by R L Dunn
"Don't rush. I have all the time in the world." Martin’s sarcasm was biting.
Zach slithered in beside Julian, dressed in a cumbersome bomb suit. "Julian, get a suit on. Martin, we will manage this."
"I hope you aren't just saying that to take over my new job when I blow up."
Julian, now wearing a protective suit, began to remove the housing on the device. "Martin, I'm going to slip a wire into the interceptor holes. We've got a lot of diversionary shock tube, some det cord, and a blasting cap. Plus a secondary mechanism. This isn't an internet bomb. The secondary shows skill. The bomber has their heart set on blowing us to bits. Ça va?" He asked his friend how he was doing.
"Très bien, Jule." A fine sweat saturated Martin's forehead.
"Your French is getting better. I'm improvising a pin." Julian slid a stick of metal into place. "All right, man, we’re going to release the weight."
"Get out of here—I'm the weight. Just let it take me if it blows." Martin took a breath. "Jule, Ian has my letter. I need you to make sure Lola Wyatt and Elizabeth are taken care of."
"I promise." All the operators had goodbye letters. The chance of a short life came with their job. Julian and Zach would not make unkeepable promises. He and Zach backed to safety, removing any debris in the path. "Whenever you're ready, mon frère."
Martin rotated his left foot. After one more deep breath, he planted his toe, turned and broke for the safety of the stairwell. Fifteen feet from the car, a pop sounded, and a light flashed from behind him. The vehicle exploded. On instinct, Martin covered his head, dropped and rolled. He hit the wall hard, his lungs emptying from the force of the blast. Water from the sprinklers and debris pelted him from the direction of the explosion.
"Medic." Julian and Zach ran to him, ripping off their cumbersome suits. "Martin! He's alive." Julian knelt at his head. A strong pulse beat beneath his fingertips. "Help me roll him. On my count. One, two, three." At the comforting sight of Martin’s chest rising, Julian slowed his own breathing.
Light bulbs buzzed, and the sprinklers continued to pelt the area with dirty brown water. Seth ripped open Martin's shirt. "Right ribs bruised. Possible fractures. Shallow air exchange. Serious bleed left calf. Multiple abrasions. One-inch laceration, left brow."
Zach paced in a small circle. "Mike, he's unresponsive. The best route is the south stairwell."
Julian tore off his shirt to tie around Martin's hemorrhaging calf. With the bleeding controlled, Seth continued the exam. "He needs to be in the ER."
Kenny and Trask, dressed in full turnout gear, were moving toward them with a longboard. "The structure may be compromised. Let's go."
On the ground floor, two Silverton firefighters rolled a stretcher toward them along the gravel-pelted pavement. With Martin deposited on the gurney, they reversed direction toward the ER. "You guys are crazy. There might be more devices in the building," one of the firemen spoke.
Julian said a prayer at Martin's side and, with hesitation, left the area as per Ian’s earlier orders. Kenny pushed against the head of the stretcher. "Never leave a man behind."
The ER was busy, but the panic from the explosion made the night more chaotic. The triage nurse scolded them as they rolled inside. "What did you bring us? It would be nice to get a warning."
Seth's nostrils flared. "The what is a thirty-nine-year-old male, victim of an explosion in your garage. No known health problems. He's wet from the sprinklers; we need to warm and dry him. IV, monitor, trauma panel, pan CT…"
"Hold it, big boy, this is my ER. I'm Dr. Lou Miranda. Move him to the trauma room."
"Dr. Miranda, don't mean to piss in your cornflakes, but this man needs immediate attention." Seth stood to his full six-foot, four-inch height.
Dr. Miranda repeated what Seth demanded and added more. The doctor scrutinized him. "Who do you think you are? This man is my responsibility. Any idea how close he was to the explosion?" The five Chase operators, the residents in the room, and the two firefighters stayed quiet.
"Seth Brady, Critical Care Trauma PA. This is Martin Bailey. Fifteen feet in front of the detonation."
"Well, Mr. Brady, you have an investment here."
A nurse's voice broke the tension, "Lou, urine clean for blood. I'll send a sample to the lab."
A technician called out, "X-ray." Everyone stepped back.
Lou looked at the digital images, then continued her examination. "Three broken ribs on the right."
