The tall guy twisted Joe’s arms behind his back, forcing him upright and opening his airway.

  The patient’s eyes blinked open. He struggled to rise off the bed.

  “No,” Joe warned, earning a knee to the small of his back. He doubled over, his face close to the kid’s ear. “Don’t move!”

  Hands jerked Joe away.

  The stocky perpetrator appeared in charge. He pointed his gun at Callie. “Rocky needs medical care. You come with us.”

  “What about the jock?” the short gunman asked. Deep voice, Latino accent.

  The leader turned his eyes—piercing slits in the otherwise faceless mask—on Joe.

  “Kill him.”

  THREE

  “You’ll need help moving the patient.” Joe grasped for anything that could slow down the action. “Leave the woman. Take me instead.”

  “He smells like a cop, Arnie,” the Latino snarled. “He was packing a snub nose in his ankle holster.”

  Arnie? Arnie Frazier? One of the Exterminators’ chief musclemen. Keep talking, Joe thought. Draw attention off the woman.

  “Must be the sweat you’re smelling.” Joe’s lips twisted into a grin. “The gun’s for protection. Did you get a look at the neighborhood around here?”

  Callie’s face blanched. Her eyes glazed with fear. His first priority was to get her out of the mix.

  “The woman’s bound to slow you down,” Joe continued. “Lock her in the latrine.”

  “Sanchez, I told you to kill him,” Arnie spat back at the Latino.

  “But he’s a…?” Callie glanced at Joe for help. “A doctor.”

  Doctor was good. At least she hadn’t mentioned he was a cop.

  “You need both of us to keep Robbie alive.” She struggled to free herself from Sanchez’s hold.

  “His name’s Rocky,” the Latino sneered, jerking her back against his chest.

  Arnie turned to the tall dude. “Frisk him, Malachi.” Joe clenched his jaw while the guy patted him down.

  “He’s clean.”

  Where was Rogers, the guard? Bound and gagged? Or dead?

  Malachi shoved Joe toward the bed. “You carry Rocky.”

  “He…he’s just had surgery,” Callie pleaded. “There’s a transport gurney in the alcove.”

  “She’s right,” Joe seconded, not that they appeared interested in anything he had to say.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Arnie aimed the gun at Joe. He got the message. Wrapping one arm under the patient’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees, Joe raised the kid off the mattress, making the shift as smooth as possible.

  Malachi stepped into the hallway. The Latino followed, shoving Callie ahead of him.

  Arnie eyed Joe. “You’re next.”

  Holding the wounded patient, Joe moved forward. The guard lay in the alcove. His chest moved but only slightly. He needed medical care stat.

  Arnie jammed the gun into Joe’s back. “Keep walking.”

  The entourage snaked along the hallway toward the lobby, where the nurse sat slumped over her desk. Blood stained her scrubs, verifying her need for immediate medical care, as well. She moaned.

  Ten steps to the back door. Joe ran through their options.

  Get outside where someone would see them. A passing motorist. A next-door neighbor.

  Take it slow and easy. Buy time.

  Any distraction could be the opportunity they’d need to escape.

  “You got a car big enough for all of us?” Joe asked, doubtful the thugs drove a minivan. He hoped his question would throw them off track.

  The Latino looked back over his shoulder.

  Joe shrugged, a smirk on his lips. “Sorry, guys, but I left my wheels at home.”

  Malachi inched open the back door. A white utility van with the words Magnolia Medical painted on the side panel sat at the base of the steps. The tall gunman glanced at Callie’s name tag, making the connection.

  “Looks like the woman can help us out,” Malachi said.

  Joe’s optimism deflated. He caught Callie’s gaze. Do what they say, honey, he tried to warn her. The terror he saw in her eyes made him realize she was scared to death.

  The patient struggled in Joe’s arms, his breathing labored. Death hovered close to him. Close to all of them.

  If Joe didn’t do something and do it fast, three of the six people walking out of Lazarus House wouldn’t live to see Christmas day.

  The cold air whipped around Callie as she stumbled down the back steps, urged on by the gunman’s hand around her upper arm. She jerked away from his touch.

