Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       Prologue

      Chaos. Panic. Screams of terror.

      Huffing short, heavy breaths, Andrea Caputo used her hands as leverage to push herself across the hard, cold floor, trying to get out of the line of fire. How many others had been shot? She didn’t know, could barely see—let alone think—due to the pain exploding throughout her entire right leg. One bullet to the femur, she guessed, and one to the tibia.

      Both bones were likely shattered, and, due to the amount of blood, one of those bullets had hit an artery. Which meant she was in even more trouble.

      If she made it through this moment of pure hell, her future would include several surgeries, a long recovery and months, if not years, of physical therapy. And Lord, she’d take it all. Happily. If only she survived long enough to get there. Please let me survive.

      Okay. Okay. In order to survive, she had to get out of the damn hallway and into the closest trauma room, where she’d call 911. Chances were high that someone had already made the call, but what if everyone else thought the same and help wasn’t on the way?

      The madman with the gun would continue to shoot his way through the trauma center until doctors and nurses and patients alike were dead. Unfair, maybe, to characterize an out-of-his-mind bereaved husband who blamed the hospital for his wife’s death and was now hell-bent on retribution as a madman, but with the blood, bedlam and horror engulfing the ER, the title fit.

      Another booming shot. Another scream.

      Not right. This wasn’t right. Juliana Memorial Hospital was, at its happiest, a place for healing and miracles, and, at its saddest, where people said goodbye to their loved ones. As a trauma nurse, Andi had experienced hectic shifts, slow shifts, heartbreaking moments and peaceful ones. After five years, she’d thought she’d seen it all. But this...this was a battlefield.

      Why couldn’t she move faster? Focusing on the trauma room to her right, Andi fought against the dizziness and the fear that consumed her, and pulled together every ounce of strength she could to breach the few feet that lay between her and what she hoped would prove to be safe ground.

      Please, please let this stop.

      Now in the otherwise empty room, Andi reached for the bottom of the privacy curtain and yanked hard, sliding it about halfway across the bar before her strength evaporated. Good enough. It would have to be good enough. She didn’t have much left in her.

      She fumbled for her phone, hit 911 and Send, and tried not to think of all the people around her who were hurt—possibly worse than she was—or dead. Tried not to remember the look on the attending physician’s face in the seconds before a bullet tore into his stomach.

      Andi had not been able to help.

      She’d tried. Her training and instinct had overtaken her shock and her fear, and she’d rushed toward the fallen doctor—her friend—but she’d gone down just as fast as he had, when the gunman turned on her and fired twice in quick succession. Andi didn’t know if he’d been aiming for her leg or if she’d simply been moving too fast for a direct hit