Chapter 2

She stepped forward and knocked firmly on the door, knowing that no signs of weakness would be tolerated. Any mistake could cost Mac his life. "Mr Shepherd?" she called. "Dave? I'm a negotiator – may I open the door and talk to you?" She wondered that she could keep her voice so steady: her heart hammered violently, and below her calm outer skin she felt half mad with hysteria.

There was no reply, but she heard a noise. She waited a few moments. "Mr Shepherd? My name's Stella. I'd like to come in. I'm unarmed, and the officers here have all stepped back from the door."

"What for?" The voice was gruff, smoky – but at least it had answered.

Stella glanced at Flack, who had retreated to the end of the hallway.

"I'd like to talk to you," she called. "See if we can't work something out."

"Like what?"

They were already engaged in a dialogue – it was going well, she told herself. It just didn't feel that way, with her on this and Mac on the other side of the door. "I'd like us all to walk away from this sooner rather than later," she said. She knew she mustn't mention life and death. "I'd like to try and help with that, if I may."

There was a pause. "Who are you?"

She creased her brow. "My name's Stella. I'm a negotiator, and I'd like to – "

"How old are you?"

Here we go. "Thirty-two," she lied. He might let her in more quickly if she shaved off a few years.

"And what am I supposed to do with this one?"

"You mean Detective Taylor? That's his name – Mac Taylor. You know that if you let him go it would be seen as a generous gesture."

"Suppose I ain't feeling generous?"

"A practical one, then. He's a CSI – it'll go better if he's unharmed."

"You threatening me, Stella?"

She cringed at the sound of her name in his mouth. "No. I'm just saying it would relax the guys out here." She drew a breath. "I'm going to open the door, Dave – very slowly, so you can see exactly what I'm doing. I'm not armed, OK? I'm opening it now…"

She turned the key, and the door left its jam with a sighing creak, as if reluctant to acquiesce in her torture and death. For Mac, she repeated to herself like a mantra. For Mac.

She carefully pushed it wide until she could see into the small apartment. It was neat, bright, and covered in blood. The door opened directly onto the living area, with a kitchen beyond, and after the blood had made its impression, the first thing she saw was the man who sat, alone and still and with his back to her, in the centre of the room.

His hands were secured behind him, and his ankles were tied to two of the five feet of a swivel chair. He seemed to be unclothed save for his underpants, and his head was bowed, though whether from exhaustion or injury she could not tell. He seemed unharmed, though she couldn't see enough of him to be sure.

She began to move forward, acting on instinct: she had to get to him, touch him, hold him… It took all her self-control to rein in the impulse and maintain an expression of neutrality: if she gave even a hint that Shepherd's hostage was more than a casual colleague, she would have given him power – power that he, with his history of sadism and torture, would know exactly how to use. Her heart keened as she tore her eyes away from the man she loved – how could she not have realised such a blindingly obvious fact until this morning! – to look around.

She noted the open window to the left, the whisky bottle on the table, the central vac vent, and the fact that Mac had been thoroughly but clumsily tied with what appeared to be household string. She smelt blood and sweat and consciously blocked them out. She could see through to the bedroom now, and a mass of screwed up linen: that must have been where he'd raped his sister.

Her eyes went back to Mac: he hadn't moved, but she noticed that he was wearing socks. She looked at the polished wooden floor and understood: Shepherd would leave the socks so his victim couldn't run on the smooth surface. OK – she was with him so far…

"You coming in or what?"

"Yeah." Her voice was still firm: Mac would be proud of… She clenched her jaw. Mac would be proud of her. She was here to make sure he had the chance to be proud of her. "I'm stepping into the room now." She raised her arms to make it clear she was unarmed, and moved forward.

As soon as she was clear of the door, it slammed shut: Shepherd had been standing behind it. Slowly, she turned to face him, and saw a nightmare come true.

Dave Shepherd was a big man, but his bulk was made up of fat rather than muscle. He stood three feet away from her, a huge blob of flesh, his hair matted, his stubble unevenly slashed, wearing canvas shoes, a grubby vest and perhaps the filthiest pair of shorts she had ever seen. They were unzipped, and it was clear that he was wearing nothing underneath. He clutched a small handgun, pointed too casually at the floor.

She met his eyes, searching for something – anything – that might give her a way in to the humanity of this person. She saw nothing. The man behind those eyes had long since ceased human living: they were as unseeing as the corpse of his sister, lacking only the terrible cloudiness of death.

