Chapter One

      The Edge, Chicago Friday, May 4, 9:50 p.m.

      “We’re going to need more gurneys!” Dr. Marissa Frasier shouted.

      Someone amid the fray yelled that more gurneys were coming. They had nine new victims besides the dozen already in the ER. All bleeding, some worse than others. All had been shot and all were armed. And every damned one sported white T-shirts with an odd circle inside a circle in the center and wore black beanie caps. Their shouted threats echoed like thunder, inciting fear. Thank God most of the other patients had been checked in and were either already triaged and stable or had nonlife-threatening emergencies.

      Eva Bowman might have considered it just another crazy Friday night looming toward a code black if not for the three cars that had screeched into the ER entrance with those new victims. Several armed men had barged in, waving automatic guns and demanding help for their friends. The three apparently in charge had forced everyone in the waiting room onto the floor and sent the entire ER staff, including the receptionist and the two registration specialists, outside to help their friends.

      In all the commotion, Eva hoped someone had been able to alert the police. One of the security guards had been shot. He and the other guard had been restrained and left on the floor in the waiting room, blood pooling around the injured man. One of the gunmen stood over the small crowd, his scowl shifting from one to the other as if daring someone to give him a reason to start shooting. Eva wished she was more knowledgeable about the tattoos and colors worn by the different gangs in the Chicago area, though she couldn’t readily see how knowing would help at the moment. For now, she did what she was told and prayed help would arrive soon.

      Eva pushed an occupied gurney through the double doors, leaving the lobby behind. All the treatment rooms were full so she found a spot in the corridor and parked. She ripped open the shirt of her patient. Male. Mid to late twenties. Hispanic. He was sweaty and breathing hard. He’d lost some blood from the bullet wound on his left side. Lucky for him the bullet appeared to have exited without much fanfare. Still, he was no doubt in serious pain. Whatever his pain level, he clutched his weapon and continued to bellow arrogantly at his friends as if a shot to the gut was an everyday occurrence. From what little she recalled of high school Spanish, he seemed to be claiming victory over whatever battle had occurred. If the group of wounded men who had been scattered on the asphalt in front of the ER doors were the winners, she hated to think what condition the losers were in. Didn’t take much of a stretch to imagine they were in all probability dead.

      An experienced registered nurse, Eva performed a quick assessment of her patient’s vitals. Respiration and pulse were rapid. Though his skin was warm and moist, his color remained good. From all indications he was not critical, but there could be underlying issues she could not assess. He would need an ultrasound to ensure no organs were damaged, and the wound would need to be cleaned and sutured.

      “Sir, can you tell me your name?”

      The man stared at her as if she’d asked him to hand over his weapon. She decided to move on to her next question. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst you’ve ever suffered, can you tell me how much pain you’re in?”

      “Cero.”

      She sincerely doubted that was the case but if he wanted to play the tough guy, that was fine by her.

      Over the next few minutes her patient as well as the others were sorted according to their needs and ushered on to the next level of care. Some were taken straight to operating rooms while others went on to imaging for additional assessment. One nurse and a doctor had been allowed to treat the patients in the lobby. Eva remained in the ER helping to attend to those who had arrived and were triaged and assigned treatment rooms before the gunmen arrived and took over. The armed patients who didn’t require further care were mostly loitering around the corridor waiting for the return of their friends who’d been sent off to imaging or to the OR. What they didn’t seem to realize was that those friends wouldn’t be coming back to join them tonight.

      One of the other nurses had whispered to Eva that Dr. Frasier had initiated the emergency assistance protocol. The police had been made aware that the ER was under siege or under duress of some sort and required law enforcement intervention.

      Once before she had found herself in a similar situation. Time was necessary for the police to arrive and assess the situation, then they would send in SWAT to contain the problem. She hoped no one else was hurt during the neutralization and containment of the gunmen. So far she had hidden three weapons. Two from patients who’d been rushed to the OR and one from the guy not a dozen feet away who claimed he was in zero pain. His pain had apparently been so nonexistent that he hadn’t realized his fingers had loosened on the 9 mm he’d been waving around when he first arrived.

      Dr. Frasier noticed what Eva was up to and gave her a look of appreciation. No matter that she had removed and hidden three weapons—there were still six armed victims as well as the three armed and uninjured men who had taken over the ER. Thankfully, the thug who appeared to be the boss had allowed the injured guard to be treated for the bullet he’d taken. The guard’s injury was not life threatening. He and his partner for the night were now both locked in the supply room.

      Eva glanced at her watch. Approximately ten seemingly endless minutes had elapsed since the police were notified of their situation via the emergency protocol. SWAT would be rolling in soon. She didn’t have to look outside to know that cops would have already taken crucial positions in the parking area.

      All handheld radios and cell phones had been confiscated and tossed into a trash can—except for Eva’s. The only reason the pat down conducted by the shortest of the three jerks who’d taken over the ER hadn’t revealed her cell phone was because she didn’t carry it in her pocket or in an armband. Eva kept hers in an ankle band made just for cell phones. Her last boyfriend had been an undercover cop and he’d shown her all sorts of ways to hide weapons and phones. If she’d been smart she would have carried a stun gun strapped to her other ankle the way he suggested.

      They might still be together if he had been able to separate his work from his personal life. It was one thing to pretend to be someone else to catch the bad guys but entirely another to take on a separate persona for the purposes of cheating on your girlfriend.

      Apparently the guys playing king of the ER weren’t savvy enough to be aware that, like gun manufacturers, cell phone manufacturers thought of everything when it came to keeping phones close to users. Whatever the case, Eva was grateful her phone was still right where it was supposed to be. All she needed was an opportunity to use it. Knowing the situation inside would be incredibly useful for the police, particularly in determining how they made their grand entrance.

      Her cell phone had vibrated about twenty times. Probably her sister, Lena. An investigative journalist at a local television station, Lena had no doubt heard about the trouble at the Edge. The best journalists had good contacts within Chicago PD and the Edge always had news. A Level I Trauma test unit challenging the approach to emergency medicine, the Edge was the only one of its kind in the nation.

      Eva glanced toward the rear of the emergency department and the door that led into the main corridor that flowed into imaging and the surgery suite, winging off to the Behavioral Unit on the left and Administration to the right. Then she surveyed the ongoing activity between her and the double doors that opened into the lobby area. The man in charge and his cohorts were in deep conversation with the three other patients who hadn’t been moved on to another level of care. Dr. Frasier was suturing the wound of one while Dr. Reagan was doing the same with another. Kim Levy, a nurse and Eva’s friend, was bandaging the third patient’s closed wound.

      Eva eased back a step and then another. Four more steps and she would be through the door and into the corridor beyond the emergency department. Slow, deep breaths. No sudden moves. Another step, then another, and she was