He slumped down. Ben yanked the chair away from his limp hands, and tossed it at the other orderly, who tried to block the chair with his shoulder and got in the way of the petite blonde doctor, who was taking out another syringe.
Not again!
Ben grabbed the other doctor and swung him around, stumbling, toward the petite blonde. While they were tangled up, he yanked the door open, shoving the orderly out of the way.
He almost made it.
Just as he was about to head out the door, he felt hands ball up on his shirt from behind. Devereaux. He knew it without even having to look.
Devereaux unclipped his Glock and leveled it at him. “Stop.”
Ben turned his palms face upward in a placating gesture. “All right, all right.”
“Good. No more games.” The lines creased heavily across Devereaux’s shaved head. “Next time, I swear I’m going to shoot you in both kneecaps just so I don’t have to deal with this shit again.”
Ben watched him lower the weapon, just a fraction.
It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. He doubted he’d be given any other opportunities to escape.
He started to lower his arms slowly. Halfway down, he lunged forward with outstretched hands. Devereaux reacted fast, shifting the position of the handgun a fraction to the left. It was quick, but Ben was naturally quicker, and he’d acted first.
Devereaux squeezed the trigger as Ben’s hand connected with the Glock. The shot went wide, and the weapon dropped to the floor. Devereaux’s face turned to a mixture of terror and disbelief. His hooded eyes darted between the weapon and Ben, and like a computer his mind was trying to calculate the angles and positions needed to reach the handgun.
They both arrived at the same conclusion. Ben would reach the gun first.
That left a violent hand-to-hand confrontation as the only solution for Devereaux, who was much bigger and definitely more trained for such a fight. Devereaux launched a thick, heavy, fist at his face.
But Ben reacted first, as the doctors and orderlies cowered against the wall.
He twisted and ducked, then came up underneath Devereaux’s hold, shoving his shoulder upward into Devereaux’s chest and knocking him backward. Devereaux was big. If he hadn’t been off-balance, Ben might have been in real trouble.
But already unbalanced, it was enough to send Devereaux to the floor.
Devereaux hit the ground hard, his easily 230-pound frame absorbing the injuries like a pro fighter. On the ground, his head snapped around to the side, spotting the Glock. He dived for it, expecting Ben to join the race.
Ben didn’t.
Instead, he altered his position and kicked Devereaux hard in the side of his head. He was wearing a pair of heavy Zappos Wilderness boots. The heel connected with Devereaux's head with a sickening crunch.
There was more speed in it than force, and Ben assumed there wasn’t enough force to kill the man. All the same, the impact knocked the giant of a man out cold.
Ben didn’t wait to check on him. That was what all the doctors were there for. Instead, he bent down, picked up the handgun, a Glock 19, opened the door, and stepped into a large hallway.
He had escaped his captors into what appeared to be a large medical center. Ben knew there was more to come and that he had to move fast.
A doctor quickly aroused Devereaux.
Devereaux called after Ben. “Mr. Gellie!”
Ben turned for a split second — just to make sure the guy didn’t have a second weapon. Devereaux didn’t. Otherwise he would have drawn it. Ben didn’t say anything, he turned to run.
Behind him, he heard Devereaux shout, “They won’t let you leave this building alive.”
Chapter Two
Gripping the handle of the Glock, Ben moved at a fast run down the corridor.
There was no way he was going to make it out of a secure medical building without some kind of leverage. And right now, all he could think of was a hostage. Devereaux had made it clear that normal judicial procedures didn’t apply, and Ben didn’t want to go to whatever that place where suspected terrorists “disappeared”.
He hit the end of the hallway and turned the corner, his boots squeaking on the tile.
Two men stepped out of an office door.
They were both dressed in civilian clothes, jeans, polo shirts, and North Face insulated jackets, but they carried themselves like military men.
One of the civilians was shorter than Ben, about six feet. The other one was a real monster, even bigger than Devereaux, about six feet four, if he had to guess, and a wall of pure muscle.
“Put the gun down!” someone shouted from behind.
“Stop that man!” called Devereaux’s voice.
Ben dashed forward and grabbed the shorter of the two men by the neck. The man was fast, but not fast enough. His hands came up uselessly to try to block, well after Ben’s fingers had found the side of the man’s neck.
Nobody was faster than Ben, especially when he was keyed up on adrenaline like this. Soon, that adrenaline would ebb and recede, but right now, he would use it to extract every ounce of speed and strength from his system.
He pulled the man backward, knocking him off-balance and kicking him on the back of the knees as he went down. Ben turned in toward the falling man, caught him against his chest, looped an elbow around the man’s neck, and then pressed his nice new Glock 19 into the side of the man’s face.
It felt like the people around him were moving in slow motion.
He had another split-second before anyone else could do anything, so he put his back toward the wall, dragging his hostage with him. The big guy had turned toward him with the dumbfounded expression of a person who couldn’t believe his bad luck.
Devereaux and another man in a cheap black suit had caught up with them. The other man had his handgun out, a Glock 19 to match the one that Ben had pressed against his hostage’s face.
Ben shouted, “Everyone back away, or this man dies!”
“We’re not looking for trouble,” his hostage said.
“Yeah, neither was I. Hell, all I was just trying to do was the right thing, and now look at me.”
The hostage remained silent.
Ben motioned toward the door. “Anyone in that room?”
“Yes,” the man replied, mechanically. “One person. Female.”
“Can the room be secured?”
The hostage paused, as though he was taking the question seriously. “Sure.”
“Good.”
He opened the door and pushed hard, kicking the hostage’s knees out from under him. The man landed inside the office on his hands, before quickly righting himself and standing up.
A woman with stark red hair and striking emerald green eyes stared at him with dismay. “What is the meaning of this?”
Ben didn’t have time for niceties. He said, “Out!”
Her eyes grew wide with incredulity. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“No,” Ben replied, firing a single warning shot at her desk. “And I don’t care. Get out of here, or this man dies!”
The woman scowled. She straightened her suit and headed toward the door.
Her eyes met his hostage.
“Don’t worry, he’ll never make it out of the building alive,” she said defiantly, as she stepped out through the door.
Ben latched the door behind her.
It appeared to be an ornamental door, made out of rich mahogany, but had two linings of lead, designed to interfere with listening devices, preventing eavesdropping. The metal latch was solid. It would be impossible to kick in, and it would take time for the marines stationed nearby to retrieve a battering ram.
It was clear that he was in a bigwig’s office. It had a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table off to the side as well as a desk and a computer and a phone. The carpet was a deep, royal blue and the desk looked like actual mahogany. One wall was lined with bookcases filled with books and hardbound document folders.