Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1)

by Pat Patterson

  Chapter 2

  Jim looked lost beyond words. Insane with rage. He gripped the steering wheel with viselike hands, his brow etched with deep furrows as he drove the streets around The Garden Terrace peering into the shadows. The sorrow Sharon had expected to see on his face wasn’t there. Instead, his bright azure-colored eyes burned with murderous hate, anger like she’d never seen, and it frightened her. She lowered her head and wept quietly, her face buried in her hands, her large frame jerking with each uncontrolled sob. She felt foolish. She took a deep breath and held it, then another, and another, until she had found enough self-control to speak.

  “Jim?” She said, her voice cracking. “What are we doing?” Jim continued to peer through the windshield. Sharon placed her hand on his shoulder. “Let the police handle this, Jim. And don’t you think they’ll wonder where we are? We need to get back to the station.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m finished.”

  “Finished?”

  “With everything. Running calls. Getting spit at. Risking my life to help other people. Fools! You know what our illustrious supervisor just told me? Said, ‘Come straight back to the station, Stockbridge. Fill out an incident report before you run any more calls.’”

  “He expects you to stay on the truck?”

  “Idiot!”

  “After all that’s happened?”

  “Don’t worry,” Jim said. He turned the corner and idled slowly up Taylor. “I’m not.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  “You don’t want to know. There!”

  “What?”

  “It’s them!”

  “Who?”

  Sharon watched helplessly as Jim slammed on the brakes, climbed out of the rig, and flung his field jacket aside. His uniform shirt came next, buttons flying as he ripped it off, leaving nothing but a tight-fitting tee shirt with the words ‘No Fear’ printed across the back in bold letters.

  “Get on the radio, Sharon. Tell Dispatch to send another ambulance. There’s going to be a lot of blood.”

  “Jim, wait!”

  Sharon watched Jim tear through the front gate of The Terrace and disappear between the buildings. “Oh, man!” Sharon reached for the microphone and keyed up the 2-way. “Medic-seven to dispatch, get some cops to Garden Terrace Apartments fast! I think there’s going to be another murder.” Sharon tapped her foot nervously. The radio remained silent. She re-keyed her mike. “Medic-seven.”

  Silence.

  “Carlos! Like, do you copy me or what?”

  Sharon didn’t have to wait long for Dispatcher Carlos Mendez to respond. His voice sounded coolly professional, but with a slight edge of distrust.

  “Uh, medic-seven, you did say there’s going to be another murder? Correct?”

  “Carlos, listen to me! Send cars now! My partner…he’s like…gone berserk!”

  Chapter 3

  All Jim could hear, all he could see, all he could taste was the deep yearning for revenge. He ran between the buildings and found them loitering at the back of The Terrace. Three of them. One wore black pants and an oversized team jacket of the Chicago Bulls. The other two wore durags, and red sweat pants with the right legs pulled up to the knee. He recognized the ugly barbed-wire logo of the Core Street Crew tattooed around their ankles. They stood around a picnic table, smoking and laughing. A black machine pistol lay on the table less than six feet from them.

  Jim didn’t stop to consider the odds or the danger; he was past the point of rage. He attacked without warning, pouncing on the closest boy, grabbing a handful of clothing and thrusting his leg upward into the young man’s bony face. Kneecap smashed against teeth. The young man’s legs went limp. Every joint seemed to loosen at once as if robbed of connective tissue and the boy fell like a boneless mass.

  Jim spun on his heels. The second boy was in motion. He dove for the pistol and brought it up to aim, but Jim was far too fast. He uncoiled into a practiced spinning back-kick that struck hard, sending the automatic weapon flying from the startled boy’s hands.

  The boy’s eyes grew wild with rage. He attacked, fists flying recklessly, filthy curses spewing from his lips. Jim ducked and lashed out with a sweeping roundhouse kick. His foot met jawbone. He heard a sickening pop. Without hesitation he moved in closer and threw a wicked punch. Blood spurted from the young gangster’s mouth as he dropped like a withering leaf.

  Jim picked up the gun, tossed it over the fence, and then turned to face the one boy who remained standing. Or was he a man? He stood Jim’s height or more, with wide shoulders, muscular arms, and a single blue “J” audaciously tattooed on the side of his neck. Jim felt his eyes widen.

  “J-Rock!”

  “I don’t know who you used to be, bro—” J-Rock’s hand disappeared behind his back and reappeared with a click. “But you a dead man now.”

  Jim crouched and waited, his eyes, his ears, his every sense focused on his enemy, all of his training, all of his experience, all of his anger wrapped up in that single moment in time. J-Rock teased him with the blade. He moved in, he moved out, he made short jabs, and then finally he lunged and swung the blade in a vicious upward arc. But Jim was ready. He diverted the blade with his hand and lashed out with a roundhouse kick aimed for J-Rock’s head. J-Rock ducked, and then as fast as light his wrist flicked and the bright silver blade flashed.

  Jim felt his cheek open wide. He touched his injured face. His fingers came back sticky and wet. The flesh burned. He tasted his blood. The blade jabbed again. Jim ducked and spun into a sharp back-kick, but before his leg could snap he felt something slice across his upper back, tearing through his shirt, ripping his skin.

