“Hey,” Clay called, thankful that the man hadn’t turned on the siren, because otherwise he probably couldn’t have heard him. “Could you hold off there, just a minute? We need to wait for our other passenger.”
“Sorry pal,” the EMT called back, “I’ve waited too long already.” He laughed softly, and Clay craned his neck in the brace, trying to get a look at the man. He couldn’t see more from his position than a glimpse of dark uniform and hat.
“Seriously.” He tried to keep his words from slurring, because those awesome drugs worked pretty damn fast. “You need to wait for the child’s mother. She’s had a pretty rough day, and she really needs to be with her son.”
The EMT ignored him as the crunch of dirt and gravel gave way to the smooth hum of the pavement. “Buddy,” Clay said again, more forcefully. “Stop the ambulance. Now.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so, Agent Copeland.”
Fear rushed, icy cold, and just like that, he knew.
Jonathan Walker was driving the ambulance.
The relentless son of a bitch. The explosion must have been a distraction…
Clay fumbled around as unobtrusively as possible, slipping the IV needle from the back of his hand with a decided lack of finesse. He had to stop the steady flow of narcotic into his veins or he’d be out cold in a matter of minutes. Fighting to keep his breathing even, his fogged brain from slipping into panic, Clay scanned the interior of the ambulance for a readily available weapon. It probably should have galled him that he wasn’t even considering reasoning with the man, but he wanted Walker dead as quickly as possible, and to hell with any repercussions.
His eyes lit on the various medical paraphernalia: stethoscopes, IV tubing and bags, blood pressure cuffs. Maybe he could get something around the guy’s neck, strangle him, except that his dominant arm was totally useless.
“Whatever you’re thinking about attempting,” Walker went on, his voice decidedly friendly. It was easy to be happy-go-lucky, after all, when the situation was utterly in your control. And it was definitely in Walker’s control, alright, because discombobulated as Clay was, there was no mistaking the man’s gun. “I’d advise you against it. I don’t want to hurt the boy, Agent, but I can’t seem to feel the same compunction about you.”
Fury erupted, hot and bright, but Clay fought it under control. If he miscalculated and got himself killed, then Max would be alone with this monster. He figured he had maybe five minutes before Kim and the others figured out what had happened. But five minutes was more than enough time for Walker to shoot them both.
Except that he didn’t want to hurt Max.
Clay seized that comment with both hands, trying to remember to think like a professional. His initial instinct to say Walker sure as hell had a funny way of showing it wasn’t likely to win him any points. Nor could he point out the fact that taking Max away from his mother was definitely hurting him, because a stable family life wasn’t something Walker could relate to. He needed to open the man’s emotional and psychological baggage, unfold the subconscious reasons he wanted to take Max. If he could throw him off his game, shake his confidence, just a little, he might be able to distract him enough to gain control of the gun.
“You want to use him to recreate what you had with Donald Logan.”
The hand holding the gun wavered slightly, but Walker laughed, a short burst of irritation.
Clay pressed the advantage. “He was the only one who ever offered you caring of any sort, and you were bereft when he was sent to prison. However unhealthy your relationship, you miss that feeling of intimacy, of belonging to someone or something. That’s why you went to all the trouble to get Max. You want to experience that feeling again. Only this time you’d be in control.”
“Well congratulations, Doctor Copeland.” The hostility underlying the amusement in his voice suggested Clay was right on target. “You’ve clearly been doing your homework. But you can spare us both the head-shrinking bullshit because you obviously don’t know shit.”
Okay. Direct hit. Clay looked around again, weighing each object’s value as a weapon. If he just landed one solid blow on the wrist he could loosen Walker’s grip on the gun. But one blow was all that he was going to get, so he had to make sure it counted.
“I know that Logan molested you. You were physically and emotionally vulnerable, and he convinced you that what he was doing to you was love. But it wasn’t love, Jonathan. He violated you, plain and simple.”
The gun crashing down on his broken arm ripped a scream of pain from Clay’s throat. Even the drug coursing through him couldn’t dull the full impact of the blow. Ambulance swerving wildly, Walker’s breathing ragged intakes of fury, he hissed at Clay before using both hands to regain control of the vehicle. “You stupid sonofabitch. I was going to shoot you before I sent the ambulance in, but now I think I’ll let you drown. It’ll be slower and a lot more painful.”
The meaning behind Walker’s words sank in just as the vehicle pulled off the pavement. He stopped the ambulance, threw the gearshift into park, and Clay knew that he had to act fast. Struggling to release the straps holding him as Walker opened the driver’s side door, he figured the man was probably looking for a stick he could lodge between the seat and the gas pedal. And sure enough, Clay heard him thrashing around outside just as he managed to get out of the restraints. He swung his unsteady legs to the side, finally managed to locate a weapon. Reaching over Max, pulling it out of its compartment, Clay
