The Enemy

Chapter 5

Emma

She felt the splatter of raindrops against her face. Everything seemed so far away. Sounds. Voices. The poke of gravel against her arms. She sucked in a gasp. She had to get out of here. She shifted and held in a cry of pain. She'd lost him. She'd lost him again.

She turned her head to the side and saw fuzzy figures approaching. She scrabbled against the gravel with her feet in an effort to push herself up. She dragged her hands frantically across her face. Her mask was gone. "No," she whimpered. If she were discovered by someone outside of the department, there would be hell to pay, and she may even end up banned from the force. She struggled, but her body didn't want to listen. Her head was ringing. Cursing, she somehow managed to flop to her side. She could just hear the reporters now. _Inspector Stapleton, aren't you on leave? Inspector Stapleton, how did you manage to let a psychotic criminal like Robert De Ferrers slip through your fingers? Again? She could hear Ward. You failed me, Stapleton, and you failed period. She bit back the urge to cry. No. She wouldn't cry. She'd promised herself.

But, she'd just lost everything. Her husband. Her dignity. Maybe even her job. She urged herself to move. "Move dammit," she slurred. Move. Run. Escape. Her hands began to push up.

"Emma—"

"Tom?" she slurred.

"Shh." He bent down beside her. He had a mask in his hand and pulled it over her head. "Emma, listen to me. Don't move. You're hurt."

She nodded. She was so tired. She just wanted to go home. She wanted to go home and pretend that the last three months of her life were a nightmare. The last two years. "He's gone, Tom. He got away, and it's my fault. He got away. He detonated a bomb. He killed more people."

"Shh, Emma, shh. We evacuated the people before he had the chance. There are none dead."

She whimpered and bit back emotion. None dead. Thank God.

"Now, Ward wants me to escort you out of here and get you to medical right away. No one can know it's you." He moved to pick her up. "Let me help you." He held her tightly. "It's not your fault. He would've killed that hostage. You saved that boy. You had to pursue him."

"No. No, no, no." She shook her head. At least, she thought she did. She may have just passed out.

Fourteen hours later, she opened her eyes. She blinked. She was in a bed. And, she was no longer in her clothes. She was in the Met Medical Wing's finest gown. She craned her neck to the right and caught sight of her phone, keys, wallet, and a bottle of pills on a chair. Not her own clothes, but it was a spare training outfit from the Met. Her own clothing was probably bagged as evidence.

She grabbed the pill bottle and swallowed two as directed. Her phone had several text messages from Tom asking her to message him when she got home safely. He said Ward had forced him to leave at dinnertime. She felt a pain in the area where her heart resided. She put the phone down. Tom was a far better partner than she deserved.

"Fuck." Her swear filtered out into the silence. The lights were dimmed, her room beeped with the sound of her vitals, and there was a strange stillness in the air. She hugged her arms to her chest. She breathed in deeply and released it on a sigh. She sank back onto the bed and clicked on her phone. She had a foggy memory of Ward showing up at one point with a stony-faced grimace. "Tomorrow," he'd growled. "I'll talk to you tomorrow." Great.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes?"

"Inspector Huxt—Stapleton? Emma Stapleton?" It was one of the nurses Emma had seen on her trips to this wing over the years. "It's about eight o'clock in the evening. You've been out almost all day. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a massive lorry."

The nurse laughed. "Well, you suffered a minor concussion along with several scrapes and bruises. We've thoroughly tested you for any other injuries, and you're all clear. Just be sure to take the pain medication as needed and to get some good rest in the next few nights. You did have a great sleep here."

"It's the longest I've slept straight through in a while," Emma admitted. She cleared her throat. "Am I free to stay here for the night even though I'm technically cleared?"

"Yes," the nurse said. "Whatever you've gone through today, I'm sure it merits several months of paid bed rest."

Emma barked out a humorless laugh. "Sorry." She shook her head. She looked at the nurse. "Thanks for getting me on the mend."

"My pleasure, ma'am. You're free to leave whenever you're up to it. Don't hesitate to buzz for me if you need anything." With a nod goodbye, the nurse left.

Emma watched her depart through stinging eyes. She tried to shake it off. Gently, she ran a hand along the back of her head. There was an impressive knot. She hissed as she pressed down on it. Nothing to do for that. Rubbing the spot, she took in more of her room, looking for and finding the toilet. She removed the pinching heartbeat monitor from her finger and slowly slid out the IV giving her fluids. She could've rolled the bag along with her, but what was the point? She stood on tender feet. Christ, she needed a smoke. The thought of it made for an even sadder picture than she surely already painted.

The mirror in the toilet reflected just that. Blood had been wiped away from the scrapes on her forehead and cheek. She had a nice bruise developing from where Robert's men had hit her in the face and marks along her arms from where they'd gripped her. She turned away from herself and turned off the light, shuffling back to her room.

With effort, she pulled on the police-issued training outfit of comfortable trousers and blue t-shirt. There was also a police coat that brought with it welcome warmth. Her cigarettes, however, were gone. Again, probably a good thing. She looked for her gun before she remembered. The roof. The sound of it hitting the ground. She closed her eyes. She blocked it out. She decided she would happily crawl right back into bed and sleep for the rest of the night in the safety of the nurse's care.

She pulled back the bedsheets just as a person appeared in the mostly empty corridor. A man. She froze. The lights were still very dim in her room, so she doubted he would notice her unless she made a sudden movement. Her pulse picked up. Her hairs began to stand on end. What the hell was wrong with her? He was wearing a standard issue Met coat and cap: he had to be legitimate. She needed to get back into bed and sleep. "Fuck," she hissed. Her damn gut said otherwise.

He had a light brown beard and downturned eyes, the cap pulled low over his brow. Was he a patrol officer? He was wearing nice trousers and dress shoes. Internal affairs? Looking to interview witnesses from today's events? She narrowed her eyes. She tried to make out any of his identification in the din, but she couldn't see anything. More than anything, she felt a keening desire for her gun.

At a measured pace, he passed by her room. She released a breath. It was probably nothing. She breathed in again. But, what if it wasn't? She frowned. The nurses. She grabbed her phone and shoved it in her pocket. She searched the room for any weapon at all and came up with nothing. There was a standard issue pistol at the processing bay in a safe. It was her only bet.

Slowly, Emma eased herself into the corridor. If the wing's security was intact, he should be caught in here now like a rat in a trap. She tiptoed down the deserted corridor to the main bay and ducked behind it. She typed in the safe's code, and it popped open. She exhaled. The weapon was there, and there were cuffs too. She looked up and thought a silent sort of prayer.

Armed now, Emma peered around the bay. She could hear his footsteps, but they were farther away. She moved towards them as quietly as possible.

Then, there was the sound of him pulling on a door. "Shit," he cursed.

She kept moving.

It sounded now like he was wrenching the door, exhaling with the effort. There was a smash. "Shit! Shit shit shit!"

Emma was gaining now. Only a few feet away.

Still cursing, he fiddle with something until she could make him out.

She stopped. 

He had something in his hands. A phone. He was typing something into a phone. "Come on, come on," he said.

What the hell was he doing? She closed in. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She tightened her hold on the gun in her hands as a deep well of anger cracked open within her. She needed a win today. This final enemy would not escape her clutches. She took her practiced stance as she said, "Put your hands up."