  Jim suddenly realized he was up against a powerful opponent, an experienced street fighter, a true killer. He backed away. The flesh and muscle between his shoulders began to scream. He began to pant. His fingers began to tingle. He crouched even lower. He waited.

  “Yo, I know how to move too,” J-Rock said, his voice taunting. “Now…time for you to join the preacher.”

  Jim felt something explode inside of him. He jumped up and threw everything he had into the next attack. The blade flashed. He ducked beneath it, flung himself to the ground and kicked with all his might. His right leg connected. His knee locked. The heel of his boot drove deep into the center of J-Rock’s belly. He leapt to a standing position and watched with fascination as his enemy collapsed. A deep, guttural groan emanated from J-Rock’s throat as he dropped. He fell to his knees, spewing vomit. His face turned blue. Jim attacked again without mercy. He kicked him in the side of the head and then pounced on him. He pummeled him with both fists. Blood squirted from the gangster’s flattened nostrils. His lungs gasped for air.

  Jim picked up J-Rock’s knife, and then slowly, ever so deliberately, placed the serrated edge against the man’s throat. One deep pull, he knew, and the blade would open jugulars and carotids while reducing the tracheal tube to a useless severed hose. Death would be agonizing. Revenge would be sweet! He placed his hand over J-Rock’s mouth. Prepared himself. He felt a wicked smile form on his face. His eyes widened with glee. His fingers tingled at the thought of justice. I have you, you murderous animal.

  “You lose!”

  Jim’s own words seemed to wake him from the trance. He suddenly realized what he was doing. He loosened his grip on the blade and backed away. “Aw, man,” he cried. “What am I doing?”

  “You!”

  Jim jerked his head toward the sound. A uniformed police officer stood behind him, gun drawn, arms extended. Another officer ran from the between the buildings to join him.

  “Drop the knife,” the big cop shouted. “Now!”

  Jim turned and peered at J-Rock, torn with indecision. The gangster appeared to be grinning, laughing from within. Jim felt his anger boil. He gripped the blade tighter. He felt his muscles tense.

  “On the ground,” the cop ordered. “Face down.�
�

  Jim hesitated.

  “Now! Do it!”

  Jim gazed at his enemy, absorbing the man’s hate, turning it around, allowing it to take a firm hold in his mind where it would fester and grow until they met again. And, he knew, they would meet again. He ignored the police officers’ repeated orders and leaned down. He whispered into his enemy’s ear.

  “You killed my best friend. This is not over…”

  Jim heard the sound of rushing feet. A police officer charged him and hit him from the side. He felt the breath knocked from his lungs. Someone else hit him from behind. He toppled over and hit the ground hard, buried beneath the weight of the officers, arms and legs entangled with theirs. He could barely breathe. He rolled over. He broke free and tried to lash out, fighting madly, swinging his fists. Men shouted from all sides. More hands grabbed him. Jim felt his body lifted off the ground and spun. Suddenly he was back on the ground, his face in the dirt, wrestled into submission by the small army of cops. A crushing knee fell into the small of his back. He thought his kidney would burst. He heard a spinning click and felt something cold and hard tighten about his wrist. And then the other.

  “No!”

  Jim panted and strained, tried to break free, but the handcuffs held tight. It was no use. The cops had won. He gave up and went slack. The knee eased off his back.

  “Call Rico,” Jim shouted. “Rico Rivetti, he’s my—”

  “Quiet!”

  “But I’m—”

  “Shut up! You are in no position to give orders.”

  Jim listened as the cops began to argue amongst themselves.

  “We can’t hold him,” someone said.

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t you recognize him? He’s one of Rico’s friends.”

  “He’s bleeding,” someone else broke in.

  “So, call the paramedics.”

  “That’s the point. He is a paramedic!”

  “Paramedics are supposed to heal people. Look what he just did.”

  “Yeah, but those punk gangsters he beat up are probably the ones that killed Drake.”

  “May be, but this guy’s no death squad, and I can tell by his breath he’s been drinking.”

  “We better call an ambulance.”

  “Better call the Captain.”

  “Before you do anything,” a deep voice boomed, “better let him go.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Jim spotted the familiar stocky frame of an old friend. Rico Rivetti emerged from the alleyway between the buildings with a daring expression on his face. He stopped beside the other cops and looked down at Jim.

  “Rico,” Jim said, “I wasn’t going to do it! Tell them I wasn’t going to do it!”

  “Rico,” one of the cops shouted. “He was on that guy, he was about to slash his throat!”

  “Yeah? Then it’s a good thing you got here when you did, Corporal.”

  “He’s got alcohol on his breath and you want us to let him go?”

  Rico nodded. “And quick.”

  “He’s crazy!”

  “He’s my friend.”

  The big cop hesitated, then shook his head and reached down with a key. The key turned. Jim heard a click. Suddenly his hands were free.

  “It’s your funeral, Rivetti.”

  “That’s right,” Rico said, pocketing J-Rock’s blade. “It is. Now call an ambulance for these three hoods. I’m taking my friend to the hospital.”