Seth's eyes glued to the digital images. "Also, a four-inch deep lac to his calf. We need to watch for brain swelling, pulmonary contusions and hollow organ damage from the overpressure. We also need to be ready for blast wind injuries."
"You understand blast injuries. You saw combat?"
"Yes, ma'am. Two tours, Iraq and Afghanistan. The brain appears uninjured. Ribs five, seven, and eight broken on the right," Seth spoke as the images changed on the CT scanner screen.
A chorus greeted him, "How is he?"
The newest PA to Chase management experienced the men from Chase trying to contain their nerves for the first time. "Lucky. He'll hurt like hell for a few days. He needs to stay a day or so in the hospital. There can be delayed issues from the explosion. I arranged a bed in the ICU. I figured putting him near Beth is the only way we’ll be able to hold him." Seth frowned.
"All right. I'm taking control of the investigation under Homeland guidelines. I'm done trying not to offend the locals. I'll handle the politics and the interagency clusterfuck. This is an official terrorism activation until I have solid evidence to call it otherwise. FBI, IBI, and ATF are dispatching teams. I want to know who sneezes,” Mike said.
“Tate, Julian disappeared. I don't want him to be a familiar face. Update him. Zach, wipe Elizabeth's, Martin's and Austin's name from the census. Give the administrator a lap dance if necessary, just get it done.”
Zach's brows rose at Mike's impolitic words.
"With all the respect in the world, I don't have the time nor patience for red tape." Mike's tone was steely. "Seth, how many explosions did you hear?"
"Just one and my ears are still ringing," Martin grumbled.
"Welcome back, sleepyhead." Seth hit the call bell. "Look at my nose." His thumb supported Martin's eyelid while he examined his left eye.
Martin sounded groggy, "It's ugly."
"Well, your eyes are beautiful." Seth blew him a sarcastic kiss.
"I didn't know you cared."
"What's your name?"
"Ah, the usual questions. Martin Bailey. Tuesday in July and I'm in a godforsaken hospital. Not my first rodeo."
"Stay still; I need to stitch your head. I'll give you a sexy scar." Seth made the operators roll their eyes.
Dr. Miranda returned. "Well, isn't this a testosterone convention? Mr. Bailey, kind of you to join the party. You’re a lucky man. You cleaned your clock and broke some ribs, so we’re going to keep you for a day or so. Explosions and human organs don't like each other. Mr. Brady decided to take matters into his hands again to stitch your rather hard head."
Seth stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. "Dr. Miranda, if you would like to stitch, I won't stand in your way. I simply wanted to make your life easier."
"Put a sock in it, Brady. I didn't spend ten years after medical school giving my life to the Navy to deal with blivits now." “Blivit” was military slang for a person full of shit. "You five and Bailey are all former military. Brady, you’re special, pararescue? Right? Take Bailey, even with his head blasted off, he's at parade rest. Do you all want some gauze for the holes you’re biting in your cheeks?" Dr. Louella Miranda was spot on. "Mr. Bailey, Dr. Hedges is eager to take you on as an admission. I will let Mr. Brady put your brow and calf back together."
Even foggy from the concussion, Martin knew to muster his assent. "Yes, ma'am."
The second she left, the senior staff laughed. "Stay down, let me stitch you up. You like to lead with your head, don't you? I see two previous scars."
"He always had a hard head. Patrick didn’t call me? I’m still strong enough to put each one of you over my knee," Dennis Bailey said.
"Dad," Martin bemoaned.
"My fault, Mr. Bailey. I was tasked to call you. I was hyper-focused on other details. Please accept my apologies," Mike took responsibility.
Dennis took a hard breath. "I need you to find out what the hell is going on. I will not lose a child."
"Dad, I'm fine."
"You were unconscious. You are not fine, Martin Aaron Bailey."
Martin cursed Patrick for telling his dad everything. "I just need a few stitches. Then I'll be back to myself."
Tucker arrived with Bruce Steele and Pete. He scrutinized the monitors and the way his friend was lying on the stretcher. "You don't like letting people sleep?"
Martin waved his hand, his vision blocked by the drape. "Hanlon, is that you?"
Tucker squeezed Martin's hand. "Who do you think? Seth, when you finish, head up to Austin. I'll finish the leg and keep Prince Charming company."
