Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [183]
A tiny ray of hope, she thought fleetingly.
But deep in her heart she knew, this gray light of morning might be the last sunrise she would ever witness.
Trent’s guts turned to water. In his mind’s eye, he saw a vision of Jules on his bed the night before. “What do you mean, hostages?” he asked Meeker.
The deputy walked him to the darkened front of the clinic. “Take a look.”
Trent peered through the blinds.
His heart became stone.
Sure enough, standing knee-deep in the snow, Eric Rolfe was pointing a rifle right into the middle of Jules’s spine. She stood straight, looking at the door of the clinic. If she was afraid, she didn’t show it, her beautiful face was without emotion.
No! he thought, fear curdling through him, No, no, no!
Shay, her hands behind her back, stood to one side of Jules, Nell Cousineau on the other. Missy Albright was prodding Shay, whose lips were tight, her expression dark and rebellious. Nell was shaking uncontrollably as if she might pass out while Roberto Ortega goaded her with the nose of his weapon.
“Damn,” Trent whispered, his worst nightmare unfolding. Grabbing the pistol Meeker had given him, he didn’t think too hard about what he was going to do; just went into survival mode. Jamming the Glock into the back of his jeans, he started for the door.
Frank Meeker stepped in front of him. “Wait, Trent,” he ordered his ruddy face dark and worried as he saw what Trent had in mind. “Hold up. You just can’t walk out there.”
“Like hell.”
“I mean it; those kids are more than insurgents, they’re rabid fanatics. For all we know they could be on a suicide mission. They’ll shoot you without thinking twice.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m serious, Trent.”
“So am I. Call Flannagan on the walkie-talkie. Get him and Wade and whoever else out here. Then cover me!” Trent didn’t bother with a coat, just pulled out the tail of his flannel shirt, then, one hand in the air, the other at an angle because of the bandages, he walked outside into the bitter light of coming dawn.
He saw Jules gasp, her calm destroyed in an instant as she saw him. For a second she looked as if she might collapse. Don’t, he said silently. Hang tough. His gaze found Rolfe. “What the hell is going on here?”
“We want Spurrier.” Rolfe was all bluster and pride, menace radiating off of him as he stood behind Jules. A tough man with a gun pressed hard against a woman’s back. The new leader, now that Spurrier was out of commission.
All three of the hostages’ heads snapped at the mention of the pilot’s name. As if they hadn’t known.
“And Bernsen,” Rolfe added, his voice booming across the icy, too-quiet landscape. “In exchange, you get her”—he pushed Jules so hard she stumbled a bit before catching herself—“and the two others.” He nodded at Shay and Nell including them in the deal.
Missy Albright gave Shay a shove with her rifle. Jules’s sister didn’t so much as flinch.
Roberto Ortega had Nell Cousineau in his cross hairs and Nell looked like she expected to die at any second. When he nudged her, she mewled plaintively.
Trent didn’t flinch, though he was dying inside. Instead, he stared straight at Rolfe, the bully. “You’re making a big mistake, Eric.”
“Oh, right.”
“I mean it.”
“Oh, yeah! And blah, blah, blah.” Rolfe wasn’t buying it and Trent wondered how he, alone, with a single pistol tucked in his jeans, would be able to take out three of the psychos and somehow save all of the hostages. Even with Meeker behind him, no way would this turn into anything but a bloodbath. There could be no good ending and Eric, the brute, smiling despite his cold, murderous eyes, knew it. “Look, man, you’re outnumbered and outgunned,” Rolfe said, get ting antsy. “And we’re freezin’ our asses off out here, so let’s cut to the chase. I already said we want an exchange. But since you’re fuckin’ around, I think I’m changing the terms.”
“How?” Trent asked, seeing the situation deteriorating. Still, he had to keep the guy talking, buy more time.
“You give us