Bryan Clauser at his side, Pookie Chang stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor of the SFGH mental health wing. Pookie had sweet-talked their way into the building. The staff was on edge, but Bryan’s badge helped overcome initial objections.
Pookie couldn’t wait to get his own badge back from Zou.
They walked down the hallway of Ward 7A. Pookie took note of the reinforced doors with their electronic locks. SFGH was one of the few places with a “psychiatric emergency room.” The hospital took in patients with all manner of psychiatric issues, and at all times of the night. It was to be expected that some of those patients were violent and needed secure holding facilities. That made 7A the most locked-down, defensible spot in the hospital, which was probably why Zou had put Erickson here.
Pookie and Bryan turned down a hall to their left. It wasn’t hard to spot which door led to Erickson’s room — the two men in full SWAT gear standing outside of it gave things away.
They wore thick black jackets made even bulkier by the body armor that covered them. The men had armored gloves and kneepads, heavy black boots, and black helmets with goggles waiting to be pulled down in front of their eyes. Black AR-15 assault rifles hung from their necks, barrels angled to the floor.
“They look serious,” Bryan said.
“You’re just jealous because they wear more black than you do,” Pookie said. The men did look serious, though, and not at all happy about pulling what appeared to be guard duty. “I know those guys.”
“Shocker,” Bryan said.
“The one on the left is Jeremy Ellis. The other guy is Matt Hickman. Come on.”
Pookie walked toward them. Bryan followed.
Helmeted heads swiveled toward them. Hickman’s hands flexed on his AR-15. Ellis held up a black-gloved hand, palm out.
“Hold it, Chang.”
Pookie stopped. “Jeremy, my man. How’s the softball team? Still doing the department proud with that three-fifteen average?”
Jeremy looked surprised. “Uh, three-seventeen.”
“A hitting streak? Awesome.”
Jeremy smiled, but only a little before his oh-so-serious cop face returned. “I’m guessing you want in here, but it’s not going to happen.”
Pookie thought of bringing up the fact that Hickman’s son was the starting point guard for Mission High, but it didn’t look like small talk was going to get him anywhere.
“Maybe you didn’t get the memo,” Pookie said. “Chief Zou reinstated us. She told the duty sergeant.”
Jeremy shook his head. “News to me. Last word I have is you guys aren’t cops. I’m not supposed to allow anyone in this room,
Bryan looked at the door. For a moment, Pookie wondered if Bryan might rush it. Hickman must have wondered the same thing, as the barrel of his gun moved up a tiny amount.
Jeremy pointed a black-gloved finger back down the hall. “Guys, do us all a favor and hit the road, okay?”
Bryan shook his head. “We just want to make sure Erickson is safe.”
“He is,” Jeremy said. “We have three guys on the roof and four more in a ready room they made for us downstairs. No one is getting in here. I’m not going to tell you again — get out of here.”
Pookie flashed his best smile. “All right, gents. Keep up the good work. Bryan, let’s go.”
Pookie started heading back down the hall. Bryan paused; his hands flexed into fists, then he followed. Pookie stayed tense until the elevator doors shut and he knew Bryan wouldn’t try to go back.
“Bri-Bri, Zou’s got it covered.”
Bryan didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, man. What if one of those basement creatures attacks?”
“Then those creatures get shredded. Zou mapped it out for us, Bro. This isn’t chasing shadows in a darkened alley. The SWAT boys are serious business. They’ve got this.”
Bryan chewed at his lower lip. He nodded. “I guess. I’m still going to hang out on the hospital grounds tonight. You good for that?”
Pookie shrugged. “Sure. I’ll hang out here. Got to be some hospital-centric plotlines for
When Amy Zou said she would do something, you could bank on it. Whatever the reason for her dragging her feet, it was probably a good one.
Home Sweet Home
Chief Amy Zou pulled into her garage. She came out of the car with her Sig Sauer up and at the ready, sweeping the barrel in a 360-degree arc around the garage.
Nothing.
No one had ever threatened her family before. No angry gangsters trying to get her to back off, no druglord’s promise of revenge, not even some thug receiving a sentence of twenty-to-life looking at her and saying
She couldn’t quite draw in a full breath. Her chest seemed compressed, constricted. Over the course of her career, she’d been shot three times in the line of duty, shot
The garage’s interior door led into the kitchen. She heard a movie playing in the living room. She moved as silently as she could, not really knowing why, hoping Rex and his creatures were dumb enough to be overconfident. Maybe she could sneak up on them and end this quick.
She heard something else — her daughter Tabz, crying softly.
Amy Zou moved into the kitchen. Finding it empty, she followed the sound of crying into the living room, the barrel of her pistol leading the way.
Her husband was on his knees, a gag tightly wrapped around his head and mouth, his hands tied behind his back. On Jack’s left stood a whimpering, gagged Tabz, her face streaked with tears, her arms wrapped in a death clutch around a teddy bear. On his right stood Mur, head tilted down, eyes glaring out from beneath her thick black hair. Mur was also gagged, but she didn’t really look scared — her expression reeked of anger and hatred.
Standing behind Amy’s family …
Two of them. The first had short brown fur and a face like a dog. He was so big his head seemed to reach up to the ceiling. His bottom jaw skewed to the right, and his long pink tongue hung down off the left side. He wore flower-print Bermuda shorts and nothing else, save for a heavy, dirty blanket draped around his shoulders. He held a stockless, drum-fed automatic shotgun — an Armsel Striker — in his left hand. He was so big he made the bulky weapon look like a pistol.
The shotgun was pointed at the back of Tabz’s head.
The other monster had a snake face and the girth of a bodybuilder, most of that bulk hidden beneath another ratty blanket. He wore jeans, work boots and a blue San Jose Sharks sweatshirt that strained at the seams. He had a gun, too — a .44 automag, the muzzle hovering less than an inch from Mur’s temple.
In between the two hulking nightmares, standing as calmly as you please behind her bound-and-gagged husband, was Rex Deprovdechuk. Amy knew, instantly, that this boy was completely in charge.
She pointed her Sig Sauer directly at his face. “They’re going to drop those guns and
Rex smiled. It was a pleasant smile, tolerant but not quite condescending, the kind a nice kid gives to adults he thinks are okay but still way uncool.
“Then both your daughters will have their brains blown all over your living room carpet,” he said. “Put down the gun, Missus Zou.”
Amy realized her hand was shaking. With a flick of her wrist and a pull of the trigger, she could kill the brown-furred one, then maybe get a snapshot at the snake-man. But could she do that before either of them fired,
