Chapter 13
A/N: See, see? I haven't abandoned this puppy! He's growing quite nicely, as a matter of fact! But between health "issues," new job "issues," and other "issues" of various kinds, writing has taken a back seat. I hope you enjoy the next installment, even though it is a short one. As a final note, I include another reminder that Collier's bigotry and language are his and his alone. I have not, do not, and never will use this language.
"Collier! The television is here. We've kept our side of the bargain. Now it's your turn."
An ominous lack of movement from within the forensics floor break room answered Mac Taylor's call. Standing up the hallway, barely within sight of the break area entry, he waited, breathless, for any sight or sound. Ten seconds, fifteen. Twenty seconds, a full minute passed with no sign of a response.
Beside him, Stella Bonasera whispered a soft prayer. On his other side, Don Flack's breathing was unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent corridor.
Will Collier stick to his word? Mac offered up a prayer of his own. God, please, for Lindsay's sake, let it be so.
The blinds over the break room door moved.
Every drawn weapon, including every detective's pistol and the SWAT team's automatic weapons, snapped to alert as the door cracked open.
Mac caught his first view of his man's condition and gasped. "Hawkes?"
"I'm fine, Mac," Sheldon Hawkes said, though he was clearly not fine by any reliable definition of the word.
Stark white bandages and livid black bruises marred the former medical examiner's face and head. Blood--his own, Lindsay's, and Danny's--stiffened his black turtleneck sweater. As he toed off the wheel break of the TV stand and started the tall metal shelf rolling, he moved with the stiffness of an 80-year-old man.
Collier's hate-filled voice filtered through from the dark recesses of the hostage scene. "Get back in here! What's taking you so long?"
"I'm coming," Hawkes replied and vanished with the TV cart.
The watchers waited again. One minute passed, then another. Mac ground his teeth together in helpless rage. With each passing second, he became more convinced that Collier would renege on his agreement.
The door blinds moved again.
A single foot slipped through, its heel caught on the aluminum frame in order to pull the portal open wider. As soon as the opening was sufficient, Hawkes stepped back into the doorway.
Lindsay Monroe lay diagonally across his chest, her left arm draped over his right shoulder, forehead resting against his throat. Her legs dangled beneath his left arm like a puppet's after the strings have been cut. The silver space blanket slipped down to reveal the blood-soaked bandages and clothing that covered her back.
Moving with infinite care, Hawkes transferred Lindsay to the stretcher, doing his very best to keep her spine as straight as possible. He laid his precious burden onto the white sheet, rubbed his forehead, and leaned against the locked stretcher frame for support.
The instant the black CSI completed the move, Captain Robbins' hand squeezed Mac's shoulder. The SWAT leader's grip stopped Taylor from rushing forward, part of an automatic need to help his injured friends.
"You are taking far too long!" Collier called again. "Get back in this room, you pompous, useless, ignorant negro! I will not tell you again!"
"Sheldon, you can't go back in there," Mac begged, his hand held out in entreaty. "His bigotry and hatred ... I don't know how much longer we can keep him from doing something violent. You'll be the first one he kills."
"I know," Hawkes whispered, his voice quivering with fear. He shivered and straightened his spine with great effort. "He has a gun to Danny's head. I have to go back." Sheldon brushed his fingertips across Lindsay's ratted hair, an unmistakable goodbye, and stepped back into the break room. As the door closed, he said, "Get her to Sid, asap."
Taylor called out, "Hawkes, wait!" but it was too late. The doctor had already disappeared.
The instant the vertical blinds stopped swinging, six men from the SWAT team moved forward, the four with shields providing cover for the final two. Within moments, they moved the stretcher from the danger zone to in front of the waiting elevator.
Mac and his team joined them there.
Sid Hammerback pounced on the stretcher's occupant the instant the SWAT men made an opening wide enough for him to pass through. He checked Lindsay's pupils and carotid pulse, took one flash look at the wound beneath the dressing, and shoved the gurney toward the open elevator, shouting, "Move, move, move!" to the pair of assisting EMTs.