  “Watch it, lady,” he growled.

  Squaring her shoulders, she shoved out her jaw with determination. No matter how much she was trembling inside, she wouldn’t let them see her fear.

  Once again, she glanced over her shoulder at the cop, a man she’d prayed for countless times with Theo. Cancer had wasted the older brother’s body into soft flesh that hung on a bony frame. In contrast, Joe was bulk and brawn and raw emotion that made her heart quicken and her pulse race. Dark eyes matched his hair and the shadow of beard that outlined his angled jaw.

  Theo sought forgiveness and a chance to reconnect with the brother who couldn’t forgive the sins of his past. Something Callie and Joe shared in common. They’d both shut out their siblings and closed the doors to their hearts. Although every time she caught Joe’s gaze, her door creaked open.

  When Callie had approached her brother’s bed earlier to draw his blood, Robbie had shown no sign of recognizing her. Probably the post-surgery medication coupled with the seriousness of his injury.

  Now his body hung limp in Joe’s arms. Robbie’s prognosis couldn’t be good. Concern for her brother enveloped her like a winter fog. How had he gotten involved with these despicable men?

  And Tamika? Would she survive her injuries?

  The guard? Oh, Lord, help all of them.

  Callie had left her purse and her cell phone in the van. Maybe she could call 9-1-1.

  But how? Think. Think.

  “Keys?” The guy at her side held out his right hand. His left tightened on her arm.

  “In my pocket.” She slipped her hand into her lab coat, pulled out the bundle of keys and dropped it into his outstretched palm. He unlocked the rear door. Plastic containers filled with supplies cluttered the transport area in the rear of the van.

  “Clean out the back so we can lie Rocky down.” Sanchez nudged her forward.

  Hands trembling, she stacked the plastic interlocking containers and shoved them aside. A thin pad of industrial carpet covered the floor.

  “I’ve got a coat in the front passenger seat,” she said. “Toss it back here.”

  The tall guy did as she asked. Callie arranged her wrap and helped the cop place Robbie on the makeshift pallet. Her shoulder rubbed against Joe’s, sending a jolt of awareness through her body. Dwarfed by his size, she was surprised by his control in the midst of chaos. His fingers touched hers and a surge of hope coursed through her veins. At least they were in this together.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” he whispered, his voice low, determined. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  Callie nodded ever so slightly, noting the flecks of gold that rimmed his eyes. His left cheek looked bruised and swollen. A gash marked his neck, but his smile of encouragement warmed her in spite of the frigid wind that swirled around them.

  She pulled a blanket from one of the crates that contained supplies for blood draws and covered her brother. Joe started to climb into the rear to adjust the fabric.

  Arnie grabbed his shoulder. “No way, buddy. You drive.”

  Joe stepped back and supported Callie’s elbow as she crawled in next to Robbie. Releasing her arm, his fingers swept against the small of her back before he stepped to the front of the van.

  The assurance in his touch strengthened Callie’s resolve. If they worked together, they’d get out of this alive. Refocusing her attention on the problem at hand, she tucked the blanket around her brother, keeping her gaze on anything except the handbag wedged in the corner.

  Sanchez hoisted himself onto the bench seat. Malachi slipped in beside him. The cop and the other man claimed the captain’s chairs up front, the bulky guy riding shotgun. He tugged his ski mask off his face and discarded the latex gloves. He was white, middle-aged, his faced pocked with scars. Probably acne as a kid.

  “Pull onto the street, turn left and take it nice and slow,” he said to Joe.

  The engine turned over and hummed to life. The two men directly ahead of her ripped off their masks and gloves. The tall guy, Malachi, had mahogany skin, short hair and a slender face that fit his lanky body. He glanced back, his black eyes flicking from her to Robbie. He was close to her brother’s age. Twenty-three, twenty-four.

  Probably ten years older, Sanchez had a round face, square jaw and black hair. His skin appeared a few shades lighter than Malachi’s but still dark.

  Sanchez turned to check on her, his eyes scanning the rear of the van. “Whatcha doing, lady?”

