Swing of Death, page 27
Hamilton pointed to the bedroom. He handed Molly an electrolyte drink and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm. “You’re in the tank. Molly, you can’t do this to yourself.”
“What’s going on in here? Sarah told me 1801. The room by the stairwell on the eighteenth floor.” Molly ripped the BP cuff free. “And Adeline Bertrand has been drugging her.”
Detective Casey and Olivia’s friend, Brad Killian, sat with her. “The blood drop evidence came back. You were right. It was blood and xylazine. And the blood was Ethan’s,” Casey said. “But the amount was small. It was likely from—”
“—where the dart hit him,” Molly filled in.
“Room 1801 and 1803 are adjoining suites. They are registered to Mr. and Mrs. Brook Stevens—or so they claimed. But that façade crumbled under scrutiny. Their identities are fabrications.”
Brad Killian stood tall and imposing, his voice laced with authority as he addressed her, his words a stern warning, “Your job is to stay out of it. We will do the police work.”
Molly watched the group form up, her heart hammering against her ribs. Every movement they made felt like a knife twisting deeper into her chest. “Where are you going?” she begged, her voice cracking. They didn't even turn around, the door closing behind them with a finality that shattered her.
Tears welled up, blurring her vision before spilling down her cheeks in hot, unchecked streams. She felt herself break, the sobs racking her body, each one a cry of desperation and loneliness. Alex and Brad were there, close but so distant, their presence a hollow comfort. They sat on either side of her.
Each man reached out tentatively, hands resting on her shoulders, but it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough. They couldn't fix this, couldn't bring back the man she had lost. The room felt colder, emptier, as if the very air had been sucked out, leaving her gasping for breath. Without Ethan, she was alone, truly alone, and the realization hit her like a tidal wave, pulling her under into the depths of her sorrow.
Ethan’s world shrank in the confines of the dark, suffocating room where he was held captive. He was alone again. The distant echoes of drunken voices and the incessant drone of a loud television provided no relief. Barely able to draw a breath, let alone cry out for help, Ethan’s senses heightened as he heard the commotion outside his door.
Adeline’s husband barged in, brandishing a gun. “Don’t say a word,” the man’s voice sliced through the air, a stark warning that left no room for negotiation.
The pounding on the neighboring door only added to his discomfort, but before Ethan could comprehend the situation, a flurry of action erupted. Voices barked orders as the door flew open and lights blinked on to reveal a team of NYPD officers.
“Ethan Hayes. NYPD, you’re safe,” one of them declared, his words a lifeline in the darkness.
Relief washed over him, a sudden and overwhelming wave that made his legs tremble. His first coherent thought was of Molly, her face clear in his mind. He couldn't rest yet. There were others involved, and until they were in custody, Molly was still in danger. His resolve remained steadfast despite his weakened state.
“Please, take me to my room,” he pleaded with the detectives, his voice hoarse.
“Ethan, you need medical attention,” one detective insisted, concern etched on his face.
“No,” Ethan shook his head, his eyes burning with determination, “I need to see Molly. I need to end this.”
Seeing the unwavering resolve in his eyes, the detectives relented, supporting him as he stumbled through the long corridor to the elevator and again to the threshold of his room. Each step was a battle, his body protesting with sharp pains and waves of nausea and dizziness, but he forced himself to move forward.
Finally, they reached his door. With trembling hands, Ethan pushed it open. The sight of Molly standing there, her eyes wide with tears of relief and fear, nearly broke him.
“Molly,” he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She rushed to him, catching him as he sagged against her. “Ethan, oh my God, you're hurt.” Her hands hovered over his injuries, unsure where to touch without causing more pain. “We need to get you an ambulance,” she cried out, her voice shaking.
“No,” Ethan said fiercely, his grip on her tightening. “Not yet. We need to take down Marcus, Sarah, Otis, Adeline and her husband,” he choked out. “If we don’t stop them now, you'll be in danger. More will be in danger.”
