The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

Sachs looked at the crowd. There were employees here, a few security people, but no one was doing anything to help. Stricken faces. Some were calling 911, it seemed, but most were taking cell phone pics and video.

She called down to him, "We've got rescue on the way. I'm NYPD. I'm coming down there."

"God, it hurts!" More screaming. She felt the vibration in her chest.

That bleeding had to stop, she assessed. And you're the only one who's going to do it. So move!

She muscled the hinged panel farther open. Amelia Sachs wore little jewelry. But she slipped her one accessory--a ring with a blue stone--from her finger, afraid it would catch her hand in the gears. Though his body was jamming one set of them, a second--operating the down escalator--churned away. Ignoring her claustrophobia, but barely, Sachs started into the narrow pit. There was a ladder for workers to use--but it consisted of narrow metal bars, which were slick with the man's blood; apparently he'd been slashed when he first tumbled inside by the sharp edge of the access panel. She gripped the hand-and footholds of the ladder hard; if she'd fallen she'd land on top of the man and, directly beside him, the second set of grinding gears. Once, her feet went out from under her and her arm muscles cramped to keep her from falling. A booted foot brushed the working gears, which dug a trough in the heel and tugged at her jean cuff. She yanked her leg away.

Then down to the floor... Hold on, hold on. Saying, or thinking, this to both him and herself.

The poor man's screams weren't diminishing. His ashen face was a knot, skin shiny with sweat.

"Please, oh God, oh God..."

She jockeyed carefully around the second set of gears, slipping twice on the blood. Once, his leg lashed out involuntarily, caught her solidly on the hip, and she fell forward toward the revolving teeth.

She managed to stop herself just before her face brushed the metal. Slipped again. Caught herself. "I'm a police officer," she repeated. "Medics'll be here any minute."

"It's bad, it's bad. It hurts so much. Oh, so much."

Lifting her head, she shouted, "Somebody from maintenance, somebody from management! Shut this damn thing off! Not the stairs, the motor! Cut the power!"

Where the hell's the fire department? Sachs surveyed the injury. She had no idea what to do. She pulled her jacket off and pressed it against the shredded flesh of his belly and groin. It did little to stanch the blood.

"Ah, ah, ah," he whimpered.

Looking for wires to cut--she carried her very illegal but very sharp switchblade knife in her back pocket--but there were no visible cables. How can you make a machine like this and not have an off switch? Jesus. Furious at the incompetence.

"My wife," the man whispered.

"Shhh," Sachs soothed. "It'll be all right." Though she knew it wouldn't be all right. His body was a bloody mess. Even if he survived, he'd never be the same.

"My wife. She's... Will you go see her? My son. Tell them I love them."

"You're going to tell 'em that yourself, Greg." Reading the name badge.

"You're a cop." Gasping.

"That's right. And there'll be medics here--"

"Give me your gun."

"Give you--"

More screaming. Tears down his face.

"Please, give me your gun! How do I shoot it? Tell me!"

"I can't do that, Greg," she whispered. She put her hand on his arm. With her other palm she wiped the pouring sweat from his face.

"It hurts so much... I can't take it." A scream louder than the others. "I want it to be over with!"

She had never seen such a hopeless look in anyone's eyes.

"Please, for Chrissake, your gun!"

Amelia Sachs hesitated, then reached down and drew her Glock from her belt.