  “Taking care of my—” no reason to let them know Robbie was her brother “—my patient.”

  “You treat him real good, make sure he stays alive. Okay, doll?”

  “I’m not your doll.”

  He glanced at her name tag. “Easy, Callie. You cool down. Don’t give me no trouble. You understand?”

  Joe’s gaze caught hers in the rearview mirror. At this distance, she couldn’t read him. Maybe he was telling her to keep quiet.

  Callie wiped her hand over Robbie’s cheek. His skin felt warm. Infections often followed surgery. No telling what had entered his body along with the bullet.

  Sanchez shifted and glanced nervously out the front window, giving her time to dig into her handbag. Her fingers touched the cool metal of her cell. Hopefully, the gunman wouldn’t hear the call go through.

  The van bounced along the road. Callie could feel the ruts in the pavement. The jarring motion wouldn’t help her brother.

  Malachi said something to the Latino.

  Now or never.

  She tapped in 9-1-1 and pushed Send.

  “Emergency Operations Center. Please state your problem.” The operator’s voice sounded from the phone.

  Callie glanced at the men up front. Had they heard anything?

  Sanchez turned, perhaps sensing her gaze. “You say something, doll?”

  He spied the phone. Spanish expletives flew from his mouth, and he yanked the cell from her hand.

  Arnie looked back. “What’s goin’ on?”

  The Latino held up the phone.

  “Toss it,” the leader ordered.

  Sanchez rolled down the window and threw the phone into a wooded area. Swiveling to face her, he raised his hand and struck Callie across the jaw.

  She reeled back, and her head slammed against the wall of the van.

  “Next time you do something loco,” Sanchez sneered, “you’ll die.”

  FOUR

  Adrenaline shot through Joe. He swerved to the side of the road, stomped on the brake and turned ready to pound some sense into Sanchez. “Don’t touch her.”

  Arnie jammed the muzzle of his gun into Joe’s side.

  “So, Doc, you wanna be a martyr?”

  Joe wanted to shove his fist down Sanchez’s throat, but that wouldn’t help the situation. Callie needed protection, not a hotheaded madman who would make matters worse.

  Clamping down on his jaw, Joe pivoted forward, grabbed the wheel and ground his foot onto the accelerator. Gas surged through the engine. The tires screamed in protest.

  Sanchez cursed from the backseat. The fingers of Arnie’s left hand snaked around Joe’s neck. His right hand forced the gun deeper into Joe’s side.

  “Blow off steam again—” the warning shot from Arnie’s mouth “—and the girl dies.”

  Joe flicked his gaze to the side mirror. “An SUV’s passing on the left. My advice is, you take your hands off my neck.”

  “He’s right,” Sanchez said. “A guy and his two kids. Christmas tree strapped to the roof.”

  Arnie’s fingers released their hold. He adjusted himself in the passenger seat, keeping his gun low.

  Joe eased up on the accelerator so the SUV could pass. No reason for the man and his kids to suspect anything amiss. They didn’t need to get involved. Let them have their merry Christmas. Too many people had already been hurt by the Exterminators.

  Once again, Joe looked in the rearview mirror. Callie stared back at him. The mark of Sanchez’s hand was on her jaw. Tears glistened her eyes, but she blinked to keep them in check.

  A sense of helplessness swept over Joe. He had to bide his time. Outnumbered, without a weapon, he couldn’t let his emotions get the best of him. He had to use every bit of training and experience to outsmart the three gunmen and gain control of the situation. The wounded patient was important, but Joe’s number-one priority was to get Callie Evans out of the situation alive.

  Callie’s jaw burned where Sanchez had slapped her, but what hurt worse was seeing her brother’s declining condition and the worry that they might kill Joe. Surely a cop would know to play along with the bad guys until an opportunity arose to escape. She didn’t have a degree in criminal justice, but she’d watched enough cop shows on TV. Keep the bad guys thinking they were in control. Try to establish a relationship with them so they’d let their guard down. With a gun aimed at his heart, this wasn’t the time to be Mr. Macho Cool.

