Hollow's End

by Hannibal Adofo

  But he could have sworn that more people were on the grounds the last time he was out in the hallway.

  It’s quiet.

  Too damn quiet.

  He wandered through the hallway.

  He looked at the unoccupied nurses’ station to the left and heard the soft strains of music from a radio on the counter.

  Vincent continued down the hallway and saw that only two of the other rooms were occupied, and still no medical staff in sight.

  Where the hell is everybody?

  “Hello!” Vincent called out, his voice echoing off the walls. “Is anyone here?”

  Nothing.

  Not a damn thing.

  Vincent continued walking, hoping that it was simply fatigue and paranoia that was causing him to feel on edge. As he came to the sliding double doors that led out to the parking lot, he stood in front of the motion sensor, the doors slid open with a whoosh and the chilly night breeze blew in to is face.

  The parking lot was vacant and barren, with nothing but the moon reflecting in shallow puddles of water where the atmosphere evoked a sense of an abandoned western town. What’s missing are tumbleweeds rolling by in the distance.

  Convinced that this was nothing except but a stress-induced delusion, Vincent turned around to head to Claire’s room, preparing to sleep on the cot provided for him by the hospital staff.

  Good night’s sleep will take the edge off.

  That’s all I need.

  The hospital then fell in total darkness.

  22

  A concussive shotgun blast nearly knocked him off his feet.

  Vincent dove into Claire’s room as the doorframe splintered into pieces. Footsteps hurried in Vincent’s direction. He ran toward the door and threw his weight against it as the barrel of the shotgun poked through the opening and fired off a round that demolished the equipment Claire was hooked up to five feet away.

  Through the gap in the door, Vincent saw the sniper, his eyes cold and unwavering as Vincent struggled to get control over the shotgun.

  They both looked at each other and not backing down.

  Vincent gripped the wooden stock of the shotgun and tugged with his right hand, his left shoulder pressed into the door, the wound in his shoulder tearing and searing with pain.

  The sniper pulled on the shotgun, attempting to pump a round into the chamber as Vincent and he engaged in a deadly tug-of-war. Knowing it was a risky move, but with little choice because his shoulder was killing him. Vincent opened the door and rammed into the sniper, knocking him to the floor.

  The shotgun clattered to the ground and skittered across the tile, settling to a stop as Vincent mounted the sniper’s chest.

  The sniper, better trained than Vincent, spun around in a smooth reversal on his back, flipped Vincent off him onto the floor.

  Vincent fell onto his right side; the wind knocked out of him as the sniper took out a Beretta and aimed it at Vincent’s skull.

  Vincent, panting but still in the game, grabbed the sniper’s wrist and managed to aim the barrel toward the ceiling as five rounds drilled holes into the boards above.

  The two of them struggled to get a grip on the gun, their tug-of-war moving from the shotgun to the Beretta.

  Vincent felt his grip slipping, his strength no match for his opponent.

  Thinking quick and dirty, Vincent leaned in and bit the sniper on the cheek, chomping down on the flesh, biting off a fleshy chunk, and spitting it in the sniper’s face.

  The sniper recoiled with a grunt, losing his grip on the gun, and ran to the right as Vincent snatched the weapon and fired five shots that tore into the floor.

  The sniper ducked into another room, slammed the door behind him and shut off the lights as Vincent got to his feet, set to pursue.

  Vincent looked at the Beretta, removed the clip, and checked his ammunition supply—five rounds left.

  Vincent reloaded the clip and moved forward toward the room. He inched his way toward the door and debated if he should fire through it.

  I can’t. A patient might be in there with him.

  Vincent decided to try to draw the guy out. He came within two feet of the door, and that was when the sniper burst out of the room, tackled Vincent to the floor, and wrestled him for the gun.

  The sniper was on top of Vincent, his bloody face an emotionless mask as they pulled and tugged on the gun, both men wanting the other to give in.

  Vincent, with his finger on the side of the gun, tried to move the Beretta against the sniper’s momentum to line up a shot. He slowly pushed it right, towards the sniper's ear.

  The sniper spotted that Vincent still had his finger wrapped around the trigger, squeezed Vincent’s hand, and forced him to shoot the last five rounds.

  As soon as the gun racked back, the sniper smacked it out of Vincent’s hands.

  And that was when the sniper produced a knife.

  He raised it and came down to stab Vincent on the crown of his head. Vincent caught it with both hands and stopped it from making impact within a half-inch of his forehead.

  Both men locked grips and gazes as time slowed to a crawl, neither willing to back down from the fight.

  The sliver of a smile crept onto the sniper’s face when he nodded and said, “Time to pay the ferryman.” His Russian accent was thick and guttural.

  He gripped the knife and slapped his other hand on its base, slamming it into Vincent’s chest.

  Vincent’s eyes went wide as the sniper withdrew the knife and prepared to come down with another strike. A small river of blood began to trickle from Vincent’s chest as his new reality all collapsed into one frame.

  This is it.

  Just let it happen.

  Just close your eyes.

