The point of the bayonet was now pressing into the AA-Suit’s breast plate and Elliot drew his left hand high into the air to pistol whip Marcus into the final submission. Williams flashed out with his right arm, but its ruined actuator, struck by a bullet just moments earlier, could not help him.
“Elliot!” a voice screamed.
Through unfocused eyes, Marcus saw Elliot Three-Seven pivot his head to the sound. He followed the FROG’s line of sight and found Frank Campanelli. The man was depending heavily on the wood partition to remain standing, and he did not look well, but he was there and so was his eleven-millimeter.
“This is what I get for being merciful!” Three-Seven howled at the man. Instead of backing off, he smiled and put more effort into his right arm. The point of the bayonet skewered the armor and it began to fail, bending inward from the pressure.
Frank squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. The three rounds drove into the FROG’s torso, sending him sprawling to the floor. The carbon fiber bayonet fell into the stairwell and clattered at Frohm’s feet.
Marcus took a few deep breaths as he watched Frank clumsily drop back onto the floor. With effort, Williams rolled and faced the downed killer, who was lying motionless.
Frohm came up to the top of the stairs with two other members of the SWAT team. Williams and he shared a look.
“Frohm here,” he called into the helmet microphone. “We need three med units to the top floor, RFN!”
Marcus reached to his belt and pulled out his cuffs. “Somebody…get these on ‘im,” he called and tossed them to Frohm.
Another set landed on the floor near Elliot’s feet. “Bind his damn legs, too!” Frank ordered.
Moments later, the area swarmed with more SWAT members, uniformed officers, and paramedics. Frank dropped off into unconsciousness and came back in time to see that Elliot had been bound by two pairs of handcuffs to both his wrists and his ankles. Williams was on his feet, looking tired and beat, but was otherwise all right. He could not hear his words over the out-of-tune symphony of voices in the room, but he was up and around.
Campanelli slipped off again. When he awoke the next time, Elliot was being taken down the stairs, as there was no power to Soldier Field to run the elevators. His aching mind wondered if they would work at all after all this time.
A young medic approached the Captain of Detectives and directed the two men carrying the stretcher to lay it down next to their patient. He produced a flashlight and inspected the detective’s eyes.
Frank did not need to blink, as his CAPS-Link adjusted the light level for him.
“You’ve got quite the concussion, sir,” the medic opined.
“No shit, Dr. Kildare,” Campanelli snapped back. “You wanna take a look at this for me?” He pulled the ruined coat away from the bayonet wound.
“Oh!”
“Yeah,” Frank grunted and lay his head down. He knew nothing more for some time.
***
Frank Campanelli awoke to darkness, which was not unusual. The air around him was cool and gave him chills. He felt that his arms were bare and that he was wearing very thin clothing.
He tried to speak, but coughed instead. His mouth was painfully dry. “Hello?” his roughened voice uttered. There was no answer.
Frank thought the command to activate his CAPS-Link and the world brightened to an empty hospital room. From the looks of things, it was identical to the room that Williams had stayed in. A sweater that he recognized as Tam’s was hung over a chair. A Sherlock Holmes book sat on the table. He smiled, knowing that she was somewhere nearby, probably getting coffee or lunch, considering the time.
It was half past noon, Tuesday, June 10th. He remembered nothing since falling unconscious back at Soldier Field. Calculating it, he found he had been out for more than twenty-five hours.
Frank stretched his extremities, relieved to feel that he had all his toes, fingers, and other bits. He felt rested, but weak and achy everywhere, especially his head.
Relieved upon remembering that he had shot Elliot Three-Seven and that he was no longer a problem, Frank drifted in and out of sleep with a slight smile on his face.
A few minutes later, Tamara Billingsley returned to the room along with a nurse, both dressed in anti-bacterial suits.
“Frank!” Tam called and rushed to his side. She grabbed his hands and squeezed them.