Shepherd didn't give her a chance to search for long. "Turn around," he said roughly and, keeping her arms raised, she did so. When she had her back to him, he spoke again. "Stop!"

Oh God, she thought – what had he seen? She had nothing on her except the clothes she stood up in – not even a cell. What could have given him offence?

"Bend over."

"What?"

"Bend over!" A sick feeling threatened to rise up within her, but she fought it down. Slowly, she bent forward, letting her arms drop to prevent her from falling. She heard the slap of footfalls, and knew that he was standing behind her. His breathing quickened. "Nice…" She swallowed. Any indignity, any injury – if it got Mac out alive, it was worth it.

She was surprised at how calm the thought made her. The last time she had been trapped in an apartment with somebody bent on murder, she had been so panicked that she had hardly known what she was doing: now, she was calculating every move. She was vaguely surprised at how much difference there seemed to be between the value she placed on Mac's life, and the value she placed on her own.

"Stand up then – let's have a better look." She stood, and turned again. She'd been right: Shepherd stood not six inches away, leering and breathing over her in a way that promised unmistakeable and exquisite horrors. He smelt of fried onions and old beer. So, she thought, he'd been drinking both beer and spirits. How much? Might he lose consciousness soon – or just lose control?

He reached out a hand to touch her hair, and it was almost impossible not to flinch. The reaction was more than a reflection of feeling – it was instinct. By a phenomenal effort of will she remained still, and this did not seem to displease Shepherd, who suddenly gripped her hair and pulled her violently towards him. When less than an inch remained between their faces, and Stella was convinced he was about to kiss her – if that word or anything like it could be applied both to what Shepherd planned to do to her and what she wanted to do to Mac – he stopped.

"You're mine, you know that?" He didn't seem to need an answer, so she gave him none. "You scared?" Abruptly, he let her go, and she staggered back, moving nearer to Mac as she did so.

"Yeah." She knew he would see through a lie. "Aren't you?"

He grinned: his teeth were as revolting as the rest of him. "You see, I got nothing to lose. Death – prison – all the same. You… You got life – his life – and I'll bet there's a man somewhere who likes to play with you when you get home, isn't there? Or – " and his eyes grew hard and, if possible, colder " – a woman. You look the type to have a woman. All legs and attitude." He spat at her, and frothy, greasy liquid ran down her vest.

"I have a man," she began. "We – we like it rough." She heard herself speak, but it was as though the words were coming out of an alien mouth. What the hell was she saying? Who was she describing – Frankie? Certainly not Mac – kind, gentle Mac, who would surely be the most glorious, considerate and exciting lover anyone could imagine. Involuntarily, she sighed, feeling even here a moment of need wash over her. Stress, she knew, did strange things to people: the instinct was inappropriate, but not necessarily incongruous.

But one glance at Shepherd's face showed that her ill-considered speech and action had reached him in a way that mere reason could not have hoped to do. His breathing became shallow and he began to shift his footing; he licked his lips, and looked her up and down in a way she had no words to describe.

"Take off the vest," he said hoarsely.

So, she thought, it starts. She tried to pretend that she didn't care what happened to her: that only Mac was important. But she did care, and it took all her courage to reply calmly. "OK. Will you let me check that Detective Taylor isn't hurt?" She'd seen enough negotiations to know the drill. Always demand a concession for a concession – it earns respect, and gains objectives.

Shepherd's brow creased. "Vest first."

"OK." She began to peel back the velcro, consciously avoiding the wetness on the vest's front. "Then I'll check him over." She tried to make it last as long as possible, but undoing half a dozen fastenings only takes a few seconds, and in less than a minute her only physical protection against this man lay useless at her feet. She heard him growl.

Mac – oh God, Mac… For you – worth it for you…

"I'm going to walk across to Detective Taylor, now," she said, and began to move carefully towards the figure in the chair.

"I'm watching you."

"OK."

She walked around the chair and composed her face into a mask: she had to give Mac a cue, if he hadn't picked it up already, that she was pretending to be a stranger to him.

Beautiful and dead, in her apartment.

No, beautiful and alive, and she would make sure he remained so. As she approached him, he moaned slightly, and she froze. But he wasn't aware of her: blindfolded and gagged, he'd probably been hit as well, though she could see no evidence of a blow. She'd been surprised that he hadn't reacted when she came in: but now she saw the reason why – he seemed to have been able to work his mouth around the gag so that the material was pulled, thin and cruel, between the edges of his mouth, but there was something thick and white nestling in his ears.

