Toscana had rolled onto her stomach and was pulling the cattle prod out of her pocket. She stood, took a couple of unsteady steps, then reached out with the tube. As Toscana thrust the tube toward him, Brad spun to the side and stepped forward, his left hand chopping down on Toscana’s wrist. She cried out and dropped the prod.
Brad snatched it off the floor and faced Toscana. He was staring at a gun.
She shrugged. “Like the saying about bringing a knife to a gunfight.”
Brad glared.
“Cat got your tongue? Is your jaw broken? Just as well. I’m tired of your self-righteous rambling.”
The problem was that Brad hadn’t planned beyond cutting the ropes. Maybe a thought about weapons would have been useful. By his count, Toscana had at least three guns. Hers and Brad’s two pistols. She had Brad’s knife, and now he’d dropped the repaired blade. You’d think carrying a primary gun and a backup and a couple of knives would be enough. Did he need to carry three guns? Might as well carry a couple of grenades.
He had few options, so he went with his first one. “F … uck you.”
Toscana laughed. “My god, that is funny. As far as comebacks go, that’s weak. I would have expected better of you.”
Brad’s breath came in tiny gasps with a whistling sound with each breath. His pulse pounded in his temples and black spots appeared before his eyes. His chest spasmed, trying to pull air into his lungs. He slouched and then rested his arms on his thighs. His fingers tingled.
“Oh, poor baby. Having trouble breathing. Please. You’re breaking my heart.” Toscana bent to meet Brad’s eyes. “I might not have to do anything. You’re suffocating. You’ll die, soon. Weird thing about not being able to breathe. Just not consistent with life.”
Like in football, Brad’s powerful legs propelled him forward and within two steps, he slammed into Toscana’s stomach as hard as he’d ever done in football. They hit the floor, the wind knocked out of them.
Brad rolled off Toscana and tried to roll to his knees. He couldn’t. Every time he moved, the room spun. He wasn’t getting enough air. He glanced at Toscana, who was doing worse than Brad. Her lips puckered like a guppy as she struggled to breathe.
Brad scanned the floor. The gun was eight feet to the left, the cattle prod the same distance to the right. He wasn’t sure he could get either. He didn’t see the knife blade. It had to be the gun. Fighting her for the guns would be suicidal, but he was out of options. He sucked air between his teeth and then rolled left. On the third roll, he used his momentum to raise into a crouch. In two steps, he was reaching for the gun.
“Coulter, you fucker. Die.”
Brad dove to the floor, grabbed the gun, and swung toward Toscana. Her first shot whizzed over his head, exactly where he’d been crouched. He swung the gun up and without aiming fired three shots. Two to the chest and one to the forehead.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Steele sprinted out of the factory with other TSU members close behind. Zerr limped to their truck. The cold was messing up his leg. Zerr hadn’t closed the truck door when Steele swung the Suburban out of the parking lot. The truck fishtailed on the slippery road. Steele gained control and swung the truck south.
Zerr picked up the microphone. “Dispatch. TSU heading to the old CN Railway station. We have information Coulter may be there. Send backup.”
“Roger,” dispatch said.
Steele glanced over. “Maybe EMS.”
Zerr’s jaw clenched. “Dispatch, roll two EMS units please.”
“Roger.”
Steele swung onto Eighteenth Avenue. Four Suburbans followed bumper to bumper. As they approached the CN Railway station, the Suburbans fanned out on either side of the building. Every window and door was covered with a sheet of plywood.
Steele and Zerr jumped out of the truck and jogged toward a side door that was covered with plywood. Steele reached into a gap between the door and plywood and pulled. Nails screeched as they gradually released their grip on the ancient wood. Steele tossed the plywood to the ground and unslung his rifle. He placed his hand on Zerr’s shoulder and they entered the dark building. Before they’d taken a dozen steps, three gunshots rang out. They sprinted through the darkness toward the sound.
Steele was the first one to the room. He swung the door open, stepped in so the door would bounce back on his foot, and surveyed the room over the sights of his rifle. Zerr did the same to Steele’s left.