“Hi,” he said through a cracking voice.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
Frank shrugged and nodded. The nurse introduced herself and handed him a cup of water with a straw. He downed the clean, cool liquid until it was empty. Meanwhile, Tam chatted at a mile a minute. He wanted to hear nothing else in the world. He looked to her pretty face and smiled.
The nurse checked him over, covered him with another blanket, informed him that he had a severe concussion, some bruising along his upper back, and had been cut deeply just below the rib cage at his left side. This was all what he figured, but the fact that things seemed to have been put back into place pleased him.
“How’s Marcus?” he asked when he found the space.
“He’s fine,” she said. “He’s a floor up, watching your Nighthunter. Let me tell you, people were almost dancing in the streets when it hit…”
“What?!” Frank shrieked and pulled himself up on his elbows.
“Take it easy, Frank!” She was startled at his sudden harsh voice. She realized that he had not known the FROG still lived.
“How the hell…?”
“You shot him three times, but the doctors pulled him through,” she explained as she watched Campanelli sit up in the bed and throw his legs over the side.
“For God’s sake…why?!”
“Why what?”
“Why did they bother saving that…monster?” Frank was so angry the question came out in spurts.
Tamara stepped to him and took both of his forearms in her hands. “That’s what a doctor is supposed to do, Frank. Heal people, no matter what.”
“He’s not people, Tam! He’s a murdering monster!” he shouted as he tried to unhook his intravenous connection, but she held him hand tightly.
“Frank, no!” she called out loudly enough that her voice no longer sounded muffled in the suit’s mask. “You’re not well enough to go see him!”
Letting out a growl of frustration, he sat back down. His head had begun pounding and dizziness fell on him like a wet blanket.
“You don’t understand,” he tried again in a quiet, tired voice. “He can heal so fast, Tam. They built him so damn strong that Marcus, in a double ‘A’-suit, had a hard time with him. He’ll tear through this goddamned hospital like it was some old-fashioned meat market and bust outta here!”
“Nighthunter is out cold and Marcus is not alone, Frank. He has a couple of SWAT officers, a few uniforms, and Agent Quinne with him.” Tamara spoke confidently as she tugged him back toward the bed.
“A lotta damned good an FBI guy’ll do. Where the hell was he anyway?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, dear.”
The spinning room sent Campanelli back to his bed and on his back. “Hey. What happened to Dr. Ruger?”
“He’s here on this floor, just a couple doors down.”
“Good.” Frank nodded and sighed, relieved that his prognosis of the man’s condition had been correct. He had felt guilty when he sent the elderly man out to meet other officers and an ambulance, alone and bleeding.
“I’m sure Marcus wouldn’t mind if you reached out and talked to him,” Tam suggested.
Frank nodded and activated his CAPS-Link’s communications window. He found Williams and an entire squad of CPD available. Half of them were SWAT. FBI Agent Quinne was also in range. Suddenly, he felt guilty for wondering where the agent had been during the chase for Elliot.
“What is Three-Seven’s status?” Campanelli sent in text after a brief exchange of greetings with his partner.
“Still unconscious after surgery
,” Marcus replied. “He’s fastened to his bed frame with cuffs on each wrist and ankle, despite what the attending physician wanted.”
“So, what exactly are our orders? Why was he kept alive?”
A few minutes went by before he received Williams’s response. “I just checked with Chief Treadwell. We’re to turn him over to Dr. Ruger, Agent Quinne and a detachment of Marines on their way here.”
Frank shook his head in frustration at first, but was relieved that a higher authority was to take charge. “When are they getting here?”
“Friday.”
“Shit,” Campanelli spoke aloud as he turned his eyes to the ceiling.
“What?” Billingsley asked, concerned.
“We’re to keep that monster in his bed until the Marines come get him…this Friday,” he relayed to her.
“Shit,” she agreed.