"What the – " she exclaimed without thinking. It looked like glue. "What have you put in his ears?"

Immediately, she regretted the words: her tone had been that of the normal, in-control Stella, and she could not allow herself to be that woman.

"What d'you say?"

She tried to recover. "I'm sorry – I was surprised. There's something blocking his ears. Did you put it there?"

"You respect me, Stella!"

"I do – I do! I just – I've never seen anything like that before. What happened?"

"Sealant. That stuff around tubs and showers – filled his ears to stop him listening to me. Shut him up talking, too." He grinned. "Here – shout at him. See if it works."

She looked at the helpless man before her. His head was raised now: he seemed genuinely unharmed except for the indignity of his restraints, and her relief at not even finding a bruise made her momentarily light-headed. "OK. Mac," she said loudly. "Hey – Mac!"

She got a response – but not from Mac. Shepherd was at her side, grabbing her arm and jerking her away from his prisoner with such force that she knew she'd have bruises by the morning. If she survived that long. "What do you mean, 'Mac'? How do you know his name? Why did you call him 'Mac' – you know him, don't you? You little bitch…"

He flung her away from him and pulled back the slide on the gun. "No – wait!" Stella yelled, scrambling to her feet. "I told you his name before. Of course I know who he is – I'd never come in not knowing who was in here! That – " she thought quickly, adrenalin and desperation sharpening her wits " – that would just be rude. That wouldn't show respect."

For a moment, she thought she'd blown it. Then Shepherd's expression changed, and she realised she'd been given another chance. She remembered to breathe again – and then remembered that she'd just saved her life so he could take it later, at his leisure.

For you, Mac – so that you can live… Not once, in all the time she spent with Dave Shepherd, did Stella consider Mac's future agony at knowing she had sacrificed herself for him. It said much about her attitude towards both her boss and herself that the thought never even occurred to her.

"Get over there." Shepherd motioned her away from Mac, towards the bedroom. "Stop – far enough. Right – take off the blouse." Again, the sick feeling rose: again she fought it down. She pulled the top over her head and stood with it in her left hand, hanging down at her side like an accusation, as Shepherd's eyes drank her in.

Stella enjoyed her underwear: she wore good-quality, beautiful clothes because they gave her pleasure. Occasionally, they gave others pleasure too. Now, it was clear they were having the same effect on her captor, who began to rub his shorts absent-mindedly. Stella knew how she looked, and she tried to imagine looking that way for Mac. She imagined his fingers trailing over her body, his mouth following them with subtle, wet kisses, exploring her secret places until she cried out in abandonment and joy.

Then, she knew how to defend herself. No matter what this man did to her body – and she had no doubt that he intended to use it for every purpose he possibly could – in her mind she would only be touched by Mac. When Shepherd hit her, she would imagine Mac's caresses. When his huge mouth was on her, she would imagine melting into Mac's embrace. When he – when he raped her, she would imagine she was opening herself to Mac's desire, giving him all he wanted, all he needed, for ever and ever…

"I'd like to untie Detective Taylor now," she said firmly. Shepherd didn't answer: he was still staring at her cleavage. "I'm going to untie his feet first," she continued. If his feet were free, at least he could run. Though where to was another matter.

"What?" stammered Shepherd, whose continued rubbing at his shorts had resulted in something that left nothing to the imagination.

Stella pretended she couldn't see it. "OK – I'll untie his feet now." She crossed again to where Mac sat and, crouching down, began to pull at the rough knots around his ankles. Immediately the still man sprang into life, wriggling and thrashing within his bonds, keening as loudly as the gag would let him and making it impossible for her to proceed. "Please keep still, Detective," she said, before remembering that he couldn't hear her.

How could she make him understand that she was here for him? Only, always for him… Being this close, seeing his naked skin, so smooth except for that one wound, surrounded by the scent of him, even though it was the scent of pain and fear… Knowing what might be ahead for her, she breathed him in and counted it as one of her happiest moments.

She glanced at Shepherd and saw that he was oblivious to her, to Mac, to anything but his own gratification. The gun was still in his free hand – she had no chance of making it across the distance between them in the few seconds of ghastly activity that remained. But she could warn Mac.