"I can keep myself company. I'm fine." He reached, unseeing, for the bedrail and paled. Zach got a bucket in front of him in time for Martin to throw up.
Pete joined Tucker at the bedside. "Whoa, cowboy."
Martin's eyes widened as awareness returned. He was naked below the thin sheet and also catheterized. "Assholes, I'm sure you had fun doing that to me."
Seth washed his hands and winked. "No, an adorable nurse did."
"Anything raise your suspicion?" Ford ground the joking to a halt.
"No. Jamie tossed me out. I left my truck at Elizabeth's, so I figured I'd take her car home. I...I sat and reached to fix the seat. Click." Martin didn't remember anything else.
"You don't remember hitting your panic alarm. Zach and Jule...?"
Martin tried to scrunch his brow and winced. Pete called the impromptu debrief to an end. "All done. Martin needs some rest."
"I'm..." He stopped noting the scowls on everyone's faces.
"Martin Bailey, on my authority as the Chief of Medical Operations, you are on medical leave until otherwise notified. Now, if you try to override my decision, Mike will call Ian. You don't want to go there, do you?"
"Pete, you’re making my headache worse. I'll cooperate. Mike, I want to be apprised of any developments. Now, can we dim the lights?"
Zach, Mike, Noah, and Tate went over the situation while waiting for the bomb squad from the state police to clear the garage. Zach tapped his foot. "Jule and I tamped that bomb down. Something set the damn thing off!"
"Run the tapes. I heard a pop and saw a flash from the ground before the device blew," Noah said.
"I did too." Zach shook his head.
"What are you thinking?" Tate asked.
"There was a secondary. Something external had to strike the trigger. Send someone up to the rooftops in the area," Zach said. "The device had to be planted after Elizabeth came into work Saturday."
"Tech took possession of the security tape. Maybe we’ll catch a break," Tate said.
The plastic mattress crinkled as Martin positioned himself and leaned on Tucker getting into bed. "I feel old."
Tucker put on a fresh pair of gloves. "You are old. Lie back, and I'll rid you of one leash."
Martin crossed his arms under his head. “You guys are getting your jollies from this."
"We don't roll that way. We needed to assess your bladder and kidneys."
Martin stared up at the ceiling. "Sorry, I'm pissed. No pun intended. I need to figure this out before someone else dies. When you’re done, would you check on Elizabeth?"
"Agreed. Now roll over; I need to clean that road rash. Seth said your back got chewed up, plus I need to stitch that calf." Tucker set up a tray. "You did a fine job. The abrasions are going to annoy you for a couple of days. You two have a history?"
Martin shifted to avoid the discomfort from the disinfectant. "Yeah. I want a future. I love her—never stopped, to be honest. I can't lose her, Tuck."
"Give her time. Even if we don't identify the poison, we’ll keep supporting her. You caught your calf just right, only soft tissue damage." He set up the drape and tray. "Stick and burn. You’re going to be on crutches for a while."
Martin sucked in a breath. "Elizabeth sent letters to the Department of Corrections stating her suspicions of prisoner abuse by the guards. Copies of the charts are in my briefcase. Shit, my briefcase?"
Tuck rolled his shoulder into him to keep him still. "Stitches, hold up. Your briefcase is in the corner."
Martin settled. "What told her the guards caused the injuries as opposed to a prisoner on prisoner? Why was she the only one?"
"I'll be happy to try to find an answer. Now, I need you to listen to me. You need to sleep. I'm going to give you some antibiotics, ibuprofen, and something to help you relax. Stay stable, and I'll move a lounger into Elizabeth's room later in the morning. You can rest there. Deal?"
"One condition: you figure that out for me." Martin's eyes closed.
Tucker smiled. The sedative worked without delay. "Sweet dreams." He hung a dose of ibuprofen and an antibiotic. Tucker pulled up a seat by the hospital computer and charted Martin's condition, then pulled up Elizabeth's. "Damn." Her liver functions had deteriorated further. "C'mon, darlin'. Keep fighting."
Liver failing. Any word? He texted Jamie and Eric.
Just drew a fresh set. GI symptoms stabilizing. Heart attempting to override the pacer. How's the patient? Eric returned the answer.
