallet."
He raised himself up to help her, biting through the pain in his shoulder, and she took out his wallet just as Smith swung around on them. He stared, his eyes darting to each person in the group, some sort of sixth sense igniting his suspicion. The children were so frightened that they were hardly moving, and Marla seemed to be in her own world as she stared blindly at the floor.
Brad said, "Maybe you can -"
Smith held out his hand, cutting him off. The room was silent, but the gunman could obviously hear something they could not. Or maybe, Jeffrey reasoned, he was just a paranoid fuck hopped up on cocaine or meth. Why the hell would someone do something like this? What could they possibly gain?
Smith walked backward, both guns trained on Brad. He stopped in front of the bathroom door, looking at his partner and getting a quick nod in return. The two men worked together like a precision instrument. Even without the military gear, it was obvious that they had either trained or been in combat together.
The bathroom door opened soundlessly as Smith went in, gun raised. Jeffrey counted off the seconds, staring at the door as it slowly closed. Suddenly, they heard a woman's scream and a single gunshot. Less than minute later, Smith came out of the bathroom holding up a police-issue gun belt like it was a trophy.
Smith told his partner. "She was hiding under the sink."
The second man shrugged, like it was none of his concern, and Jeffrey felt his heart sink at the thought of another one of his officers shot dead by these animals. She must have been hiding under the sink cabinet all this time, hoping to God they would not find her.
Smith threw the gun belt toward the lobby before going back to Jeffrey. "Sit up," he said, and when Jeffrey did not move fast enough, he grabbed him up by his collar.
Jeffrey felt his stomach pitch as his brain tried to adjust to the sudden change. Sara sat up too, putting her hand on the back of his neck, coaching, "Breathe through it. Don't get sick."
He tried to do as he was told, but the grits he'd had for breakfast would not obey. They came up in a hot rush of bile.
"Jesus fuck," Smith stepped back quickly to avoid the splatter. "What'd you have for breakfast, man?"
Jeffrey gave him another clue, throwing up the rest of the grits. He felt Sara's hand at the back of his neck, the metal of his Auburn class ring pressing into his skin. Why had she taken his ring?
Smith said, "Give me your wallet."
Jeffrey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's in my coat," he said, saying a small prayer of thanks that he had been too pissed at Sara in the interrogation room to stop and put his jacket back on.
"Where is it?" Smith challenged. "Where's your coat?"
Jeffrey inhaled deeply, trying to quell the squall building in his stomach.
Smith kicked Jeffrey's feet. "Where's your coat?" he repeated.
"In my car."
Smith grabbed Jeffrey's collar and jerked him up to standing. Jeffrey screamed from the pain, fireworks detonating behind his eyelids. He pressed his face to the wall as he tried not to slide back to the floor. The muscles in his shoulder were throbbing with every beat of his heart, and his knees were so weak they started to buckle.
"You're okay," Sara told him, gripping him under his arm. Her strength was surprising, and he loved her more in that moment than he had in his entire life. "Keep breathing," she told him, rubbing his back in a soothing, circular motion. "You're okay."
"Move." Smith pushed her away. He tucked the shotgun into his belt and gave Jeffrey an expert pat-down. The man knew the correct way to frisk a suspect, and he did not go lightly near Jeffrey's shoulder.
"All right." Smith backed up and Jeffrey struggled to face him, leaning against the wall so he would not collapse. The phone started ringing again, the metallic clang grating on every nerve in his body.
"Y'okay, Matt?" Smith hit the t's hard, like he was testing them. Jeffrey did not know if it was paranoia or panic, but he got the feeling Smith knew exactly who he was looking at, and that it was not Matt Hogan.
"He's not," Sara said. "The bullet's probably pressed against the artery. If you keep pushing him, it might dislodge. He could bleed to death."
"My heart's breaking," Smith said, glancing over at Brad to check his work.
The phone continued to ring in the background, and Sara said, "Why don't you pick that up and tell them you're sending out the children?"