How – how? She did the only thing she could think of that Dave Shepherd most certainly would not do: she kissed him. On the right cheek, just below the blindfold, on the soft skin above where his beard would grow. She let her lips linger for just longer than a common greeting: it would be, she thought, the last time she did so.

He tensed, and drew in a quick breath: she had to stop him crying out, or they were both dead. Silently, she placed two fingers across his parted lips: he had to know by the touch that they didn't belong to Shepherd. Abruptly, he froze, then let his breath out slowly, as if he understood the need for silence. She looked at his face, distorted beneath its restraints, but still – in her eyes – the most beautiful face she'd ever seen.

Aching to kiss him again, she beat down the feeling and finished untying the muddle of poorly-executed knots that bound his ankles. Then she stood, resting her hand on his shoulder in a final gesture of affection. "He seems to be fine," she said in a voice a little too loud for the room: she didn't dare look at Shepherd for fear of what he might still be doing.

But Shepherd's moment of self-indulgence was over: he had wiped his hand on his stained shorts, and was once again staring at her. "What d'you expect?" he growled: his activities clearly hadn't improved his mood, but she realised, with a flash of relief, that they might have given her a little more time. He'd hardly be likely to start raping her if he couldn't finish…

She shuddered, then remembered herself and stood up straight and strong. She had once said to Sid that she separated people into mind, body and spirit: well, all this animal would get was her body. Her mind was clear and her spirit was her own.

And Mac's, if he would have it.

She turned aside from the thought: it was too painful to bear. "I'd like to get him to safety," she said. "Everyone will be a lot more relaxed once he's out of here."

"You mean your life ain't worth that much?"

"I mean that I'm a trained negotiator, and he's not. And as far as I'm concerned, that makes all our lives worth the same." She paused. "I want to walk out that door, Dave, and I want you to walk out of it too. And, if we can talk things through, there's no reason why that can't happen."

His lip curled, and he blinked. Reaching behind him, he took another mouthful of whisky, and wiped a hand sloppily across his mouth. Afterwards, his lips were still obscenely moist. "How you going to make me happy enough to do that, then?"

Stella reflected that she'd already made him happy once. She looked him in the eyes. "I'm sure we can find a way."

He seemed taken aback by her reply, and its subtle implication of a shared, unspoken knowledge. She thought she saw him relax. "So if I said I wanted a million in used bills and free passage out of here, you could do that for me?"

Stella grinned, as though she sympathised. "It's a starting point. How about a transfer to a better facility and some extra privileges?"

The words were scarcely out of her mouth before she realised how far she'd miscalculated. Shepherd was across the room in less than a second, moving unbelievably fast for such a big man, slamming her against the wall with his anger and momentum. He held her there, one arm under her chin and the other pinning her wrist above her head: she grabbed at him with her free hand, but he was far heavier and stronger than she was and the struggle was hopeless.

"Don't fuck with me," he hissed, his breath thick and salt in her face. "You mean nothing – nothing, Stella – I kill you and they'll just send another one in. And you know? – I kill him, they do the same. You – are – worthless. You got that?"

Stella could barely gasp a response before he dropped her and she collapsed to the floor. Her head was burning from the blow, and her throat felt sore and bruised. Worse, she knew she had lost ground in this war of attrition they were waging, and would now have to fight back with increased subtlety and guile. She shook herself, trying to clear the fog that clouded her eyes, and fire flashed through her. She dropped her head, aware that she probably had a concussion, but knowing that the last thing she could afford was rest.

As her eyes focussed again, she noticed a small movement at her right hand side: Flack had finally got the feed through the vaccing system and would now, presumably, be aware of everything that happened. Great, she thought – my very own snuff movie.

The thought was not a comforting one.

Leaning on her right hand, she gathered her senses. Freeing Mac, letting Flack know what was going on – they were the priorities.

Slowly, she stood. Mac's head was twisted round – he must have been aware of the activity behind him, feeling the vibrations travelling through the floor but wisely keeping quiet. He must also, she thought, be terrified, though his face showed only confusion: he knew someone in this room was on his side, but he could not know when, or if, anyone planned to strike or kill him. Somehow she had to get this situation resolved sooner rather than later: Shepherd was obviously far more volatile than she had imagined, and her next mistake could be her last.

He sat on the little table by the window, cradling the gun next to his crotch. The symbolism was clear. Casually, he raised it and pointed it at her. "You wind me up again – boom!" She winced. But her brain was working again, and his action had allowed her to get a clear view of the weapon: as far as she could tell it was a P11 or PF-9, designed for concealment and therefore with a limited number of rounds in the magazine. She tried to remember how many each carried, and couldn't.