Midazolam to the rescue. Text me when the blood is back.
Tucker withdrew the bunch of copied charts from Martin’s briefcase. Settled into a chair, one eye remained on Martin; the other eye reviewed the charts.
Mike and Zach sat in the temporary command center with Chief Doug Sharpe and a group of supervisors from multiple law enforcement agencies. The lead ATF agent, Sharlene Whitmore, turned to Zach. "Preliminary swabs confirm C-4. K-9 found no sign of other devices. One of two things occurred: you managed to defuse one of the decoys, and the bomb exploded as planned, or something external triggered the secondary. My people need to look at your photographs."
Mike was sure Julian and Zach defused the device. He tapped Zach under the table, and four fingers wrapped over his thumb, telling him to freeze. This was not worth the fight.
"So, we can pull back on the security?" Chief Sharpe asked in exasperation. "The Silverton Town Engineer closed the top three floors of the garage for safety. My officers have secured access to the facility. This is the only level one trauma center for thirty-three counties in three states. We are a small town with a big resource. The hospital is at ninety-eight percent capacity. You are aware they cannot shut the place down."
Major Antonio Moretti from Iowa State police ignored the chief. "Mr. Wentworth, from your photo and description, the device was well designed. Your man was damn lucky. This picture shows that the primary trigger was blocked. The switch that went toward the passenger side was null. Agent Whitmore, another source set the bomb off."
"Chief, we have no intention to shut the place down. I spoke to the hospital's president and chief medical officer; we have a plan. The hospital is bringing in technical people to facilitate this, but there will be some inconvenience. DHS personnel will be stationed on every floor. Chief, could your personnel secure the lobby and cafeteria?" Mike's jaw tightened.
"This will be a nightmare. The mayor wants calm."
"Chief, I don't give a rat's ass what the mayor wants. This is a Department of Homeland Security operation. This is not my first production. I am very familiar with the methods necessary to control the actors, audience, and crew. I don't think you want any more deaths in your small town. The worst kind of assailant is a bomber. We need to figure out who the target was and then why. Have I made myself clear?" The Air Force Major in Mike appeared.
When Ford knocked on the door, the tension from the room squirted out like mustard from a bottle. "You need to view this." He held a tabl
et in his hand. Zach waved him in and made introductions.
"I pulled security footage from the garage. The car is parked against the north wall. The explosion emanated from where Mr. Bailey was seated. The flash came from the east—a high-powered rifle is the only thing that could cause that. We have people on the rooftops searching for the vantage point to pull off the shot. My guess, the shooter came in with the original police response. Someone had to have ears on the radio and hit the vantage spot in a short time frame."
"You're saying a cop or firefighter?" Moretti asked.
"No, I'm saying someone came in to make sure that bomb went off. A bomb is impersonal. It became personal after the call for help went out. An amateur did not make this, and the shot was a difficult one. We’ll review the rest of the available tape as well as any traffic cam or ATM footage in the surrounding areas around the detonation time as well as the time between Elizabeth's arrival Saturday and the explosion. Maybe the bomber made a mistake."
Agent Whitmore scratched her head. "Martin Bailey is Elizabeth Reed's boyfriend. Where is she? Why was he driving her car?"
"She’s a patient in the ICU. Doctors report she was poisoned. Possible murder attempt or self-inflicted. We are sitting on a homicide arrest warrant for her in the deaths of two local men. We’ll wait to act if she survives," Doug Sharpe said.
Mike's patience was waning. "The doctors ruled out suicide.”
“Is it possible someone with knowledge of Dr. Reed's admission assumed Mr. Bailey would be moving her car?" Whitmore asked.
Ford explained the hostage situation and poisoning. His tone was cold and detached.
"This bomb is the third attempt on her life." Realization of the severe matter showed on Moretti's face.
"Chief Sharpe, this investigation is in its early stages. Dr. Reed being poisoned and a bomb placed in her car would not be a coincidence. Where is your investigation into Dr. Reed's poisoning at?"
Mike was impressed with Agent Whitmore's ability to put Sharpe in his place. Everyone was sure the SPD declared Elizabeth's illness as a suicide attempt. Sharpe hedged as he said, "Uh, I'm not sure. I'll check with my detectives."