The air was thick with the odors of body sweat, blood, and body fluids. A body lay before them, face down and unmoving. Across the room, a man was bound to a chair by rope. Occasional moans escaped his lips. To the far right, a man lay on his face on the floor. High-pitched whistles were heard.
Steele knelt and rolled the first person onto their back. Despite the bullet hole in her forehead and the blood, he recognized Toscana. He checked for a pulse and found none. Blood oozed from two bullet holes mid-chest.
Zerr was assessing the man in the chair, so Steele headed to the man on the floor, and rolled him onto his back.
“Oh, shit.”
Zerr’s head swung to Steele. “What?”
“It’s Brad. He’s badly injured.”
“I’ve got Michael Trant here. I think he’s overdosed.”
Four TSU members, guns pointed, strode into the room.
“We need EMS here, now,” Steele yelled. “Officer down.”
Two TSU members sprinted out of the room.
Zerr left Trant with two of his team and slid across the floor.
Steele glanced at Zerr. “Where do we start?”
Puffy, dark bruises surrounded Brad’s eyes. His nose hooked right, and his jaw was out of place. Whistling sounds came as air passed through Brad’s clenched jaw.
“Ah shit,” Zerr said. “His nose is broken and caked with blood. His jaw is broken or dislocated. He can hardly breathe through his mouth. I don’t know.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Jill Cook sprinted across the open room, following the beam of two TSU flashlights. They separated as they reached a room and Jill stepped in. Her eyes scanned the scene. “What do you have?”
Zerr glanced up. “Three patients. One DOA. One overdose. And Brad, he’s in awful shape.”
Jill pushed Steele to the side and assessed Brad’s face. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “He’s ice cold.”
“Broken nose and jaw,” Zerr said.
“Yup. And he’s not moving much air.” She pulled an oxygen mask out of her kit and hooked it up to the oxygen tank. She handed it to Steele. “Hold this over his nose and mouth, but don’t apply any pressure.” She glanced at her partner. “Sharma, take two cops, get the spine board, stretcher, blankets, and hot packs. We need to get going.”
As Amir left, Dixon and Thompson barged into the room. Jill pointed to Michael Trant. “Overdose.”
She checked the rest of Brad’s head and face. “He’s got some large goose eggs on his head, and several lacerations. If I had to guess, I’d say he was hit with something a bunch of times, maybe a gun.”
“Was he given heroin?” Zerr asked.
Jill shone a penlight into Brad’s eyes. “They’re equal and dilated. It’s unlikely he was injected with an opioid.”
Jill pulled out her paramedic shears and cut off Brad’s T-shirt. Her jaw clenched when she saw a half-dozen pairs of red circles smaller than a dime on Brad’s chest and stomach, along with an assortment of bruises. She listened to his lungs with her stethoscope. There was barely any air movement. She slid her hands over his ribs—they were intact. She checked his arms for any signs of injections—none.
Sharma set the spine board down next to Brad. They wrapped him in blankets and placed hot packs on his armpits, groin, and neck. They slid him onto the spine board and attached straps. With the cops, they lifted Brad onto the stretcher and raced to the ambulance.
Sirens blared as the ambulance raced through downtown toward the Foothills Hospital. Jill hung on to the roof rail as the ambul
ance swayed with each bump and turn. Briscoe hadn’t given them a choice. They had a police escort and had a cop driving. She glanced up at Sharma. “I can’t get a secure airway. His jaw won’t move. Either it’s dislocated or broken. His nose is full of dried blood. I tried to clean it out but it’s like concrete.”
“Can you get an airway past his teeth?” Sharma started a second IV line.
“Nope.”
“All righty. Get ready for a surgical cricothyroidotomy.”
Jill reached into a cupboard and pulled out a sealed bag. She ripped it open and carefully opened the wrap. Everything she needed to cut into Brad’s trachea and open his airway was in the kit. She licked her dry lips as she mentally went through the process. She’d never done a cric on a person. Her training had been on pig tracheas in a lab.