  Three shots rang out.

  Vincent opened his eyes to see an officer in a firing stance, smoke rising from the barrel of his gun.

  Arterial spray doused Vincent in the face as the sniper fell onto his back, the knife falling from his grip and skittering across the floor as Vincent was bleeding to death, his heart racing as he panicked and felt his energy drain by the second.

  “Holy shit!” The patrolman drew down on Vincent but then saw the blood leaking from his chest. “Help!” he called out, holstering his weapon and dropping to his knees to put pressure on Vincent’s chest. “This man needs medical attention! Hello! Anybody?”

  Vincent felt his vision turning foggy, like the world around him was slowly slipping into a dream state as he faded in and out of consciousness.

  Thoughts of Claire entered his mind. Thoughts of his wife. Thoughts of his partners. Thoughts of his life.

  It’s true.

  Your life does flash before your eyes.

  Though he’d had many close calls before and managed to walk away relatively unscathed, finally, Edgar Vincent was dying.

  23

  Vincent was rushed into the operating room as the police secured the hospital. Several nurses, residents, and aides on Claire’s floor had been killed, and a janitor had been knocked unconscious.

  As soon as the power was restored, Vincent was put on a gurney and wheeled quickly into the operating room, flanked by two doctors, a nurse, a surgeon, and the officer who’d saved him.

  Vincent was clinging to life like fingertips on the edge of a cliff, and his grip was fading fast.

  The head surgeon moved into position after the nurses and surgical assistants stripped Vincent of his clothing and did a quick prep of Vincent's chest for surgery.

  “What do we got?”

  “Laceration from a knife wound,” a nurse called out. “It’s pretty deep. Left pectoral muscle.”

  The surgeon looked to the cop. “Is the area secure?”

  “Working on it now,” the cop said.

  “Get it done. I don’t need any more patients getting shot in the damn hospital.” He turned to a nurse. “Call Dr. Fitzpatrick and get her here. Now.”

  The cop and the nurse fled to see to their duties as the
surgeon went about tending to Vincent, placing the ventilator over his mouth as Vincent’s skin turned an ashy shade of white.

  To Vincent, the whole thing seemed like a dream viewed through a kaleidoscope. Machines beeped and buzzed; nurses scrambled all around. The surgeon hovered over him, barking commands.

  “I need three units of blood, and I need three units on standby,” the doc said, examining the wound and reaching for his tools. “He’s bleeding all over the place.”

  The blood from Vincent’s wound flowed all over the gurney and down onto the floor, Vincent going limp as the surgeon scrambled.

  “His pressure’s dropping,” one of the nurses called out.

  Another nurse said, “Trying to stabilize him.”

  Nothing was working.

  Vincent just kept bleeding.

  “How’s our blood pressure?” the surgeon called out. Vincent saw a flash of tools and lights passing over him, and his soul felt like it was slowly rising out of his body.

  “Under forty,” a nurse said. “He’s on the verge of flatlining.”

  Vincent then felt a heave in his chest, everything becoming tight as his consciousness teetered on the verge of completely slipping away.

  Vincent’s heart stopped beating. The heart monitor’s warning was as monotone as could be. He’d flatlined.

  “Okay,” the surgeon said, motioning to a pair of paddles. “We’re gonna shock him.”

  The nurses pulled some pads, wiped the blood pooling on Vincent’s chest, and gelled them up as the dial was turned to charge them.

  “Everyone stand clear,” the surgeon said as he grabbed the paddles and pressed them to Vincent’s chest. “Charged?” he asked the nurse.

  “Charged.”

  “Clear!”

  Vincent was hit with the defibrillator, his blood pressure spiking as his chest heaved up.

  The surgeon checked Vincent’s pulse. “He’s still falling. Charge it again.”

  “Charged.”

  “Clear!”

  Another ZAP—same result.

  “He’s losing too much blood,” a nurse said.

  The doc stuck a needle into Vincent’s chest.

  “Nothing,” the nurse said as they waited for a reaction. “Still flatlining.”

  The surgeon shook his head. “Let’s shock a flatline,” he said. “Let’s try it one more time.”

  As Vincent fought for his life on the operating table, images of his daughter as a toddler flashed before him, her angelic smile and the warmth of the sunshine around her comforting him and escorting him into the light tempting him to move forward into oblivion.

  “Clear,” the surgeon said.

  ZAP.

  Vincent’s chest rose and fell as all eyes stayed glued to the machine monitoring his pulse, the flatline beep ringing out as the doctor ordered another, final charge to be administered. Hoping that this would be the one to kick start his heart.

  Vincent felt the world and reality slip comfortably away.

  A light flashed, a small point the size of a pinhole. The pinhole grew, expanding and growing with each second that passed. Finally, the light opened like the rays of the heavens, a cool breeze overcoming Edgar Vincent in waves as a familiar female voice called out to him. “Wake up, Eddie… Wake up…”

  Though it seemed that noises were swirling around him, Vincent’s heart began racing upon hearing the voice. Something deep in his subconscious knew that he was alive. He had been knocked unconscious a few times throughout his life, so his brain was accustomed to being shut off every once in a while.