Molly's eyes looked at the blood staining his clothes. “Ethan, you need advanced medical care. Please.”
But Ethan’s stubborn resolve remained unyielding. “You can fix this, Molly. Get the supplies.”
Turning to the detectives, she demanded, “I'll help him, but you have to get me what I need.” She whispered something else, but he didn’t hear what she said.
The door opened to the bedroom, and Alex, Hamilton, and Brad entered, their faces a mix of relief and determination. The detectives stepped back. Ethan, his vision blurring, began to outline his plan.
“We have to act fast,” he said, his voice a strained whisper. “Here's how we'll take them down...”
Molly worked quickly, grabbing an ice bucket and soaking a clean sheet in the icy water. With gentle hands, she stripped Ethan of his shirt and pants, revealing the extent of his injuries. She wrapped his fevered body in the cold sheet, her hands steady even as her heart raced.
“Ethan, stay with me,” she murmured, her voice an anchor.
Just then, the door swung open again, and two FDNY paramedics rushed in. Ethan tensed, but Molly’s firm hands pressed him back onto the bed.
“Shh, Ethan, it’s okay. Let them help you,” she reassured him, her eyes locked onto his.
The paramedics moved quickly, assessing his wounds and beginning emergency treatment. Ethan winced as they worked, but he kept his eyes on Molly, drawing strength from her presence.
“Molly,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t,” she said firmly, tears streaming down her face. “We're going to end this together.”
As the paramedics started an IV, Ethan's strength began to wane, but his mind remained sharp. He continued to give instructions, outlining every detail of the plan to take down their enemies. Molly listened intently, her resolve seeming to harden with each word.
Finally, as the paramedics prepared to transport Ethan to the hospital, he reached out, gripping Molly’s hand tightly. “Promise me,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Promise me you'll be safe.”
“I promise,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Now rest, Ethan. Let us take care of you.”
As the paramedics wheeled him out, Ethan's eyes never left Molly's.
Detective Casey, Molly and Alex rode with Ethan in the ambulance. Gathering what little strength remained within him, Ethan recounted the harrowing events of his captivity, his voice a steady thread weaving through the tangled web of memories.
As Molly peeled away the bandage encasing his wounds, she vomited in a basin offered to her by one of the paramedics. Ethan’s body trembled with pain at seeing Molly ill, his muscles taut with every bounce of the ambulance on the city streets.
“We compete Saturday. It’s the only way to draw Adeline out and find the kidnapped women. And I know Marcus is involved, but no one mentioned his name.”
When Ethan voiced his desire to dance, Molly and Alex’s voices rose in unison, a resounding “NO!” echoing through the ambulance.
“You were shot,” Molly desperately attempted to reason with him. “You can’t compete in your condition, Ethan!”
But Ethan’s fever-addled mind remained fixated on his mission—to dismantle the evil committed by Marcus and Adeline. He outlined his plan again, his voice strained with the effort of speaking through the haze of pain, the haze that finally took him under.
Thirty-Six
December 29th
Inside the Bellevue hospital room, Molly’s eyes fluttered open to the gentle touch of Ethan’s hand against her cheek. She sat up in the patient recliner to find him clear-eyed and lucid. He had spent hours in the OR, where surgeons debrided his infected wounds and poured potent antibiotics into his bloodstream.
“Hey, my dove,” Ethan murmured.
Concern etched lines of worry across her face as she climbed from the chair and pressed closer, her fingers tracing the contours of his body, searching for any signs of lingering pain. “How do you feel?” she whispered.
Ethan’s response was swift. “No one could keep me from you.”
As Molly’s gaze wandered to his bed, she realized with a start that it was damp with sweat, yet Ethan’s body remained cool—a reminder of his fever breaking.
Hamilton’s presence in the room made her jump. “The nurse hung another dose of antibiotics an hour ago. His fever broke around eleven p.m.” He smiled.
