by Dan Alatorre
All DeShear could do was stare.
Lanaya viewed the charred damage from over his shoulder. “Now do you believe our lives are in danger, Mr. DeShear?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I sure do.” He was a talking statue—and barely that. Through his sunglasses, he watched firefighters spray water at columns of smoke that jumped and danced in the wind. Some white, some black, but all stinking of charcoal and lost memories and pain. And under it all, the burned-out remnants of his life.
Lanaya tugged his arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“All my stuff . . . my files, clothes, my furniture. Business records.”
“Mr. DeShear . . .”
“Pictures.” He turned to her. “Files.”
“You backed your computer up, right?”
“I—sometimes. On a hard drive. That was also in there.” He turned back to the blackened apartment building. “Crap!”
“Mr. DeShear.”
“And I did have some money stashed in the drawer of my desk. Not a lot, but—”
“Hank! Look at me.” She took his arm and pulled him aside, toward the hedges of the next building and out of the view of the gawkers. “This was not an accident. The arsonist who did this probably wanted you to be in that fire, and he may be nearby waiting for you to show up so he can finish the job. Let’s not make that task any easier. We must go. Now.”
“Yeah.” He backed away from the smoking mess of his home, letting her guide him. “Yeah, let’s get to the airport.”
Chapter 5
The Greyhound waited in the ER lobby for over an hour, a small canvas gym bag at his feet, pretending to read his cell phone. Right after the evening shift change, a very concerned Hispanic family entered the hospital. From what he could overhear, there had been an automobile accident involving the young parents and their small son. The father had arrived a few moments ago in an ambulance. The wife and little boy were apparently unharmed except for a good scare.
The grandmother arrived shortly after, and then the sister, with her husband and their young daughter; eventually the grandfather appeared as well, and an uncle. Within thirty minutes of their arrival, the young couple’s entire extended family was gathered in the ER.
The Greyhound had been waiting for a group like this all night. He left his chair by the TV and newspapers, walking to the water fountain. When he returned, he sat near the family. None of them appeared visibly upset; the paperwork gave the wife the most concern, not the car wreck or her man’s broken leg. A few minutes later, the wife had been called to come visit her husband somewhere down the hall. The grandfather and sister went with her, leaving the boy with his grandmother until they were certain Poppy’s leg injury wouldn’t be too much for little eyes to see.
But they were distracted. They wouldn’t be checking for injuries that weren’t obvious.
“Abuelita,” he said in a low tone.
The family had been speaking English since they came in, with an occasional smattering of Spanish by the older woman, so the term of endearment—addressing her as “little grandmother” in Spanish—would get her attention without raising her concerns. She turned to face him.
“Ask the doctors to check the boy for internal injuries.”
Judging from his height, The Greyhound estimated the little boy to be about three years old. He had been scampering around the ER with the girl, bouncing on chairs or hiding under them, until she wore out. Chattering away to anyone and no one, the boy had continued to race around the lobby until his mother shoved his iPad into his hands and instructed him to play a game with his cousin. After a few minutes, he tossed the tablet aside and was up again, searching for the few toys in the lobby and grabbing his grandmother’s hand to find My Little Pony on the TV.
The old woman smiled at The Greyhound’s question and waved her hand. “They say he’s alright.”
“I know, he seems fine. A little ball of fire. Bola de fuego.” The Greyhound leaned toward her. “But in any car wreck with a small child, you must check for internal injuries. For safety.”
The boy had been persistently grabbing at the crotch of his pants since coming into the emergency room.
“Chico,” The Greyhound said as the little blur ran by. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
The boy stopped and looked at him. “No.”
“He grabs himself like that all the time,” the grandmother said. “He’s just at that age.”
The boy sprinted away to check the mulch of the large planters. His aunt and uncle were on the phone updating other family members, and his cousin sat mesmerized by whatever was on her iPad screen. But having put the idea in play, his grandmother stood and asked if the boy needed to use the restroom. Again, he declined. With a quiet grunt, she got up out of her chair and strolled toward him, holding out her hand. “Come on, we might be here a while. Let’s try to go potty.”
He plopped to the floor in protest. “But I don’t have to go.”
“Lorenzo! Up!” A sharp snap of Grandma’s fingers ended the standoff, her scowl rousing the child to his feet. The pair walked hand in hand to the ladies’ restrooms and disappeared inside.
The Greyhound returned to reading his phone, waiting for the next round of the grandmother’s family members to be called back to visit the injured father. A moment later, the wife and Grandfather returned to the lobby, announcing that her husband’s leg was badly broken and he was headed for surgery. He was going to need pins and would be wearing a large cast for a few months, but otherwise he wasn’t hurt too badly.
The ladies restroom door flew open.
“Cristina!” The grandmother’s face was white. “Call the doctor. He’s peeing blood.”
The ER sprung into calm but fast action. Nurses and aides in scrubs appeared, ushering the boy and his angry-faced mother toward the triage rooms, and a chunk of the family followed. The sister’s husband and daughter stayed behind with the uncle, but most of the rest—from what The Greyhound could see—followed along.