"Call us, Sid, soon as there's news!" Mac shouted as the elevator doors slid closed, cutting off their view of the tiny, still figure on the stretcher. Dr. Hammerback was too intent on his critically injured patient to answer.
An eternal silence followed. Every man and woman in the group paused, each a mix of conflicting emotions. Gratitude to have Lindsay finally on her way to a hospital. Horror at their first clear view of her condition. Fear that their every effort would prove to be in vain. Continued concern for Danny Messer and Sheldon Hawkes, who remained in the hands of a madman.
The silence lasted a full half-minute, until Adam Ross stumbled into the crowd gathered beside the freshly closed elevator.
"Mac, Don, everybody!" Adam called. Though both hands carried folders, he waved the one in his right hand in their direction. "I've analyzed all the phone conversations. Sheldon whispered a report into the background of one of the phone conversation between Mac and Collier. Weapons info, medications, Collier's health and condition, room situation, everything you'll need to know if you have to storm in. I made a written transcript!"
The SWAT commander, Tom Robbins, grabbed the folder, hissed a triumphant "Yes!" and hurried toward Mac's office, already reading the top pages. Larry Baynes followed close on his heels. The departmental negotiator accepted the first sheet as the SWAT leader finished reading and passed it over. Three of Robbins' Alpha team members trailed behind the pair.
As the CSI group moved to join them, Adam Ross held out his arms, blocking his teammates. Mac frowned but bit back an automatic reprimand. Though anxious to be involved in any planning, he trusted his lab tech. Adam would have a good reason to want to speak outside the hearing of non-team personnel.
Taylor's eyes lit on the folder in Ross' left hand. What else has he found that he doesn't want Robbins or Baynes to know about?
"Adam?"
"There's more, Mac," the bearded, red-haired tech reported. "I want to run the results by you first, just in case SWAT decides it's reason enough to go charging in, guns blazing."
Mac grimaced and tilted his head to one side. Beside him, Stella and Don's expressions mirrored his misgivings.
"Something tells me I'm not going to like what you're about to tell me."
Adam sighed and nodded. "I ran a ballistics on the bullet Stella pulled from the wall in the Trace lab. I got a hit. Well. Three hits, actually." He handed over the first of three stapled reports in the folder. "First was about three weeks ago, someone put three rounds into the side of a YMCA building over in Queens. Shot up a sign for an upcoming fundraiser for the local kids--clothing, school supplies, and suchlike."
"Lemme guess," Don Flack cut in as he studied the police report over Mac's shoulder. "It was a minority neighborhood."
"'Fraid so. Luckily, no one was there at the time."
Mac seriously didn't want to but forced himself to ask, "When were the other two?"
Adam passed over the second report. "Second was last Sunday afternoon. Drive-by at a Catholic church in broad daylight."
The papers jerked in Taylor's hand, the paper rattle a sign of his agitation. Mac hissed under his breath while Don and Stella said in unison, "A church?"
"Hispanic wedding. A couple of guests and the groom's father were injured but no one was killed."
As he examined the report, along with accompanying scene and victim photographs, Mac immediately saw the pattern behind the attacks. "He's becoming more violent, more willing to act on his impulses, less restrained by lifelong morals."
Adam ducked his head, paused, and finished his synopsis. He handed over the final report. His body language screamed determination laced with undeniable reluctance. "The third hit ... was two days ago--Wednesday. An African American male was shot nine times while walking his dog in a predominantly white neighborhood. Jersey PD thinks it was a hate crime."
"Dammit." Mac smacked his flat right palm against the nearby wall and spun a quarter turn to the left. Tormented eyes turned to meet the equally horrified gazes of his friends. "He's already killed. He'll have nothing to lose by taking out Shelton and Danny."