“The group of deaf kids this morning, my daughter’s group. Do you see them?”
She paused. “Negative.”
“I’m en route, have six with me. Find those kids, Angel. I need you to find those kids. Out.”
So there are nine of them in the command post now. Angel wrestling with the coms scrambler that was hooked into the park’s network, and Chain trying to master the Spartan. Bell hands over the weapons and the radios, then puts Michael and his family in the conference room. He gives them bottled water and tells them that they need to sit tight here, they’ll evacuate them as soon as they can.
“We’re safe here?”
“This is the safest place in the park,” Bell says. “You’ve got two shooters in the command post and more on the way and no one and nothing is going to happen to you or your family.”
Michael nods, takes hold of his wife’s hand. She smiles at Bell, a wan, weak smile, but it’s there nonetheless, and Bell leaves the room knowing they believe him.
Amy follows.
“They’re at the haunted house,” Amy tells him. “Hendar’s Lair, that’s where they took us. That’s where Athena is.”
Bell yanks the first-aid kit from the wall, heading for the bathroom. “I have orders to wait.”
“It’s your fucking daughter!”
She follows him inside, glares at him in the mirror as Bell opens the kit on the counter, starts the faucet. He’s got bruises rising already on his face, below his left eye, and whatever happened to the small of his back is stinging, the wound still seeping. He unbuttons his shirt, splashes water on his hands and face.
“They have our daughter.”
This, Amy says much more softly, almost inaudible over the water. Bell is ripping open the packaging for a two-by-two-inch square of gauze, stops, feels every ache all together, feels tired.
“I know.”
“You have to get her. You have to get her and the others, Jad. The whole class is there, all of them. This is what you do. Isn’t it?”
“There are fourteen other hostages in the park and there may be a bomb. Jorge and Freddie are on the way, Amy. Soon as they’re here, we’ll move, I swear to God. I swear to God we will get Athena back.”
“They shot Marty.” Amy turns, hands resting on the counter, leans forward. She closes her eyes. “They murdered him right in front of us, right in front of the kids. They murdered their teacher right in front of them.”
Bell is bandaging his lacerated palm, flexes his hand experimentally. The cut is not so deep that it reaches tendon, and he is, at least, grateful for that. He begins wrapping his hand in cling gauze.
“What do they want? Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” Bell tells her. “Help me with this.” He indicates the scissors in the kit with his head.
She straightens, sighs, cuts the cling from its roll, splits the end at the center, tearing down to create two lengths. She wraps them around his hand in opposite directions, ties them together, snug. Bell wiggles his fingers, checks his circulation, but of course it’s fine.
“Still pretty good at that,” he tells her.
“Turn around.”
Bell turns, facing the mirror, watches as Amy lifts his shirt free, makes a face at what she sees. “Looks like you got clawed.”
“The jaguar.”
“New scar.”
“How deep?”
“Lean forward.”
Bell complies, and Amy runs more water, washes her hands, then digs into the kit. Begins opening new squares of gauze, then takes the bottle of Betadine, squirting it over the wound. Bell feels cool liquid spilling over his skin, down the back of his pants. Then her hands, cleaning the injury with the gauze, tossing it away to cover it with fresh strips.
“Tape.”
Bell takes the spool of cloth tape from the kit, hands it back. Watches his ex-wife’s reflection as she tends the wound, the tip of her tongue extended just past her lips in concentration, brushing hair from her cheek with the back of one hand. She uses her teeth to tear strips from the roll. He wishes he still didn’t find her beautiful.
She finishes and Bell rights himself, feels the tape pulling as he straightens. Tucks his shirt back in, turning to face her. Her expression is the same as he remembers, countless training wounds and little injuries tended, the same look when she discovered a new wound, the dark eyes and somber, gentle sorrow.
Amy leans forward, puts her lips to his, soft and dry, the kiss almost apologetic at first. Then harder, and Bell kisses her back, wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her close, and her palms are against his chest; the kiss breaks, and she buries her face against his shoulder. Like that, he holds her, feels her regaining her strength, feels her body tensing.
Then she is pulling away, shoving free, one open palm beating against his breast, then the other, before she lets her hands fall, unable to look at him. Grimacing in frustration, in pain, in fury. Bell understands. Anger at him, at herself, at the world.
“I asked you…” She shakes her head, swallows, refusing to give up tears. “I asked you, on the phone, if this was what you were afraid of. Did you know, Jad? Did you know this would happen?”
He wants to be angry that she would even ask, almost tries to find it within him to be angry. But he’s too tired, and he hurts too much, inside and out, and the kiss, brief as it was, is an ashen memory. That she would think that of him, that he would do this to them, that she could believe him so callous and cold. He understands that there is nothing left between them, the emotional truth of intellectual knowledge six months old finally striking home. She does not love him anymore, because she does not know him.
She does not know him, and she thinks him a monster.
He says nothing. He can’t answer. But the silence damns him.
“You bastard,” Amy says. “If anything happens to her, Jad Bell, if anything happens to our daughter…”
She can’t finish, but she doesn’t need to. She turns away, shoves the door open, leaves him alone in the bathroom, with his injuries and his guilt.
Chapter Twenty-three
The call with the Uzbek goes like this:
“Status?”
“Status?” Gabriel echoes. “Status is fuck-awful, that’s the status. I’m down another four and lost the second group of hostages. The whole damn thing is falling apart.”
“Calm down. Explain.”
“We’re fucked. We were waiting to ambush them when they came out of the tunnels, but they got around us somehow. They must’ve split up or, fuck, maybe there are more of them, but they hit the command post and one of the groups. I’m down another four.”
The Uzbek makes a clicking noise into the phone. “Very interesting. I thought I’d told you to take care of the problem.”
“Why do you think we were waiting in ambush, damn it? You think I’m just letting them fuck us like this?” Gabriel is practically shouting into the phone, and Betsy, still examining the bodies, looks up at him in alarm, gives him a look like he’s cursing out a priest.
“Do not lose your nerve.”
“My nerve is solid, it’s the plan that’s fucked, don’t you get it? There’s at least two of these guys in the park,
“The plan is a good plan, and we will abide by it,” the Uzbek says complacently. Gabriel thinks he can hear water running in the background, an open tap, maybe a sink or bathtub, he’s not sure. “We are entering the final
