Fracture (Blood & Roses #3-4) - Callie Hart Page 0,19

in the cafeteria. This just isn’t something that happens here.

“No, not Italian. We’ve been investigating a high-level crime boss for some time now. He runs a lot of rackets in the city. Drugs, guns, gambling, counterfeit money. Word has it Frankie Monterello dropped the ball on a business deal this guy had in the works and he paid the price. We know that our P.O.I ordered the hit; we just need to pin it on him. Frankie’s brother, Archie, is the key to doing that. We have mug shots of people known to associate with our P.O.I. There are only a few faces on here that you really need to be worried about. I strongly doubt any of them will be stupid enough to come down here.” Detective Cooper nods to an armed, uniformed officer who begins to hand out sheets of paper bearing the mug shots to the nursing team.

“Can you give us a better indication of how dangerous this situation is please, Detective?” Hendry asks. “Are we likely to get shot trying to do our job is what I’m asking.”

“No. We’re here to ensure that doesn’t happen. At this stage we’re banking on the fact that our P.O.I doesn’t even realize he’s being investigated. He thinks he’s an untouchable, but he’s very wrong. We’re gonna make sure he goes away for a long time.”

Hendry nods, accepts the paper from Oliver, studies it momentarily and then passes it on to me. “Where do we stand with regards to self-defense? If one of these fuckers does come here and attacks us…are we allowed to shoot them up with sedative? Use the defibrillator on them? “

The nurses titter. I glance down at the paper, already halfway to handing it on to the next person, when my breath catches in my throat.

Oh.

Oh.

My mind just keeps on saying it. My throat begins to swell shut as it repeats itself over and over.

Oh…

On the paper are a mosaic of nameless mug shots, eight of them on the first page and more on the other side. They’re numbered down the page, and at number one, in prize place, Zeth Mayfair’s face stares grimly out at me.

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

If you stand on the roof of St. Peter’s of Mercy Hospital at night, the things you can see are kind of incredible. Back when Alexis and I were kids, my father used to bring us up here sometimes when his shifts were quiet. The doctors would turn a blind eye—Jacob Romera was a beloved employee, a radiologist for thirty-five years in the very place where I now work. He moved out to private practice in L.A. long before I ever showed my face here as a clueless intern, but his name still means something in these hallways. He could get away with anything.

His favorite time to bring us up here was when it snowed, an event infrequent enough that it would have us jumping out of skins with excitement. The soft white flakes spinning dizzily from the vast expanse of sky overhead, the thick blanket of cloud that incubated the world, used to thrill Alexis and me beyond words. We would stand for hours, necks burning from craning them back for so long, until our bodies went numb and Dad would usher us inside before one of us got sick. Memories like that rush at me, knocking the wind out of me every time I come up here.

I push them down tonight, though. It’s not snowing, it’s raining, and we’re waiting on a trauma to come in. It makes me feel sick, the waiting. The adrenaline I need to think, act, move quickly is already pulsing around my body, useless until I can actually see what we’re dealing with. The wind howls, driving the rain sideways, lashing at our bodies, soaking surgical gowns. Oliver is with me, waiting patiently. He’s a good friend, a good man. Funny, smart, attractive, a terrible flirt. It’s a miracle he’s single.

In the distance the volley of something mechanical reverberates off the city’s high rises. “Hear that? The helo.” Oliver nudges me with his elbow. “Can’t be more than a mile out. Hit the elevator.”

I don’t have a problem grabbing the elevator doors. It’s been held on this floor for the past ten minutes with the doors closed, and the nursing team waiting with a gurney and life-support gear inside are nice and warm and dry. Time for those bastards to get wet, too.

I jog back to