  He blinked as shapes began to take form in the light—an IV to the left, railings to the hospital bed he was in on either side. A figure dressed in a suit and tie sat casually in the corner to his right, then stood as Vincent blinked himself back to consciousness.

  “Is he awake?” he heard someone ask, the booming voice echoing in Vincent’s skull.

  A nurse to Vincent’s left said something. The man then dismissed the nurse as he came to Vincent’s bedside. Vincent squinted to get a better look at the man as he approached.

  “You’re a hard man to take down, Mr. Vincent,” he said. “Somebody up above must be looking out for you.”

  Vincent cleared his throat and parted his lips. His mouth felt dry like cotton as he tried to sit up. “Wh-who…who are you?”

  The man in the suit gently guided Vincent back into the pillows. “Rest up, son,” he said. “You’ve got a few more miles to go before you can get up and start taking down the bad guys again.”

  Vincent shook his head, the past few days playing back in his head and ending with the visual of Claire being shot. “No,” he said. “No, I’m done with all that. I’m retired.”

  The man in the suit laughed. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy,” he said as he meandered back to the chair in the corner. “A man with your talents cannot be allowed to fall by the wayside. It would be a”—the man thought about it and smiled—“a waste of talent.”

  He grabbed a folder resting on the chair, an official seal printed in black against the wood-brown hue of the paper. “You did a hell of a job taking down those Russians,” he said. “A hell of a job. A man with your abilities can carve out quite a career for himself in this current climate. That’s where a man like me comes in—to harness and channel those abilities.”

  “Are you gonna tell me who the hell you are?” Vincent asked.

  The man turned around. “You can call me Lynch.”

  “And I assume you work for someone, Lynch? Unless you’re here as an independent contractor?”

  “I work for the Company. I’m a…recruiter, of sorts.”

  Vincent closed his eyes and thought, The CIA?

  “Well, what do you want with me?”

  Lynch tossed the file folder on Vincent’s blanket-covered legs. “I’m offering you a job, son,” he said. “High stakes. High reward. It’s a job that can offer you travel, and significant compensation for you and your family.” He nodded over his shoulder in the direction of Claire’s room.

  Vincent glanced at the folder near his feet. His conviction over handing in his resignation was still holding strong. “At this point, money means shit to me, Lynch. I’ve risked way too much already and taken too many slugs in this line of work.”

  Lynch smirked. “You should read the file first. I think you might be inclined to change your mind.”

  Vincent rested back and shook his head. “No. No way. I’ve been down this road too many times. There’s no force on earth or heaven that would make me change my mind.”

  Lynch reached across Vincent’s lap, flipped open the folder, and stood back. Vincent, switching his gaze between the folder and Lynch, took his time, but he eventually read the file—and once he did, his eyes went wide. “Is this…is this for real?”

  Lynch nodded. “Big-time, champ. And a man of your skill sets is the perfect candidate for the job.”

  Vincent reread the file, stunned and amazed at what he was seeing. “This is…this is insane. This is nuts.”

  “Very much so. And based on the look in your eye, I’d guess that you want to sign on. Correct?”

  Vincent swallowed the tension in his throat. He wanted to quit. He wanted to leave. He wanted to start a new life that would allow him to reconnect and make up for the time he’d lost with the family he had left.

  But the intel in the file was calling his name. Hell, what he saw there was beyond temptation. “Hot damn.”

  “What do you say, Vincent?” Lynch asked, pointing a pen in Vincent’s direction.

  Vincent touched a hand to the file, the intel now clawing at him harder than his desire to retire.

  Damn!

  “What’s your answer, son?” Lynch said. “Yes or no?”

  The thought swirled around in Vincent’s mind. He reread the file and gave Lynch his response.

  “I’m in.”

  From The Author

  Thank you for your interest in following the adventures
of Edgar Vincent. I do have some prequels in mind so keep an eye out for those. If you want to hear more from Edgar Vincent.

  I’ve always envisioned Edgar as an older and tired Detective (hence his move to Hollow Green). A man who puts his all into his work and with that being said sometimes his all is what tires him out. I hope you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read so far.

  As far as Detective Vincent is concerned this could be the end for him but you never know. I can see him making an appearance here and there to join or help out other characters in a jam or if an idea for a full novel comes about I’ll try my hand at that going forward.

  As always, if you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read, leaving a review very important to an independent author and I’d appreciate your effort to leave one, especially on Amazon. It helps tremendously.

  Keep a look out for future works. Until then take care and be well

  Hannibal Adofo

  You can subscribe to my newsletter here

  You can also join me on Facebook

  Email: me@hannibaladofo.com

  Website: www.hannibaladofo.com

  Also by Hannibal Adofo

  Hollow Green - Edgar Vincent Book 1

  Hollow’s Eve - Edgar Vincent Book 2

  Hollow Ground - Edgar Vincent Book 3