Chapter 8 - THE LOCKDOWN
The hospital moved me to a secure floor.
My name disappeared from public records.
Only approved staff could enter.
Dad slept in a chair outside my room.
He refused the bed offered by the hospital.
“I have slept in worse places.”
“You are sixty-one.”
“I have slept in worse places recently.”
For the first time in months, I laughed.
The sound surprised both of us.
Dad smiled.
“There you are.”
On the date Crane had written, nothing happened during the morning.
By afternoon, everyone began to relax.
That was the danger.
At 7:12 p.m., the fire alarm activated.
Smoke entered the lower lobby.
The maternity floor locked automatically.
A man wearing a firefighter’s coat appeared at the secure entrance.
His identification matched a real battalion chief.
The photograph did not.
Dad saw the face through the camera.
“Crane.”
The doctor had shaved his beard.
He carried an oxygen tank and emergency bag.
Hospital security refused entry.
Crane claimed smoke was spreading through the ventilation system.
Then the floor lost power.
Emergency lights turned the hallway red.
Dad remained outside my room with a retired military police officer and two hospital guards.
Crane entered through the ceiling service corridor.
He had studied the building.
He reached my room from above.
A tile shifted.
Dust fell beside my bed.
I pressed the emergency button.
Nothing happened.
Crane dropped into the room holding a syringe.
“Do not scream.”
I moved toward the window.
He grabbed my injured wrist.
Pain flashed through my arm.
“You ruined everything.”
“No.”
“You did.”
He pushed the syringe toward my neck.
The door opened.
Dad entered.
Crane dragged me against his chest.
“Stay back, Colonel.”
Dad stopped.
He did not reach for a weapon.
“You need her alive.”
“I need the baby alive.”
My father’s face changed.
Crane continued.
“Pregnant women are emotional.”
“Courts believe doctors.”
“Families believe paperwork.”
Dad looked at me.
“Emily.”
I understood his tone.
He was not asking me to be brave.
He was reminding me that I still had choices.
I dropped my weight.
Crane tightened his grip.
Dad moved.
He crossed the room faster than I believed possible.
He struck Crane’s wrist.
The syringe fell.
Hospital guards entered.
Crane fought until Dad forced him against the floor.
My father could have continued.
He stopped the moment the threat ended.
He stepped away.
The guards placed Crane in restraints.
I sat against the wall holding my stomach.
A contraction tightened beneath my ribs.
Then another.
The monitor activated when power returned.
My daughter’s heart rate was falling.
The stress had triggered premature labor.
Doctors rushed me toward surgery.
Dad ran beside the bed.
“Stay with me.”
“I am trying.”
“No.”
He gripped the rail.
“You are doing it.”
The operating-room doors opened.
May you like
Dad was forced to stop.
For the first time since he pulled away the blanket, he could not follow me.