Ethan’s sudden need to visit the bathroom elicited a laugh from Molly, his playful behavior a welcome relief. With a tender touch, she rose to assist him.
“I haven’t had someone help me pee since I was three,” he argued. Hamilton ignored his rant and steadied him.
Brad and Alex arrived while Ethan was in the restroom, taking seats on the other empty patient bed. A tray of food was waiting for him on his bed table. Ethan drank a container of orange juice and reached for the turkey sandwich. He frowned when Molly showed no interest in the food on the guest tray.
Hamilton started to say, “Boss, she’s been fighting—”
Molly shook her head vehemently, setting off the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. Morning sickness that became evening sickness had hit her hard, and she had barely managed to keep anything down. The nausea was a constant unwelcome companion, turning even the thought of food into an ordeal.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, a mix of fear and excitement bubbling up inside her. How was she going to tell Ethan? The news of her pregnancy was a secret she had held close, unsure how to break it to him, especially now with everything else going on. The timing was terrible, but there was no perfect moment for something this monumental.
She feared adding more stress to his already burdened mind and body. But he deserved to know. He needed to know.
Molly's mind flashed back to the moment she found out. Now, every wave of nausea was a reminder of the tiny life growing inside her, a life she and Ethan had created together.
She imagined his reaction, picturing the look on his face when she told him. Would he smile, that rare, beautiful smile that lit up his whole face? Or would his brow furrow with worry, thinking about the dangers that still loomed over them?
But when? How? Every time she tried to broach the subject, something interrupted them, pulling them back into the chaos. She couldn’t blurt it out amidst the crisis.
Molly shook her head again, more determined this time. She would tell him. Soon. She just needed to find the right words, the right moment. For now, she would focus on getting him through this, on keeping them both safe. She looked at Ethan, lying there, and made a silent promise to herself and to the tiny life growing inside her.
One step at a time, she thought. We’ll get through this, and then I'll tell him. Together, we'll face whatever comes next.
“She’s been fighting a bug,” Hamilton finished the sentence.
Ethan gently palmed her belly. “Try a little something.” He picked up a bowl of pudding and lifted a spoon, making a propeller noise.
When Molly laughed, he slid the spoon between her lips. She swallowed. “That’s playing dirty,” she giggled.
Alex broke their reverie. “Sorry, folks. We need to discuss where the case is at. NYPD has the man Adeline said she was married to...”
“Said she was married to?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah, they’re not legally married. Maybe it’s common law. He's not talking; he's lawyered up. But we have the gun with his fingerprints on it. We have your witness statement, and we have the bullet they pulled out of your thigh,” Brad said.
“Sarah was taken into custody.” Hamilton sipped some coffee.
Ethan frowned. “Sarah knows about the kidnapped women. I heard her say they were in a warehouse. And this moose named Otis, he did the transport. She never mentioned Marcus, and I never saw him or heard his voice.”
“We have eyes on Marcus. He is staying in room 1812. No sign of Adeline,” Alex sighed.
Ethan cursed. “My guess is she's in some sort of disguise. She is angry and jealous I paired with Molly.” He laced his fingers with Molly’s. “You were right, beautiful. It didn't matter. I thought she was married, and she'd be okay with things. Despite what she told me, she was hurt and attached to winning. And Adeline told her husband that Marcus wants to win this championship and has grown obsessed with Molly.”
“You think he'd pack up and leave town to escape?” Hamilton theorized.
“Nah, not when this is personal,” Alex picked up the discussion.
Ethan looked at the clock. “I don’t even know what day it is.”
“It’s almost December thirtieth,” Brad said, checking his watch.
“We have a day and a half until the New Year's program starts. First is the exposition dance to open the show. My dove, I need you to dance with Marcus. At three on the thirty-first, the dance competition begins with the amateur level. At eight, the masters dance. I'll surprise Marcus in the dressing room. He'll want to compete with you as his partner. I feel it in my gut. Adeline will also want to win. I bet she’ll make her reappearance.”
