The detaining cells had been fuller than Mav figured. Police stations, obviously, needed to hold people, either for questioning or if they’d just been arrested. But didn’t most convicts go to prison, which was in a completely separate location?
So why was there a room at least fifty yards long filled with cells on either side here? And the inhabitants from said cells were currently out, brawling police officers or scrambling to escape.
The police officers leading Mav rushed into the chaos. Mav hopped up, gripping the top of one of the cell’s bars and pulling himself toward the ceiling. Beyond the rabble, several people in black were leading a dozen others through another door.
Mav’s core chilled. “Shooting Star!”
Leaping from the cell, Mav flung himself forward with several quick, controlled explosions. The force buffeted the fighters below. He reached the other side in a few seconds, but most of the terrorists had already fled the long room. Two others, however, turned and trained their guns on Mav.
Letting go of his flame, Mav flipped forward and planted one foot in each man’s gut. His momentum almost entirely shifted into them. They hit the wall, then the floor as Mav burst through the door.
“Shit, hurry!” one of them yelled.
They were in a room identical to the one Mav had blasted into previously – large, with nothing of note but a cell in the corner. Fifteen people ran toward the left wall, where another hole led outside. Mav renewed his chase, when someone kneeling at that hole flung something his way. It was rectangular, with a flashing light on one side.
A bomb.
Mav leaped back and slammed the door shut. He sprinted to the crowd of brawlers ten feet away, his core chilling so another explosion could send him to–
Boom!
The blast ruptured the wall. Chunks of concrete soared, colliding into prisoners. Blood flew and people cried out as the solid rain assaulted them. The terrorists had completely destroyed the wall, nothing but hanging dust in its wake.
Shit. Mav returned to the room. No terrorists were in sight. They couldn’t have gone far.
Mav ran outside through the hole. The group was sprinting toward a large van, the ones in black firing randomly at the police complex.
Like hell you’ll get away.
The fire had been located in the evidence storage. It hadn’t taken too long to douse it, however, with the sprinklers’ aid and a fire extinguisher for the electrical flames. Maren didn’t stay long for a detailed assessment of the damage, but the little she took note of wasn’t good for the police: metal wall separating public access from private blown open, dozens of boxes burnt to a crisp, and plenty of servers lining the walls busted open, having the occasional spark fly from them.
The police would deal with that later. Finnegan had run ahead, toward the reception room. If the terrorists who’d started the fire ran through there, he’d need backup.
And if it were a battlefield, she had to keep Paul and those receptionists safe.
What she saw when she arrived, however, was only an aftermath. Finnegan stood atop the shattered glass of the front doorway, alone, nursing his left arm which was dripping blood, staring toward the parking lot. He spoke quickly, yet clearly, issuing orders into an earpiece. A van tore out of the parking lot, with – of course – Mav hot on its tail.
Though any amusement by his antics or worry for his safety she might have felt drowned as she surveyed the rest of the room. She had the perfect angle to see behind the large, half-hexagonal desk in the room’s center. Two women huddled over two men. The receptionists, one applying pressure to the male receptionist’s chest, the other hyperventilating as her blood-drenched hands flailed over the body of–
“Paul,” Maren whispered, lips trembling.
Maren took a step back. It was Mav, frozen amidst the molten metal. Phoenix, she’d imagined after the fact, floating among the moving highway lights.
But like Mav two weeks prior, a puff of breath escaped Paul’s lips. Only instead of frost, it came out a mist stained red.
Sirens sounded from the parking lot. More cops giving chase? No. Ambulances rushed toward the station.
“Paul,” Maren said, running to him and kneeling at his side. Four bullet-wounds gouged his upper torso, from which blood continued to flow. She directed the terrified receptionist’s hands over the two near his gut, while Maren pressed down on the two on his chest. “Hold on, Paul. Help’s here. You’ll be just fine.”
Paul gave a long, slow blink. His mouth, blood streaming out the corners, twitched.
“Don’t try to talk,” Maren said. “Save your energy. You’ll need it to get better.”
“Help...” Paul muttered.
“It’s here, Paul,” Maren said, her voice nearly breaking. “Help’s here.”
“... him,” Paul continued.
Maren glanced at the male receptionist, who looked leagues healthier than Paul. “He’s steady. Worry about yourself.”
“JJ....”
Maren’s throat clamped.
“Save him.” Paul stared at the ceiling. The pain faded.
“Stop, Paul,” Maren said, blood rushing, hair standing on end. “Paul!”
Joy, relief, compassion, and love settled into him. He breathed, “Thank you.”
The EMTs ran around the desk, dragging their gurneys. The receptionists either jumped – startled by their presence – smiled, or wept in relief. However, Paul’s endless stare endured, the ghost of gratitude the last proof of life remaining in eyes which would never see his request fulfilled.