Hostage Negotiation. Lena Diaz

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       Chapter Four

      Mumbling voices. Whispered conversations. Antiseptic smell. Above her, a muffled, static-filled announcement over an intercom—code blue to room three twenty-eight. Hospital. She was in a hospital. She curled her hands in the sheets and opened her eyes then blinked against the bright, fluorescent lights. Footsteps sounded to her right and the harsh lights switched off, leaving the room dimly lit. Relieved, she blinked and took her first good look around.

      And immediately wished she hadn’t.

      Her room, though large by most hospital standards, was positively claustrophobic since there were five men and a woman crammed inside, all wearing business suits and standing by her bed. Dark pieces of memories swirled through her mind, of being caught, trapped. She recoiled against her pillow and pulled the sheet up to her neck, fighting the panic that was threatening to overwhelm her.

      “Back up,” a deep voice ordered from her right. “You’re scaring her.”

      Unhappy grumblings filled the room, but “the suits” dutifully stepped away from the bed. She turned her head on her pillow to see who’d spoken, a seventh person, a man whom she hadn’t noticed before. Which, now that she saw him, seemed ludicrous. He wasn’t the kind of man to fade into the background. There was a certain...intensity about him, an aura of confidence, authority, that commanded attention.

      He wasn’t unusually tall, standing at about six feet. He had short, light brown hair and dark eyes—hard to tell the exact color from this distance. Trim-waisted, he wore a long-sleeved, button-down blue shirt tucked into khaki pants with a sharp crease that could have sliced butter. His arms were crossed, emphasizing his large biceps and muscular chest. He was obviously fit, powerful, strong—qualities that she should have admired. But for some reason, seeing him made her tense and flooded her with an overwhelming desire to run, escape.

      She frowned. Escape? What an odd thought to pop into her head.

      “Do you know where you are?”

      His voice was gentle, soothing, oddly familiar. The panic that had started inside her at seeing how strong, how powerful he was, began to fade. She’d heard that voice before, somewhere. And it made her feel...safe. She frowned again. Why would she crave safety? Was she in danger? None of this made sense.

      The man with the intense, dark eyes didn’t approach her bed. Instead, he stayed by the window, as if he sensed her hesitancy, her confusion, her...fear?

      “Hospital,” she answered his question. “I’m in a hospital. Not sure which one.”

      “Naples Community. I’m Chief Zack Scott from Mystic Glades. We...met...earlier. Do you remember?”

      He’d winced when he said they’d met. Why? Wait. Naples? Why was she in Naples? That wasn’t right. She should have been...where? She tried to think, to remember...anything...but her thoughts were a jumble of blurred images that didn’t make sense.

      This man, the one in khaki pants...he’d been kneeling over her. When? Why? His face had been lined with concern, his voice gentle as he smoothed her hair out of her eyes.

      “Do you know your name?” he asked quietly, from his position by the window.

      “Of course I know my name. It’s...it’s...” She blinked, her breaths coming faster, her pulse slamming in her veins. Why couldn’t she remember? Her head throbbed. Her body flushed hot and cold. She raised her hand to her forehead and saw the IV tubing twisted around her arm, tape on the top of her wrist. Ugly purple bruises and lighter yellow ones dotted both of her arms. White bandages were...everywhere. What was going on? She jerked her head up and met the kind eyes of...what did he say his name was? Zack? “I don’t... I can’t...” She pressed her lips together and shook her head in frustration. “I can’t remember.”

      “It’s okay,” he assured her. “The doctor said that might happen, because of your concussion, and that any memory loss is most likely temporary. You were in an accident, but you’re going to be...fine.”

      His jaw tightened briefly, as if his choice of words disturbed him. But then he smiled again. “No broken bones. Mostly cuts, scrapes, bruises.” He waved his hand toward the others. “Everyone in this room is law enforcement. We’re here to talk to you about what happened. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

      She let his soothing voice wrap around her like a warm blanket, forcing back the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. He’d said she’d been in an accident and that she had a concussion, which made sense since her head was throbbing. It would all come back to her. With this many law-enforcement officers in her room, whatever had happened must have been horrible.

      She froze. Wait. Six, no, seven officials standing in her room. Would they do that for an accident victim? Or had the accident been her fault? СКАЧАТЬ