She slid the stethoscope earpieces into her ears and listened to Brad’s breathing. With all the surrounding noise, it was difficult to hear. She filtered out all other sounds and concentrated on Brad’s lung sounds. They were faint. She glanced at the cardiac monitor as the heart rate increased to over one hundred and fifty.
“I can barely hear his respirations. His heart rate is too high. He’s hypoxic.”
Sharma nodded and leaned toward the driver. “I need you to slow down and keep it smooth.” He slid into the seat at Brad’s head and held an oxygen mask in place. He glanced at Jill and nodded.
Jill cleaned Brad’s neck with an alcohol swab and then Betadine solution. She slid on surgical gloves and selected a scalpel. She slid a gloved finger down the middle of Brad’s airway, over the Adam’s apple to the notch just below.
With two fingers, she tightened the skin and secured the trachea. She made a horizontal incision about an inch across. Blood oozed from the cut. She held the trachea in place with one hand and wiped the blood with gauze in the other hand. Then she inserted hemostats into the incision and opened them, creating a hole in the trachea.
Sharma handed her an endotracheal tube, which she inserted through the hole in Brad’s neck. Sharma inflated the bulb on the end of the tube, then secured it in place with tape. Jill attached the bag-mask to the endotracheal and squeezed. Brad’s chest rose, then fell. She ventilated a dozen times, then glanced at Steele, who was sitting at Brad’s head in the airway seat. Color had drained from his face and beads of sweat ran across his forehead.
Jill shook his shoulder. “I need you to take over. You can do this.”
Chapter Seventy-Five
Annie paced the hall by the triage desk in the emergency department. No one likes hospitals, but she was tiring of waiting to find out if someone she loved was dead or alive. And if alive, how badly hurt. It was less than two months ago that Charlie was severely injured in a helicopter crash. Brad had comforted her while they waited for the ambulance to arrive. This time, it was Brad she waited for.
She heard the swoosh of the electric doors and the rush of icy air. She spun toward the door. Sadie raced to her. “Any word?”
Annie shook her head. They stared at each other for a moment, then Annie pulled Sadie into her arms. “I’m so scared. I can’t take this.”
Sadie held her close. “It won’t be long. The ambulance is on its way.”
“How do you know?”
Sadie stepped back from Annie. “We scanned the police and EMS channels.”
“Did they say how he is?”
Sadie shook her head.
Annie stared. “You know something.”
“They … they’re giving the ambulance a police escort.”
“Oh my god.” Annie’s hands flew to her mouth. “That’s bad. That’s terrible.”
Sadie grabbed Annie. “Maybe. You know how cops are. Get a laceration and they to go lights and siren to the hospital. I’m sure it’s more courtesy than anything serious.”
“Really?”
Sadie’s jaw was clenched. Annie knew Sadie was barely holding on. Each were trying to be stronger for the other. This time Annie put her arms around Sadie and guided her to the waiting room. “We can watch for the ambulance from here.”
The steady thrum of activity in the emergency department was interrupted by the sounds of sirens in the distance. Quiet at first, then louder and seemingly more urgent. Sadie and Annie stood at the entrance, staring out the window. Only sirens. Several cruisers blocked the intersection at Twenty-Ninth Street at the entrance to the hospital grounds. Then the first police cruiser swung off Twenty-Ninth Street toward the emergency entrance. The cruiser caught air as it flew over a speed bump. The ambulance, close behind, crossed the speed bump at a reasonable speed.
The speaker in the emergency department announced, “EMS arrival with critical patient. Trauma team to bed one.”
Annie’s knees weakened. Sadie grabbed her arm and held her upright, then they stumbled toward the ambulance entrance. They couldn’t get close for the police officers, paramedics, and hospital staff crowding around the door.
The doors opened and Briscoe strode through. “Get the hell out of the way. Let EMS through.” Anyone he felt was too close, he shoved. He was a snowplow clearing the road and nothing was stopping him.
Annie stood on her toes to get a peek. Steele jogged beside the stretcher. A paramedic, standing on the bottom rail of the stretcher, leaned over Brad’s face as they rushed the stretcher to the trauma room.