“Ethan, you're out of your mind,” Alex, Hamilton and Brad tried to tell him.
Molly chewed her lip. “You didn't see the dead women.” She clasped his hand in hers.
December 30th
As Marcus drifted into a restless sleep, one thought remained clear: he would achieve greatness, no matter the cost.
As his dream unfolded, Marcus stood in the dance studio, the familiar hum of the air conditioning a distant whisper. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, the image of a man torn between ambition and the tangled web of deceit he had woven. Victory was within reach, and with it, the promise of escape.
His thoughts drifted to Sarah. Her trust in him was unwavering, a trust he had meticulously cultivated. He made her think he loved her, whispered sweet promises in her ear, all the while knowing he was leading her into a labyrinth of lies. She believed in him, believed they were partners both on and off the dance floor.
He clenched his fists, guilt touching at the edges of his resolve. But it was too late for regrets. He had come too far to turn back now.
Ethan’s face flashed in his mind, the haunted look in his eyes when they last spoke. Ethan, who had always been perceptive, who had always seen through the cracks in Marcus’s façade. He might have suspected Marcus’s involvement in the kidnappings and trafficking, but he didn't have enough proof. Not yet. By the time Ethan could piece it all together, Marcus would be gone, his name immortalized by his victory, but his physical presence vanished into the shadows.
He paced the studio, the memories of his time at the Haven Dance Academy flooding back. He remembered the camaraderie, the long hours of practice with Ethan and Alex, the bond they had shared. Ethan’s parents had been like a second family, their generosity and kindness a constant in his turbulent life. They had believed in him, supported him, and yet, here he was, betraying that trust. He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the end goal.
Molly entered the studio, her presence a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. Her determination and talent matched his own, making her the perfect partner for this final act. Together, they were unstoppable, and he could see their names etched in the annals of dance history. He needed her to win, needed her to achieve the greatness he craved.
“Ready to run through it again?” she asked, her voice a blend of exhaustion and resolve.
He nodded, pushing the conflicting emotions aside. “Yes, let's do this.”
As they danced, his body moved on autopilot, each step precise, each turn executed with perfection. But his mind was elsewhere, caught in the web of his own making. He thought about Ethan, barely alive, and a pang of guilt shot through him. Ethan had been his friend, his brother in all but blood. But friends and loyalty were luxuries he couldn't afford now.
He recalled the nights he had spent orchestrating the kidnappings, the cold calculations that led him to this point. He had become adept at compartmentalizing his life, separating the dancer from the criminal. But the lines were beginning to blur, and he could feel the walls closing in. He had to win this competition. It was his ticket out, his chance to start anew, to leave behind the mess he had created.
Molly noticed his distraction and paused, her brow furrowed with concern. “Marcus, are you okay?”
He forced a smile, masking the turmoil inside. “Just tired. Let’s keep going.”
They resumed their practice, the rhythm of the music a temporary escape from his thoughts. But as the night wore on, his actions pressed harder. Sarah wouldn't betray him because she believed in the illusion he had crafted. And Ethan—Ethan was a loose end he had to hope would remain frayed until he could disappear.
The dance ended, and they stood panting, the silence of the studio enveloping them. Molly’s eyes searched his, looking for reassurance, for the determination they needed to win.
“We’ve got this, Marcus,” she said softly. “We’re going to win.”
He nodded, her confidence a stark contrast to the storm inside him. “Yes, we will.”
As they left the studio, the reality of his situation settled heavily on his shoulders. He was walking a tightrope, and one misstep could send everything crashing down. But he couldn't afford to think about that now. He had to focus on the competition, on the victory that would secure his escape.
He woke covered in sweat. His dream was over, but his living nightmare was in progress. In the darkness of the night, his mind churned with plans and contingencies as he lay in bed. He used his bathroom and swiped cold water over his sweaty face. Exhausted, he crawled back into bed. He stared out into the darkness, now consciously remembering.
