People have stopped trying to escape. Whoever these men are, they’re not messing around and they’ve made that clear. They’ve been making communication through phones but aside from that have not spoken another word to the crowd except to demand cell phones are turned off. They’ve got guns, that’s all we need to know—so we did what they said. Whatever it is they want, they’re holding a lot of hostages to get it.
I shift uncomfortably and whimper as another sharp pain stabs into my stomach. I groan softly and rub my hand against the still flat area, trying to ease the hurt. Terror washes through me when a gush of warmth travels out from between my legs. I shift and look down. What I’ve feared quickly becomes a reality. I’m having a miscarriage. I choke back a sob as devastation unlike any I’ve ever felt bursts through my body.
My baby.
Not my baby.
Please.
“Lucy,” Hunter says, his voice low. “You’re bleeding.”
“I . . . I think I’m losing my baby,” I sob.
He makes a sound deep in his throat and looks around, eyes falling on the gunmen still pacing. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”
I shift slightly and clutch my stomach with my free hand, sobbing as my jeans soak with blood. My sobs quickly turn hysterical and commotion can be heard beside me. “Lucy, I know it hurts, but you have to stop crying like that. If you trust me, you have to stop.”
I look up to see a gunman watching me. Fear clogs my sobs deep in my throat and I look down at my jeans, trying to steady out my breathing. “Good girl,” he assures me. “Good.”
His eyes scan the crowd again, moving from point to point. The blaring lights of the stadium keep us all well-lit, allowing very little movement. Hunter leans in and whispers, “We’re about five seats from the aisle. If we shuffle across, I think we can make a play to get into the building behind us.” He nods towards the red brick building right behind us that right now has a gunman walking past it. The stairs in the middle lead right up into it, so it’s most likely a way out or perhaps an entry into the corporate area. It’s only a small field, so I’m praying they lead out. “If we can slowly move towards them, I think I can get you out.”
I glance at the stairs; they seem so far away. The only thing we have working in our favor is that there is no one else sitting on the seats leading into the aisle, thank god—there are about six other people sitting on the other side of me, clutching each other like Hunter and I are. The stadium is only about half full, if that. I still don’t know if we can do that without being seen.
“Even if we get right to the aisle, how are we going to get through that door when the gunmen are walking past it all the time?” I ask.
“We wait for a distraction. There’ll be one—you can guarantee that.”
I don’t ask how he knows.
“Just trust me. I won’t let you get hurt,” he murmurs.
I nod.
“We’re going to slowly, very slowly, move seats little by little. You just keep hanging onto me, and we’ll move when we get the chance.”
I don’t answer; I just nod. Tears have soaked his shirt now and my heart is breaking little by little. Maybe I’m just bleeding from stress? I’ve tried so hard for this baby. I can’t lose it. I can’t. My body trembles in Hunter’s arms and I try, I really do try to stop the trembling, but I have little control over it.
“We’re going to get you out. Do you hear me?”
“It hurts,” I whimper.
“I know.”
He moves us a little, maybe two or three centimeters to the left. It isn’t much. He’s taking a big risk. If they’ve been paying any attention at all, they’ll notice we’ve moved. Right now, I’ll take that risk. I need a doctor. It might be the only way to save my baby.
“Hunter?” I croak.
“Yeah, Lucy?”
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know, honey.”
“You’re lying.” I don’t know why I say that; probably because it’s the truth. He’s here for a reason—I just don’t know what that reason is. He’s clearly not a baseball fan, and he’s way too calm. Then there are the messages on his phone.
He makes a grunting sound in his chest I can feel radiate through my cheek. “You’re right, I am lying. But it’s classified information, and I can’t share it with you.”
“So you are a cop?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I can’t discuss it with you.”
I tremble again. “Is this . . . a terrorist attack?”
“No. It’s more . . . religious.”
A cult then? “A cult?” I whisper.
“I can’t answer anymore. I’m sorry.”
More pain stabs my stomach and I wince.
Hunter shifts us to the left a little bit more. We’re halfway to the next seat and I wince from the plastic digging into my bottom.
“You knew this was going to happen today?” I whimper, clutching my stomach.
“Can’t discuss that with you.”
Of course.
His eyes constantly scan the crowd, and every few minutes he moves us.