As the afternoon rolled on, Frank’s headache continued, but lessened in intensity. Not one for a long bed rest, he insisted on getting up and going for a walk. His body was tight, achy, and uncomfortable.
Tamara and a nurse helped him to his feet. His back, bruised and inflamed from his impact with the shock from the car accident and the wooden partition at Soldier Field, was alight with a fiery and deep throbbing pain. Once he stood straight, however, it abated slightly.
Frank announced his intention to visit Dr. Ruger’s room, so the nurse brought him a full anti-bacterial suit like she wore. As Ruger’s injury was also an open wound trying to heal, the chances of the older man contracting a staph infection or one of the many strains of influenza were great.
Once Campanelli was suited up, Tam and the nurse escorted him to the airlock door and let him in. As he was getting around well enough to not need a cane or a walker, the two ladies left him to visit Ruger alone.
“Hello, Detective Campanelli,” Ruger greeted in a tired voice. His eyelids appeared heavy, staying closed for a couple of seconds at a time.
“Doctor,” Frank returned. He saw that the man’s heart rate, while a little low, was even and steady. His blood pressure appeared normal. “Good to see you made it.”
Mitchell Ruger smiled. “Yes, thank you. He was an amazing shot, wasn’t he?”
“You could say that,” Campanelli said and smiled.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“Yeah,” Frank nodded and pulled the recliner closer. His head swam and he needed a seat. “He tossed a SWAT member out an open window and shot four others with that same accuracy.”
“Oh, God.”
“Yeah.”
“How are you feeling, Detective?”
“Like an army of evil nanites is trying to escape the confines of my cranium with power tools,” Frank said flatly. “But I can’t complain. It could have been worse.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Mitchell said and turned to look at the ceiling. His eyes closed and stayed there long enough that Frank thought the man had gone to sleep. “I wanted to…talk to him. Bring him in peacefully.”
“He had other plans, Doctor,” the detective replied and sat back to relieve the pain in his back.
“At least it’s over,” Ruger whispered and let out a heavy sigh.
“Well, if you can get him back to that classified location of yours.” Frank added, “The laboratory or whatever.”
“What?” Ruger opened his eyes and regarded Campanelli with a heavy frown.
“The transportation back to the base,” the Captain of Detectives said a little louder for the older man, thinking he had merely misheard. “I hope the Marines are prepared with a good, strong cage.”
“He’s…alive?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Frank affirmed and pointed a thickly gloved hand to the ceiling to the northwest. “He’s upstairs. Unconscious after having my three bullets pulled out of him.”
“Oh, my.”
“Agent Quinne didn’t tell you?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Dr. Ruger, my implant pinpointed his location as being in this room not fifteen minutes ago!” he exclaimed and leaned forward in the chair.
“I just awoke some minutes before you came in,” he responded defensively.
“All right, all right.” Frank held up his palms to calm himself and the old man. “No big deal, Doctor.”
“There might very well be a big deal, Detective,” Ruger explained with weakened urgency. “You say he’s alive and upstairs. Is he bound? Cuffed? Chained? Anything?”
“Yes, of course.” He told him as he checked for the location of Agent Quinne. His implant now indicated that the man was upstairs with the SWAT team and Marcus Williams.
“Is he any calmer? Or is he fighting his restraints?” the elderly geneticist begged to know.
“He’s still unconscious.”
Ruger appeared confused. “How long ago was the surgery?”
Frank shrugged. “Not sure. I’m sure it must have occurred immediately after arrival. That was probably late afternoon.”
“How long was the surgery? Did he sit still for it?” Mitchell asked, speaking quickly.
“Dr. Ruger, you are starting to concern me. What do you mean? He’s been unconscious the whole time. I’m sure he was given some anesthetic…”
“That won’t have any effect, Detective!” exclaimed the unnerved old man.
