‘He left me to die,’ Mac spat, shaking his head as if he was being attacked by a wasp.
‘Sam didn’t know. Wallace told him you had died.’
Mac spun on his heel and lifted the gun, pointing it directly at her head. Lucy coiled back in fear.
‘I said shut up,’ Mac screamed, drawing the attention of the rest of the terrified hostages. ‘I don’t need you alive to carry that bomb, so shut your damn mouth.’
Lucy nodded frantically, cowering away from the gun. Mac saw the terror in her eyes, looked at the gun, and then pressed the side of it to his head, as if wrestling with a horrible migraine. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.
His mind was scattered, with different versions of his past washing over each other. It was as if his recollection of the truth had been stuffed into a washing machine and set to spin.
Sam had abandoned him.
Left him to die.
He didn’t care. He saved himself.
Sam needed to pay. To experience real pain.
Like Mac had.
With a few concerned nurses apprehensively walking to their patient’s rooms, Mac’s inner turmoil was interrupted by a shrill buzz. His eyes scanned around, as if looking for an irritating bug until the receptionist drew his attention.
‘It’s the door buzzer. A man is there.’
Mac stormed over and looked at her screen. It wasn’t Sam and he slammed his fist onto the desk, startling the young woman.
‘I want to speak to him,’ he demanded, and the woman shifted a small, thin intercom towards him and pressed the button.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Mac said, watching the chubby man squirm.
‘My name is Sergeant Peter Whitlow. I just want to talk to you.’
‘Do you have Sam Pope?’ Mac asked, knowing the answer. He watched as the negotiator adjusted his glasses, trying to maintain his composure.
‘Not yet. But we are working on it.’
‘Fuck off then.’
‘Sir, we just want to talk. Also, I need to make sure the hostages and patients are okay. If you let me in, we can work on bringing this to an end. I’m unarmed.’
The man held up his hands to the camera, showing Mac he wasn’t lying. Mac nodded to the receptionist, who flicked the door open. With a buzz, it automatically swung inwards and Whitlow walked in, scanning the corridors, trying to absorb as much information as possible. He offered Lucy a reassuring smile then stopped still as he laid eyes on the horrifying burns that consumed Mac’s face.
‘Where is he?’
‘Why don’t we let these people go and we can discuss…’
A gunshot rang out, sending the entire ward into a panic. Whitlow screamed in agony, dropping to the floor and pressing both hands to the knee that had been shattered by the bullet. As blood pumped through his trousers, the man’s face drained of colour and Mac squatted down beside him.
‘This is non-negotiable.’
Mac tucked the gun into the back of his trousers and then grasped the back of Whitlow’s shirt, dragging the wounded man across the corridor. As Whitlow moaned in pain, Mac hauled him up, then in one swift movement, shoved him as hard as he could through the glass window.
Whitlow hurtled down the three stories, followed by a rainfall of shattered glass. From the broken window, Mac could hear the screams of terror from outside, the sickening thud of Whitlow’s death, followed by the delightful sound of the glass shattering. With no remorse for the life he’d just taken, Mac stomped back to the reception desk and pointed the gun at the receptionist, who froze in fear.
‘Go downstairs and tell the police that if I don’t have Sam here in the next hour, I’ll start throwing a patient out every ten minutes. Do you understand?’
The young girl nodded frantically, and Mac jerked his head to the door for her to go. He buzzed her out and watched as she ran. He shot a glance towards a mortified Lucy, who was staring at the smear of blood that lead to the window.
Mac smirked, knowing his message had been heard loud and clear.
The automatic door slammed shut and he waited for his revenge.
* * *
Stout watched from the crowded street; the rain illuminated in flashes of blue as the multiple cars blocked off the road. A sense of pride ran through him at the hard work of his team and he stood, agitated, waiting for Whitlock to emerge with an open dialogue to the man inside. Still waiting on the identity of the man to be discovered by his analytical team who were running facial recognition, he felt a sense of alarm rush through his body when he was told the name of the woman who had accompanied the terrorist into the building.
Lucy Farmer.
Sam Pope’s ex-wife.
The pendulum had swung in the other direction.
Despite Ashton’s theory of an accomplice, the fact the bomber had taken someone from Sam’s personal life as effective bait told him this wasn’t a plan to spring Sam from prison. Whoever this was, he wanted blood and Stout’s job now was the limit the amount shed.
A large crash of glass was quickly accompanied by the sight of a bloodied Whitlock tumbling from the third floor of the hospital, the entire watching crowd holding their breath as the man crashed to the hard concrete below. Doctors and police officers rushed to the broken remains of the negotiator, as other officers did their best to quash the panic rising from the watching public.
Stout drew his hand to his head, mortified at the death of one of his officers. The option of sending in the ARU, armed and ready to go, was tempting, but there was no guarantee it wouldn’t end in a massacre.
With their guns trained on the front door, the armed team gave the signal that someone was approaching and Stout marched towards the door. A blonde lady, pale with fear, emerged, the terror of sixteen
