While Gabe handed out the rest of the food and Hudson oversaw the chaos, she opened the container and peered inside. There were no chopsticks or Chinese food. But there was a small gun. Covertly, she tucked it into the waistband of her shorts.
Once the food was distributed, Hudson pointed his gun at Gabe. Riley reached behind her, closing her hand over the cold metal.
“Food guy, sit in front of the studio doors. You hear that, cops? If you try to breach the studio, you’ll be trampling an innocent, almost-naked delivery guy,” Hudson yelled into the wire on Gabe’s chest.
“It would be my honor to sit,” Gabe announced.
He took his position on the floor in front of the swinging doors, then nodded at Riley.
Apparently, she had her tools. A gun that she could maybe sort of shoot and a guy who could make her more psychic. Well, it was better than nothing.
Now all she had to do was figure out what she had no desire to do and…
“Crap,” she whispered.
“Crap what?” Valerie asked. She was eating stromboli with two hands. “Is that countdown clock moving? I can’t chew any faster!”
“No. Not yet,” Riley said. “I have to go be on TV and try to save the day.”
“Shh!” The sound engineer glared at them.
“Nobody cares if there’s background noise when we’re all going to die,Floyd,” Riley shot back.
Valerie pointed a piece of stromboli at her. “If you being on TV means I get to go home to my kids and my towel-folding husband, then get your ass up there now,” the anchor said.
Riley sighed. “Fine. But I am not happy about this.” She rolled up her metaphorical psychic garage doors and gave Gabe a pointed look.
He nodded sagely and closed his eyes.
Hands over her head, she cautiously approached the news desk. “Um, Hudson?”
He stopped mid-monologue about Bianca Hornberger’s extensive offenses. “Will you stop ruining things for me?”
“I’m really sorry,” she said, edging closer to the desk. “But I think there are some things you need to consider before your grand finale. Things Jackson wants you to know.”
Hudson studied her, scrubbing his hairless jaw with the barrel of his gun. “Fine. I’ll give you two minutes to change my mind.” He gestured to the empty chair at the anchor desk.
“I hope she doesn’t realize I nervous peed a little up there.”
Gross.
“Sit,” Hudson ordered.
Riley checked the chair and, finding no visible puddles, sat.
“Let’s have two minutes on the screen,” he said to the sound booth. He waited until a timer appeared on screen then gestured at her. “You may begin.”
“You want to know why I keep showing up and ruining everything, right?”
“I do. Why in the world would anyone want to save these horrible people?”
“Your brother, Jackson, wants to save them, and he’s been trying to tell you from the other side.”
He snorted. “No, he hasn’t.”
A cold sweat broke out at the hairline on her neck. The TV lights were hotter than she’d imagined.
“Your brother was bullied in high school,” Riley said.