“What the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“FROGs don’t need to be put under for surgery, Campanelli,” he explained as he forced himself to sit up. “They can turn off the pain receptors in their nervous system. Any drugs injected into the body are identified by the bio-nanite matrix. If they are of a toxic nature, including the drugs used for anesthetics, they are rerouted from the blood stream and sent to a waste channel.”
Frank stood up. “Are you telling me that there’s no sedating Elliot?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why is he unconscious, Doctor?”
“I don’t know. He can’t be,” Mitchell Ruger insisted. “If his injuries are enough to keep him unconscious this long, then perhaps they were fatal and the doctors only prolonged the inevitable.”
Campanelli thought about this for a few moments. “Or…he’s playing possum.”
“Healing while he works out an escape plan,” Ruger finished for him.
“Shit.” Frank got to his feet and walked as quickly as he could manage to the door. “I’ll let them know, Doc.”
“Yes! Do that, please!”
Frank quickly unlocked the inner door and shut it behind him. As he tried to contact the nurse’s station to be let out from the anti-bacterial chamber, he realized that no one was coming to his call.
“Marcus. Answer me,” he thought next and sent.
He watched his display as the message sat in the queue. He quickly came to the conclusion that he was being jammed. Frank looked through the glass portal of the outer door and saw a nurse sitting at the station to his extreme right. Frantically, he banged on the door, even though he knew that the fiberglass and steel construct was too thick for the sound to make it to her.
“Hey!!” Campanelli screamed loud and hard enough that his head became swimmy once more. Angered, he roughly removed the head gear of the anti-bacterial suit and tried again. “Let me out!! Heeyy!!”
Ruger saw the shadows dancing along the chamber’s walls to Detective Campanelli’s movements and deduced what was happening. The man was trapped in the chamber and kept from using his implant. Thinking quickly, he reached for the call button and pressed it several times.
“Come on,” he hissed. “Come on!”
“Yes, Dr. Ruger?” the nurse at the station responded.
“Quick! Please help! Detective Campanelli is stuck in the chamber and needs out! Hurry!”
The nurse, a forty-something professional who kept herself in shape, said nothing further. She bolted from her seat and sprinted to Ruger’s room. The fact that the Nighthunter was one floor up was enough to keep everyone on her staff on edge, so her reactions were on a hai
r-trigger as it was.
She pulled the handle of the outer door and let the red-faced policeman free. “Detective! Your suit!”
“Never mind that! Call CPD for me and get back up units here now!” he shouted at her and pushed his aching body into a fast jog. He remembered where the stairs were from his many recent visits and headed for them.
“Frank!” Tam shouted from a distance behind.
His sock-covered feet slid across the slick tile as he turned to look back. “Stay down here!”
“What’s happening?!” she called back, frightened.
“Just stay down here!” he ordered her and took on the daunting task of vaulting up the stairs. Everything hurt as he went, but his worry propelled him. He was still unable to send anything from the CAPS-Link or even determine if any of the officers were still up there. He wished he had his gun.
Arriving near the top, he could hear loud male voices. They were shouting at each other. Frank reached the top of the staircase and yanked the door out of his way. There he found the SWAT team holding their weapons up, pointing into the open hospital room airlock. With the anti-bacterial suits on the bodies of every officer, the only way to determine SWAT from a patrolman was the assault weapons. Three of the SWAT members were inside the doorway, aiming their weaponry toward what certainly must have been Three-Seven’s bed.
The rest of the group, another six men, remained outside and at the ready. Williams and Quinne were not among them.
“Let him go! Do it now!” one of the SWAT men on the inside shouted.
One of the officers approached Frank with his hand up. “Sir, you need to go back down the stairs!”
“I’m Detective Frank Campanelli, Sentinel Division,” he replied sternly. “What’s going on?”
“Where’s your badge?” the officer continued and blocked Frank’s way.
“In my hospital room downstairs,” Campanelli explained. “That is Elliot Three-Seven in there and I believe my partner, Marcus Williams and Agent Quinne are in there as well. Is that right?”
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 21