looked unsure, but then stood and hurried from the room.
Just as Katie had hoped she would. She didn’t want to talk about Jordan. Not now. Not when she felt exhausted and emotional. She wanted to keep focused on the birthing plan, on staying safe, on making sure she did what her brothers-in-law and the police asked her to. Since Martin’s escape, the Jameson brothers had been escorting her almost everywhere. Today, though, they were attending a training seminar in Manhattan. They’d asked fellow K-9 officer Tony Knight to run patrols past the medical clinic. They’d told her to be careful and aware. To stay close to their mother. To listen to her gut.
Right now, her gut was saying she was exhausted. That she needed to sleep. That she didn’t want to think about the danger or the tragedy.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” she called, bracing herself for the meeting with Dr. Ritter.
The door swung open and a man in a white lab coat stepped in, holding her chart close to his face.
Only, he was not the doctor she was expecting.
Dr. Ritter was in his early sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and enough extra weight to fill out his lab coat. The doctor who was moving toward her had dark hair and a muscular build. His scuffed shoes and baggy lab coat made her wonder if he were a resident at the hospital where she would be giving birth.
“Good morning,” she said, feeling unsettled. She had been meeting with Dr. Ritter since the beginning of the pregnancy. He understood her feelings about the birth. He probably suspected a lot of the fear and trepidation she tried to hide. She never had to say much at her appointments, and that was the way she liked it. Talking about the fact that Jordan wouldn’t be around for his daughter’s birth, her childhood, her life always brought Katie close to the tears she despised.
“Morning,” he mumbled.
She could see his forehead and his brows but not much else. That seemed strange. Usually, doctors looked up from the charts when they entered the exam rooms.
“Is Dr. Ritter running late?” she asked, uneasiness joining the unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“He won’t be able to make it,” the man said, lowering the charts and grinning.
She went cold with terror.
She knew the hazel eyes, the lopsided grin, the high forehead. “Martin,” she stammered, jumping to her feet.
“Sorry it took me so long to get to you, sweetheart. I had to watch from a distance until I was certain we could be alone.”
“Watch?” she repeated.
“They wanted to keep me in the hospital, but our love is too strong to be denied. I escaped for you. For us. And, I’ve been so close to you these past few weeks. It’s been torture.” He lifted a hand, and if she had not jerked back, his fingers would have brushed her cheek.
He scowled. “Have they brainwashed you? Have they turned you against me?”
“You did that yourself when you murdered my husband,” she responded and regretted it immediately.
He grabbed her arm and dragged her the few feet to his side. “We’re leaving here, Katie. We’re going to a quiet place where we can be together.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she replied, trying to yank her arm away, but his grip was firm, his fingers digging through the soft knit fabric of her sweater.
“Katie? I brought juice and water.” Ivy appeared in the doorway, a paper cup in each hand.
Her eyes widened as she saw Martin, her gaze dropping to his hand, then jumping to Katie’s face. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Martin responded, pulling a gun from beneath the lab coat.
The cups dropped from Ivy’s hands, water and juice spilling onto the tile floor, her screams spilling into the hall.
“Shut up!” Martin screamed, yanking Katie forward as he slammed the butt of the gun into the side of Ivy’s head. She went down hard, her body limp, eyes closed.
Katie clawed at Martin’s hand, trying to free herself and get to her mother-in-law. She had taken self-defense classes. She should know how to do this, but panic and pregnancy made her movements clumsy and slow.
“Stop!” he said. One word. Uttered with cold deliberation. The barrel was suddenly pressed into her stomach. She could feel the baby wiggling and turning.
She froze.
Just like he had commanded. Everything in her focused on keeping the baby alive.
“That’s better. You wouldn’t want the baby to get hurt in the scuffle,” he growled, yanking her away from the office. Several nurses were racing toward them, one of them yelling into a cell phone. A doctor barreled around the corner, eyes wide with shock as she saw what the commotion was about.
“Everyone just stay cool,” Martin said, the gun still pressed into Katie’s abdomen. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m just here for my wife.”
She stiffened at the word but was too afraid to argue.
“I’ve called the police,” the nurse with the cell phone said. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“Good for them,” Martin responded. “Everyone get out of our way.” He pushed open the stairwell door and dragged Katie down two flights of steps. She was stumbling, trying to keep her feet under her, terrified that she’d fall and hurt the baby, that the gun would go off, that he’d get her outside and take her wherever he intended.
“Stop.” She gasped, panicking as they rushed into the lobby on the lower level of the building. “I can’t breathe.”
“You’re breathing just fine, my love,” he murmured, smiling tenderly into her face as he pressed the gun more deeply into her stomach.
“Martin, really. I can’t.”
There were people all around, shocked, afraid. Watching but not intervening, and she couldn’t blame them. Martin was armed and obviously dangerous, his eyes gleaming with the fire of his delusions.
“Hey! You! Let her go!” A security guard raced toward them. No gun. Nothing but a radio and a desire to help.
Martin moved the gun, and Katie had seconds to shove him sideways, to try to ruin his aim, save the guard and free herself.
The bullet slammed into the wall, and a woman shrieked.
For a split second, Katie was free, running back to the stairwell, clawing at the doorknob, trying to get back up the stairs and away from Martin.
He grabbed her jacket and dragged her backward, nearly unbalancing her. She felt the barrel of the gun against the side of her neck.
“Don’t make me hurt you, Katie,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.
She froze again.
“That’s my girl. Now, let’s go.” He grabbed her hand, the gun slipping away from her neck, and dragged her outside.
Tony Knight had been a police officer for enough years to know how to stay calm in the most challenging of circumstances.
The current situation demanded every bit of the discipline he had learned during his years on the force.
He watched as Martin Fisher dragged Katie across the crowded parking lot. She wasn’t fighting or protesting, and Tony couldn’t blame her. Martin was swinging the firearm in the direction of anyone who dared to call for him to stop.
Katie had to be terrified.
Katie.
His