  Of course, Callie hadn’t followed her own advice. Making a 9-1-1 cell call had been a risk, and she’d been caught. That was her mistake—at least the being-caught part. She’d seen a story on a television reenactment about a carjacked woman who’d done the same thing. Only that gunman had been oblivious to the call and the woman had been saved.

  To save Robbie, she needed Joe’s help. Callie looked down at her brother. For all the trouble he was in, Robbie might not want help. He seemed to be in league with these gang members. If they got out of this situation alive, he’d have to face the consequences of his crimes.

  He’d been a kid when their parents separated. It was doubtful their dad had been the best of role models. A bitter man, he’d been verbally abusive, often scoffed at the concept of a loving God and died without a change of heart.

  No wonder Robbie had made bad choices. Callie hadn’t helped. For all her talk about God’s love, she’d turned her back on her brother three years ago when their mother had died. Callie should have surrounded him with love. Maybe then, he would have been able to turn his life around.

  Callie looked forward, once again catching Joe’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The cop seemed to glance back more than he focused on the road. His dark eyes burned into hers. Heat warmed her cheeks, and the soft flesh at the base of her neck tingled.

  “Rocky feels hot,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the motor. “He can’t travel far.”

  Sanchez turned and glanced down at Robbie. “We’ll stop soon.”

  Maybe he had an ounce of decency hidden under all that anger after all. She grasped her brother’s hand and squeezed, hoping he could feel the encouragement and support in her touch.

  Through the window, she saw the Atlanta skyline to her left. The golden dome of the State Capitol was visible in the distance. The turnoff for the Interstate 75–85 connector lay ahead.

  Chilled from the cold, she wrapped her arms around her chest. As if sensing her discomfort, Joe reached for the heater. A blast of warm air blew from the overhead duct.

  Arnie mumbled something from the front seat, and Joe switched lanes. If they exited downtown, they’d be caught in the holiday parade. Crowds of people lined Peachtree Street and International Boulevard.

  Gridlock might provide the opportunity to escape. Once the van stopped, she could throw the door open and scream for help.

  A surge of hope filled her. She inched toward the door. Joe turned onto the connector, heading north. Three exits until International Boulevard and the throng of holiday merrymakers. Not that she wanted anyone else to be hurt.

  A cell chirped from the front of the van. Arnie fumbled for the phone and pulled it to his ear. “Yeah?”

  He grumbled. “Right.” Flipping his cell closed, he glanced back at Sanchez and Malachi. “Streets downtown are closed.” He reached for the radio knob.

  Christmas music piped through the speakers: “Peace on earth, goodwill to men…”

  Peace? Goodwill? The three gunmen, holding them hostage, had an opposing point of view.

  Once again, her gaze settled on Joe. Did he believe in peace on earth, or had he been warped by the crime and depravity with which he came into contact in his line of work? Hard to be optimistic about man’s nature when all he saw was the underbelly of society.

  What had happened to the world? Callie sighed, their situation heavy on her heart. Joe looked at her in the mirror as if he understood her frustration and upset. Despite the odds, she felt a wave of confidence sweep over her.

  The Christmas song ended.

  “This just in.” The radio announcer’s voice cut over the hum of the motor and the sound of the wheels spinning along the asphalt. “A shoot-out at a local nursing home has left an officer and the facility’s head nurse severely injured. Police were unable to question the wounded, but the gunman involved with the local gang, the Exterminators, has been kidnapped. Police have set up roadblocks to all routes leaving the city. The group is armed and dangerous, and citizens are asked to notify police if they see anything suspicious.”

  Arnie clicked the radio off. “Leave the connector at the next exit.”

  Joe steered the van into the right lane and decelerated onto the ramp. Callie’s heart plummeted. They were heading east, away from the parade route.

  Arnie turned to catch her eye. “You live close by?”

  “Not far,” she said, wondering if he planned to hole up at her apartment. She thought of the elderly gentleman who sat by his window and watched everyone’s comings and goings. If anything seemed amiss, he’d knock on her door to check on her. Another neighbor, a sweet widow, had promised to bring over a plate of holiday cookies this afternoon.