Without warning, Shepherd yanked back the slide, pointed the gun at the wall and fired. She felt the bullet breeze past her, and ducked in panic as shards of hot plaster flew through the air. Then he was shouting, almost out of control in the confined space of the apartment. "That's how easily I can kill you, bitch! That's how easily I can kill him! So don't mess me about – OK?"

"OK," she shouted back, desperate that Flack should hear before he gave the order to storm the place. "OK." She raised her voice further. "No-one's been hurt – we're cool in here. Dave – we're cool, right? Detective Taylor's fine – I'm fine – you're fine."

She watched him step back from the brink, and slowly lower the weapon. One less bullet, she thought – one less bullet. It was something.

"You're going to do what I want now," he growled. "You owe me. Never, ever, treat me like a fool again."

"I apologise. But – " the gun wavered " – I think it's unlikely you'll get a million dollars. I'll be honest with you, Dave – it's a lot of money."

"I don't want money."

Now she was confused: nothing this man said could be relied on. And without consistency, her job would be impossible. She must provide consistency for them both. If he thought she was reliable, it might give him a measure of stability. She had to hope: it was all that Mac had. "OK – so what can we offer you?"

"What do you got?"

"I'll probably be able to offer you a lot more than otherwise if you free Detective Taylor."

"Detective Taylor, Detective Taylor!" he mimicked. Always on about damned Detective Taylor! Why don't I put a bullet through Detective Taylor's head and take him out the reckoning, huh?"

Stella screamed: but only in her mind. "Because that would bring NYPD through that door all guns blazing."

"So where were they just now, huh?"

"Why d'you think I yelled that we were cool?"

He considered. Then he released the slide, and she breathed again. "Let's see what's underneath the pants," he said abruptly.

Stella blinked: although dressed in only her bra, pants and stilettos, she'd somehow forgotten that this seemed to be part of the deal. She tried to repeat her mantra – for Mac, for Mac – to herself, but now the words seemed to have lost their meaning. All that was left was action. She unbuttoned her belt, and saw him lick his lips. "I'll need something from you," she said firmly, surprised that her voice was so flat and cold.

"You don't bargain!" he snapped.

"I'm just being fair," she said evenly. "And if you show you're fair with me, they'll be more inclined to provide what you want."

"Do it," he said, motioning with the gun. "Then ask."

"I want Detective Taylor on his feet."

"I said do it!"

"OK – just wanted you to know." She slipped off her shoes, aware of her immediately lessened height. Running her hand down the zipper, she eased the pants off her hips: they cascaded to the floor in a waterfall of fabric, and as she delicately stepped out of them, she almost wanted to laugh. She had never been so frightened in all her life: not of death, for that was a certainty now, but of what would come before. The thought that this was all for Mac – all worth it, for Mac – no longer calmed her. She began to shake.

"Put the shoes back on." She did so, feeling ludicrous and tawdry. Then she turned towards Mac. "I didn't say you could move!" Shepherd barked.

She looked at him levelly. "If they see you're a man of your word, they'll respect you for that. You're much more likely to get what you want if they trust you." Did he, she wondered, believe this stuff she was saying? Did he view himself as in any way trustworthy? Self-delusion – what a wonderful thing.

As she walked across the room, she flicked her eyes at the hole in the wall, and saw the little snout of the feed follow her: Flack was keeping up with the show. Turning back, she touched Mac's shoulder, stood in front of him and, a hand on each arm, helped him to stand. It was difficult – the chair moved erratically on its castors – but he finally staggered to a standing equilibrium. Keeping one hand on him to steady him – she shied away from any other explanation – she again pressed the other to his lips. The less proactive he was, the better: if Shepherd saw him as no threat, his chances of escape improved dramatically.

"I'm going to walk you towards the door, Detective," she said conversationally. She knew Mac couldn't hear her, but Shepherd and Flack could. Slowly, she guided him round the chair: there was nothing now between him and freedom save the longest eight-foot stretch of floor in the world.

An eight-foot stretch of floor now blocked by Shepherd.

"I didn't say he could walk!"

Stella pursed her lips: time for a bit of assertion. Her head was pounding furiously, and she was beginning to feel faint and sick: it was important to bring this to a conclusion now, before she passed out and it was all for nothing. "We need to move on, Dave. You know it and I know it. Once he's out of here, you and I can negotiate properly – no distractions."