The Greyhound stood up and went with them.
He shoved his phone under the mulch of one of the large planters, picked up his gym bag, and moved with the group. The internists would eventually shoo the overflow of family from the boy’s room, but The Greyhound only needed to walk with them past security. Since the shift change, no one on staff would know how long he’d been there, and with him sitting next to the family, they’d assume he was with them.
At the first corner, he turned left when the family cluster turned right.
The hospital’s cameras and watchful eyes were everywhere, but The Greyhound knew as long as someone acted like they were where they were supposed to be, no one on the staff really noticed if they weren’t.
He only needed to find one small room, make a quick adjustment to their inventory, and he’d be on his way.
Entering an empty elevator, he peeled off his shirt and sweat pants to reveal the scrubs he’d purchased at the uniform supply store. He shoved his clothes into the gym bag and pulled out a long, heavy metal box. Thanks to the ever-increasing need for businesses to put everything about themselves online—including their floor plans—he knew exactly where on the third floor to locate the surgery center. Down the hall from pre-op was the main drug holding area, a small, heavily locked area that contained the anesthesia. Near the surgery center was the holding room vault.
The Greyhound smiled as the elevator doors opened. Crossing to the nearby vending area, he slipped the gym bag into the trash, opened the heavy metal box, and withdrew its contents.
The best part about technology is how complacent it made everyone. Companies that sold things to hospitals didn’t make any money if the hospital wasn’t constantly upgrading to the latest, greatest thing. Oxygen sensors needed to be more portable and super lightweight; x-ray machines need to take digital images and send them instantly to the laptop waiting a few feet away. A heart rate monitor needed to slip over a finger and be every bit as accurate as its earlier, bigger, heavier versio
ns. Everything—simply everything—must be high tech.
Newer hospitals utilized biometrics now—a password, followed by a fingerprint. Certain older ones—like those targeted for acquisition by the Angelus Genetics group, for example—still only required passwords.
With a steel-cased, electrically-encoded lock, a digital keypad on the door, and an overhead security camera, the most restricted drugs in the hospital would be unwatched ninety-nine percent of the time. Even the best security guards couldn’t stay focused on a door that only opened a few times a day.
Complacency. The Greyhound counted on it.
Most of the time, a well-placed, powerful electromagnet would zap an older system, defaulting to not holding the deadbolt in the locking position—and rendering the door temporarily unlocked.
After that, the drug vault itself needed to be accessed. The same magnet would open it, too.
The Greyhound held his heavy electromagnet close to his hip, walking straight to the meds vault like he was the head of the hospital. His heart pounded as he moved toward his target. Would it open? He never knew until he tried. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
At a prior attempt at a different hospital, an intern had stepped ahead of him and opened the door to the vault. That made access easier, but it meant disabling the man with some close quarter punches before grabbing the goods. He fingered the bandage above his eye. The fight hadn’t been quick enough. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Holding his breath, he stood in front of the secured room and pressed the big magnet against the lock, to the side of the knob and keypad, where the circuit board and deadbolt engagement system were located. The keypad’s blue LED screen went black, and a clunk came from the thick door’s insides.
His heart thumped in his ears as he reached out and grabbed the handle. With a gentle tug, the door opened.
A rush of adrenaline surged through him as he crept inside. Now, to the meds vault.
He blinked a few times, realizing that he was panting hard. His pulse was throbbing and sweat gathered on his brow. The small room was uncomfortably warm, but he focused on the vault.
The thick, tempered glass door displayed rows of tiny bottles behind it, each with an important-looking label. Black ink with a blue square or a red dot made about the only discernible difference in the bottles, aside from the bold print identifying each drug.
He lifted the magnet onto the side of the vault, waiting for the readout to fail and the default spring to be released, causing the noticeable clunk the same way it had on the vault.
The LED screen stayed blue.
The Greyhound swallowed hard, his heart in his throat. He forced the magnet downward an inch, scraping the painted steel side of the vault. Its metallic screech was like nails on a chalk board.
Nothing.
A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and off the tip of his nose. Huffing, he gritted his teeth and shoved the magnet back an inch. It was only a matter of time before someone from security barged into the vault. He had less than a minute, at best.
But how long have I been in here already?
He wiped his brow with his sleeve and put a hand on the vault. Gripping the big magnet, he forced it to move in a circular motion over the side panel.
Engage. Now.
Time. There wasn’t much time.
Blinking sweat from his eyes, he worked the stubborn magnet around, searching for the locking hardware. The electronics had to be there. It was on all the diagrams. Opposite the vault’s hinges and an inch or so from the front.
Where is it?
The one in LA had given him trouble. Several had, in fact. St. Paul, Baton Rouge . . .
He tried to force that out of his mind, heaving against the magnet to get it to budge.
Keep moving it. The lock is here. It’s on all the diagrams.
With each thrust of his sweating hands, the magnet scraped along the side of the vault in fractions of an inch. Would this be another one he had to walk away from?
