Chapter 63

At least we’re not at the same hospital I took the Alpha to, I think bleakly to myself as we pull up in front of the ER doors. The doctors would start to get suspicious of me. My god, how many more attempted murders am I going to have to handle?

As a doctor, I’m of course used to seeing blood, pain, injury, even death. But it’s not usually people I care about, and it’s not usually because the person I used to trust most in the world is methodically trying to bump off half the people around him.

Including me, I remind myself. Jesus, this could be me next. Or Marcus. Or Emmett again.

Charles needs to be stopped. This simply cannot go on.

They’re also going to want to call the police, I realize with a horrified jolt as medics come running to our car with a stretcher. We’d called ahead to let them know we were on our way, and they were waiting for us.

We’ve got Brady out the car door, but all four of us are absolutely drenched in blood, and Brady is still unconscious, being held up by Kent and Tor. We must look like something out of a horror movie, I muse absently, glancing down at my bloody hands.

I’ve staunched Brady’s wound as best I can, but it’s not going to last very long. He might not survive this at all, despite my efforts. The medics lift him expertly onto the stretcher and run inside

No, this cannot go on. And I’m going to need help.

**

“Jack Darlington,” a half-asleep voice says in answer to my call.

“Jack?” I say hesitantly. “This is Evelyn Prism. I need your help.” I use my fake name to let Jack know that I’m not in a place where I can talk freely, and I know he understands as soon as he responds.

“Evelyn?” Jack’s voice is instantly more alert. “What’s going on? Is it Emmett?”

“No,” I say. “No, Emmett is fine. Well, I hope so. No, this is about my…friends. The ones I told you about, the ones that Charles has been targeting?”

“Ah, yes, those friends,” Jack says. “What’s happened?”

“Another shooting, at a – business meeting,” I say. “It’s…one of the inner circle. He’s got a bullet lodged in his gut, and the bleeding is internal. I had no choice but to bring him to the hospital; there was going to be no way to save him at home.”

“Roger that,” Jack says. “And this is the work of our dear friend Charles, I have no doubt.”

“I’m almost certain of it,” I say. “It’s too much of a coincidence, especially since K—the business leader’s description of the shooter sounds a lot like that little weasel that follows Charles around everywhere. Mickle.”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Jack sighs. There’s a bit of banging around in the background; it sounds like he’s gotten up and is getting dressed. I hear a mild curse as he bangs into something.

“Me either,” I say. “But this is – well, it’s…”

“Problematic,” Jack supplies grimly. “The hospital is going to want to make a police report, and they’re going to ask a lot of uncomfortable questions about how this happened. And then they’re going to look into the background of your boys.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say.

“All right,” Jack says. “We can’t let the routine police can’t get anywhere near him. They’ll have him handcuffed to his bed before he’s even out of surgery, and they won’t bother to ask questions – well, not the right ones, anyway.

“I’m on my way, Evelyn. Hang tight, and do whatever you can to fob off any badges who try to get anywhere near this. I’ll sort it out when I get there, tell them this is a private matter under my jurisdiction.”

“Thank you, Jack,” I whisper again. “Please hurry. I can’t stall this for very long.”

I hear a dinging noise in the background, and then a car door slams. An engine revs.

“Don’t worry, Nicole,” Jack says, using my real name with a comforting, bracing warmth. “I’m already in the car, and I’ll be there soon. Just hang tight.”

**

“By whose authority, I’d like to know? This kind of riff-raff should be our purview. I don’t understand what the homicide department thinks they’re doing with some routine thug getting shot on what’s clearly a drug drop-off gone wrong.”

A scrawny little cop who looks like he just graduated high school has his chest puffed up and is mouthing off to Jack, who looks half bored and half irritated.

“Under my authority, Simmons,” he says, checking the cop’s badge for his name. “That’s kind of how this works. I’m very, very senior to you, and I just told you that this is connected to a private homicide case that I’m working on. That means that you drop it, so that I can do my job.”

Simmons looks frustrated and annoyed, and he puffs his chest out even more. The kid can’t even grow a full beard yet, I think, looking at the wispy hairs patching his face with distaste. And, what’s more, he seems like a total jackass.

“I still think I need more information about this, before I just go handing it off,” he says. “Shouldn’t this order come through officially? I don’t understand what some thug getting shot would have to do with—”

“Simmons,” Jack interrupts with a falsely pleasant tone. “I dare you, I absolutely dare you, to call the Black attempted homicide victim currently in surgery, fighting for his life, a ‘thug’ one more time. I really do dare you, Simmons.”

Simmons’s face turns a sort of mottled purple, and he practically spits when he says, “Are you trying to call me some kind of racist, sir?”

“I’m not ‘trying’ to do anything,” Jack says. “I am calling you a racist, because you clearly are one. Now get the hell out of my sight, and I’ll be speaking to your supervisor in the morning. I know the rest of the NYPD might condone this bullshit attitude, but I don’t, and I have more clout than you do, kid.”

Simmons glares furiously, his eyes darting between me and Jack. I stare back at him, stony-faced.

He must think better of whatever he was tempted to say, because he finally spins on his heel and storms out the door, his otherwise-silent partner scuttling after him.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack says, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “It’s a good thing you called me, Evelyn. This was always going to go very badly. I know you didn’t bring Brady here lightly.”

“I didn’t,” I say, fighting back tears. “It was the only way.”

“I know.” Jack lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get a coffee and talk this through.”

The cafeteria is dead at this time of night, thankfully, so we are able to find a corner table and converse in privacy. I wrap my hands around my Styrofoam cup gratefully, letting the heat leech through into my cold palms.

“So, we’re at a breaking point here, I think,” Jack says, twirling his own cup between his hands. “Between the attempt on Emmett, the murder of his mother, and now this, Charles is out of control. We can’t let this go on.”

“That’s what I said,” I agree. “But I don’t see what else we can do. We just don’t have proof of anything, Jack.”

“We don’t,” Jack agrees. “But maybe we could get some.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Jack shoots me a dazzling smile.

“I think it’s time we consider setting a little trap for our dear old friend Charles,” he says, draining his coffee and crumpling the cup in his hand.

“How will we do that?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet,” Jack admits. “But we’ll think of something, Nick. We have to.”