Annie and Sadie tried to follow the paramedics, but a blue line formed in front of them. The cops weren’t letting anyone past.
“Damn,” Sadie said.
Annie took her by the hand. “Come with me.” Annie led Sadie past the triage desk and down a hall. She made a right turn toward X-ray and then stopped at a door on the right.
“Now what?” Sadie asked.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
Annie raised her eyebrows. “You’ll see.”
Thirty seconds later, the door burst open and an orderly rushed out. Annie stuck her foot in the doorway before the door closed and pulled it open.
“Let’s go.”
They entered the back of the emergency department where three trauma beds were located. All the activity was in the bed farthest from them. They inched their way over and slipped behind the paramedics. Nurses, doctors, and techs surrounded the hospital bed. A nurse stepped away from the foot of the bed, giving Annie and Sadie their first view of Brad. They reached for each other at the same time and staggered back to the wall.
Aside from a tiny sheet across his groin, Brad was naked. IV lines ran from bags on hooks to both arms. Cardiac monitor leads crossed his chest. A nurse was taking his blood pressure. But the most terrifying sight was the tube that went into the middle of his throat. A lady in red scrubs was using a bag device to breathe for Brad.
Annie’s vision blurred, and she slid down the wall. “Oh, god.”
Annie heard the whispered voices first, then her eyes focused. She was in a chair in a small room, had a cold towel on her forehead, and a blanket across her body. “Where … what happened?”
“You fainted.”
Annie squinted and searched for the voice. “Oh god, Sadie. Really?”
Sadie patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it. You just beat me to it.”
“You’re getting your color back.” Annie glanced toward a paramedic she didn’t recognize.
“Jill Cook.”
Annie nodded. “Brad talked about you.”
Sadie’s head swung quickly to Annie, then Jill.
“My partner and I treated Brad … Detective Coulter.”
Footsteps thudded down the hall toward them. “Are you okay?” Zerr knelt next to her, a hand on her arm.
“I’m fine. Just embarrassed.”
Zerr glanced from Sadie to Jill.
“Just syncopal episode,” Jill said.
“What?” Sadie and Zerr said.
“I fainted.” Annie straightened in the chair and swiped the cloth off her forehead. “How is he?”
Cook frowned. “Until they—”
Annie held up her hand. “No mumble-jumble bullshit. I don’t give a shit about tests hours from now. I want to know how he is. You’re a fuckin’ paramedic, so tell me what you know.”
Cook nodded. “He’s had the shit beaten out of him. His nose is broken. His jaw is broken. He has contusions to his head. So, likely concussion. Tests”—she held up her hand—“will tell us the extent of the brain injury. He has electrical burns to his chest, back and stomach. His wrists have friction burns, likely from ropes and a lot of cuts. That’s just the stuff we can see.”
“You forgot to mention the tube in his neck,” Sadie said.
“Right.” Cook chewed her bottom lip. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “With his broken nose and jaw, he wasn’t able to breathe well. I couldn’t clear the blood from his nose and with the broken jaw, I couldn’t put a tube into his lungs through either his nose or mouth. His heart rate was tachycardic, likely because he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I had to cut into his trachea—his windpipe—and slide a tube in.”
“Was he without oxygen for a long time?” Annie asked.
“We don’t know. That’s what—”
“The tests will show,” Sadie said.
Cook held out a hand. “Do you want to go see him?”
Chapter Seventy-Six
Three Days Later
After two days in intensive care, Brad had been moved to a regular hospital room. Dull green walls, single window, TV mounted on the wall, hospital bed and nightstand. Flowers lined the shelf under the window with a view of downtown. In the space under the flowers, dozens of cards were lined up.
A portable tray table on wheels was next to the bed with a Styrofoam cup of iced water and a box of tissue. Zerr acquired two chairs from the waiting area and carried them to Brad’s hospital room, past the scrutinizing charge nurse’s eyes. He sat with Steele in two of the chairs in a semi-circle around the bed.
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