Seconds ticked by. The guards would have been notified by now, and they would be on the way. A whole-floor lockdown would ensue in a matter of moments, and then he’d be—
Clunk.
His heart leaped. He righted himself and yanked open the vault door, reaching past the red and green labels to the large teal bottle that said Propofol.
Grabbing it, a bolt of pain lurched through his stomach. He winced and doubled over, groaning as the air rushed out of him. The bottles nearly fell from his grasp. Making a fist, he pressed his other hand to his belly and squeezed his eyes shut, leaning on the countertop to keep from falling to the floor.
Not now.
A wave of nausea swept through him. The room grew warmer. He sunk to his knees and leaned against the wall, swiping his shoulder across his forehead again. Swallowing hard, he pushed down the urge to vomit and slapped a hand onto the countertop, forcing himself back to his feet. He stood there, gasping and dripping, as he slipped the Propofol bottles into his pocket.
He glanced at the door. It swayed back and forth.
Get it together.
Closing his eyes, he hoped the door would be standing still when he reopened them. It complied. With a deep breath, he tightened his gut and took a step forward.
His legs went out from under him and he crashed to the counter again.
Walk. Move it or go to prison.
With a groan, he pushed off the counter and grabbed for the door latch.
A few seconds of acting normal and you’ll be home free. It’s less than sixty seconds to the elevator. In three minutes, you’ll be outside.
He eyed the door. “Suck it up,” he whispered to himself. “You can manage for three minutes.”
He knew the nausea and pain would pass soon, but the bouts had been getting stronger, and each round was knocking him down for longer and longer periods of time. The last one came on fast and took him down for a week. That couldn’t happen now. This needed to be a wave; it needed to come and go, not be the start of another crash.
He didn’t have time for a crash.
Breathe.
Sixty seconds to the elevator. Another hundred and eighty to the rear parking lot.
The rest of your life depends on the next four minutes.
Nodding, he straightened up and clenched his gut. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The air conditioning was cooler there, for some reason. Less stuffy than in the small vault.
The nausea subsided. He took a few steps.
Normal. Walk normal. And with confidence.
He quickened his pace, glancing down the corridor to the elevator.
Fifty feet, then forty.
As he neared the elevator, relief swept through his system. He was going to make it.
The light over the elevator came on and the bell pinged. As the doors opened, several dark uniforms came into view.
Security.
He peeked to his right. The vending area. He slipped inside and faced a big machine filled with potato chips and granola bars. In the machine’s glass, the dark uniforms raced by behind him. He dropped the magnet into the trash can and waited, closing his eyes to catch the sound of the elevator closing.
When they did, he walked to them. He waved his hands between the doors, forcing them to open. Once inside, he could collapse.
“Long day?” The petite African-American woman in the corner wore a light gray suit and carried a clip board.
And a badge.
The security captain.
The elevator doors shut as he faced the panel of buttons. “Yeah, I pulled a double.”
The indicator was lit for the next floor down. He pressed L for lobby, the ground floor, and kept his face to the front.
“I work doubles all the time. Seems like the hospital admins never work late, but us low level folks can’t work enough hours for them. You look exhausted.”
“I feel exhausted. Like I’m going to pass out if I don’t get to bed soon.” He mustered a smil
e and glanced in her direction, not long enough to be perceived as checking her out, but not so short as to be dismissive. He needed to act normal and engage the way a hospital staff member would with someone they might run into again—and to not draw undue attention to himself. “Sorry. Guess I shouldn’t complain.”
She was attractive, wearing her black hair pulled back in a tight bun, but with high cheek bones and big eyes. Her suit was just snug enough to show off her figure, but this wasn’t the time for that. He had to fight to act normal until she got off the elevator.
The nausea crept back to him. He pressed his hand to his gut and swallowed reflexively to keep the queasiness at bay, but it wouldn’t stay back for long. When it came, it’d stay for a few hours or stay for a week, depending on if it was a small wave or a tidal wave.
The elevator pinged. The woman stepped to the front. “Well, see you around.”
“Cheers.” His gaze lingered just beneath the hem of her short jacket as she walked away.
Then the knot in his stomach seized up on him again and he leaned against the wall as the elevator doors closed.
He reached his rental car without further incident and crawled inside. He managed to drive to a fast food place a block away before he threw up, then he slouched in his seat until the pain in his stomach subsided. Once he made it back to his hotel, he could rest until the wave passed. Some water and carbs would be a good idea, too, before he regrouped to pursue the real target of his trip.
St. Anthony’s hospital across town, and a rendezvous with its chief of medicine, Dr. Asher Fishel.
Chapter 6
They passed a few hours in the airport lounge—gate side—with DeShear bouncing his heels under the chair and staring at his newspaper, doing his best not to get up and wear out the airport carpet.
If they tracked her to Tampa and connected her to me, then they can follow us to Atlanta.
He studied every bulge in every passenger’s suit jacket to be certain it was not a gun, and reassured himself that every fleeting look from a maintenance worker was not a covert enemy operative calling in a kill squad.
When their flight boarded, he was finally able to relax.