He ran his eyes up and down her almost-naked body. "I like the distractions."

"Yeah. Listen, work with me, OK?" Overcoming her revulsion, she reached out a hand and touched his wrist. "You'll get concessions. And no cops in the way."

After a few seconds that lasted a lifetime, he nodded, and Stella felt almost giddy from elation. He walked around Mac until he stood behind Stella, and she felt the dank coldness of the pistol against her inner thigh. "Move!" he hissed.

She did so, one hand on Mac's arm and another resting on his waist. She tried to take in the sensation of his naked skin, but her vision was beginning to blur, and she felt largely numb. It would soon be over, she told herself – and then there would be no more pain: no more fear, or love, or anything at all.

But Mac would be safe, and if she died, that was the knowledge she would hang on to. She would fight for her life, but once he was on the other side of that door she had achieved what she came here to do. She stumbled slightly: she had to stay conscious just a few more minutes…

The door drew nearer. She reached past Mac to open it, acutely conscious even in her pain of skin against skin. She ached for his touch – but she ached for his life more. Her hand on the catch, she called out. "Detective Flack? I'm opening the door – can your men stand back, please? Detective Taylor's coming out." Her heart beat fast: they were so close. So close…

Flack's voice echoed back, slightly muffled. "We're away. Send him out."

Turning the handle – hearing the click of the lock – tugging the door wide – stepping back so that she was once again between Mac and Shepherd. Feeling the gun against her, calling out that Mac was deaf, dumb and blind, pulling the poorly-tied string from his sore wrists – pushing him forward, step by step, to life and freedom. Being level with the door – seeing Flack's shadow – snatching one last touch as Mac's hands came free – hearing Shepherd yell, the slide pulled back, Flack moving, diving, turning, firing…

It was all over in less than five seconds, but to Stella it played out in hideous, inevitable slow motion. Hearing the slide, she knew that Shepherd had been playing her all along – fool that she'd been – and meant to kill them just as they reached the threshold of freedom. A dam of hatred burst within her, and with strength she hardly knew she had she shoved Mac forward, slamming his shoulder blades with the flats of her hands, grateful that he'd be able to break his fall and escape a broken nose.

Flinging herself aside, trying to pull Mac out of the direct line of the doorway, she yelled at Flack, already there and firing over her head as she fell. The world was full of pain and noise and movement: something wet sprayed across her back, and she was kicked, over and away from Mac, losing that precious contact. Furious shouting, the thunder of gunshots, a thud, footsteps, someone grabbing her, pulling her away, desperately struggling to be free – oh God, did he have her after all, where was Mac, where was Mac, Mac, Mac, Mac…

She began to scream, and couldn't stop.

The slap across the face confirmed it: no-one else would assault her like that. Shepherd had got her, but damn him, she was going down fighting! She spat, heard an exclamation, and opened shocked eyes to see Flack staring at her with an indescribable expression on his face. She gasped, her mouth opening and closing incoherently, gagging on memories and bile, shaking and screaming and hanging on to him to stop herself from falling.

He was shouting, trying to get through the wall of hysteria that had finally closed in on her. He shook her, perhaps more violently than necessary, but as she stared at him her common sense began to return, and she found herself panting and shaking, her head spinning from terror and pain, her legs weak beneath her as she realised that, by some impossible miracle, she was alive and free. Flack pulled her to him, and she felt friendly arms gather her up, safe and warm and giving her a future.

But Mac… Mac, for whom she had done all this, without whom it would all be worthless: where was he? She tried to look behind Flack, but he moved to block her gaze. "Mac – Mac – Don, where is he? Mac – Don, please! Where is he? Is he – is – Mac!" She was incoherent in her terror.

"Come on, Stell," Flack said, ignoring her disjointed words. "Paramedics, over here! Suspected concussion – think she's OK apart from that."

Hands taking her from behind, guiding her away from hell, straining to look over her shoulder, medics kneeling on the ground, surrounding something flat and inert, blood – oh God, so much blood, everywhere – arterial spray across the hall…

"Mac!" she yelled, fighting her new captors but too weak to overcome them. Her eyes flooded with hopeless, bitter tears, and she was suddenly, violently, sick. She heard someone screaming. Mac was gone, gone, gone…

"No…"

The world came to an end.

To be concluded in chapter 3