  Chapter 4

  Cold. Sterile. Sickening. Jim had been inside Trauma Room One at the East Beach Regional Hospital more times than he could remember, but he’d never noticed the dull lifeless expression of the room. Pale yellow tile covered every wall, mostly hidden by rows of glass cabinets filled with medical supplies and rolling carts of electronic monitoring devices. The lingering odors of antiseptic solutions and dried blood wafted about the room, filling his nostrils, making him sick. He paced the floor flexing his fists, bleeding, wanting out. He forced Sid’s image from his mind only to have another one appear, the face of William “J-Rock” Jackson. Sid’s killer. He felt a flood of emotion. Anger. Revenge. Regret that he hadn’t finished the job. I should have killed him.

  He heard a commotion in the hall. The ER doors swung open. An East Beach paramedic came in pulling a stretcher. His patient’s face was covered with blood. An airway tube protruded from his mouth. Paramedic Tom Steele walked behind the stretcher squeezing an Ambu-bag with one hand. Jim glanced at the victim. The boy appeared to be deeply unconscious, his jaw broken. Steele gave Jim a sarcastic grin. “Nice job, ace.”

  “Shut up, Steele!”

  Jim slammed the door and resumed his pacing. He sat down for a few minutes. He glanced at the wall clock, stood up and paced some more. He walked to the mirror and gazed at the deep bleeding cut beneath his eye. He felt his blood begin to boil. He stomped across the room and was just considering walking out of the ER when the door opened and Tom Steele entered the room. The malevolence on his face only seemed matched by the mischievous smirk in his eyes. His curly black hair, recently oiled and combed, contrasted sharply with his pale, almost sickeningly white skin. Jim thought he looked like a slick salesman just returning from a six-month stint in a cave. It made him feel nauseated. Tom Steele plopped into an empty chair and leaned back, tapping his long fingernails lightly against a stainless-steel cabinet.

  “What do you want, Steele?”

  “Did you get her name, slick?”

  “Whose name?”

  “The whore that tried to scratch your eyes out.”

  “I’m in no mood for your sarcasm.” Jim reached for a bottle of peroxide and poured half the bottle over his knee. The solution fizzed into white antiseptic foam, painlessly cleansing the deep laceration left by the gangster’s teeth. “And just in case you haven’t heard yet, Tom, I lost my best friend tonight.”

  “Yeah.” Steele smirked. “I heard. Too bad about Drake. He was, uh—” Steele paused and cleared his throat. “Well, he was kind of a fool, wasn’t he?”

  The cut on Jim’s face began to throb. He pumped his fist. The cut on his busted knuckle resumed its bleeding. He pointed at the door. “Get out.”

  “I thought you might like to know,” Steele continued, “that guy you saw me bring in a minute ago? The one with the busted jaw?” Steele snickered. “Thomas Hall. J-Rock’s gunman.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Could be. There’s a reason they call him Trigger, you know. There’s also a rumor going around that the Crew’s gunning for you now. The guys are already taking bets on how long it’ll take.”

  “You’d like that wouldn’t you, Steele?”

  “Yeah, I would.”

  “Why do you hate me so much, Tom?”

  “Because you think you’re special.” Steele pulled his Spyderco knife out, flipped open the blade, and started cleaning his fingernails. “You and Drake both. Always hanging out together, cruising around, jumping calls. There’s even talk that you two were—” He pointed the blade at Jim. “Well, you know, a little—”

  Jim knocked the knife from Steele’s hand and flung him against the wall. “You greasy little germ! Sid’s dead!”

  “Get your hands off of me!”

  “Jim!”

  Jim shoved Steele to the floor and spun around, ready for a fight, ready for anything. “What!”

  “Jim, what in the world?”

  Jim felt his jaw drop. In many ways the woman who walked into the room resembled most of the other women who worked at East Beach Regional Hospital—the nurses, the techs, the other female doctors—light on makeup, stern and businesslike at their jobs—but even in light green scrubs and Reeboks, Dr. Valerie Vick was a head turner. Beautifully petite. Shoulder length blonde hair. Sparkling green eyes. Jim had fallen for her the first time he’d seen her two years before on a Caribbean sailing trip, and he still found her irresistible, but at that moment she was a force to be reckoned with. Her expression locked him in irons.

  “Val,” Jim s
aid his voice stammering. “I was…he…”

  Tom Steele jumped up and ran from the room. More than anything, Jim wanted to go after him and beat him to a pulp. He froze and looked at Valerie instead. She pointed at the gurney.

  “Sit down. You’re bleeding all over my ER.”

  Jim sighed and flopped down on the gurney. “You win.” He closed his eyes. Waited. He felt Valerie take his hands. Her fingers felt soft against his skin, tender, but with a gentle healing quality. He opened his eyes and watched her examine his lacerated knuckle. She lightly massaged his palms. Jim gazed into her face. The small nose and girlish dimples softened the stern expression she tried to maintain, but he could tell something was wrong. Her eyes, usually as green and clear as polished emeralds, looked misty and red as if she’d just discovered the answer to a sad mystery.

  Jim nodded. “You know, don’t you?”

  Valerie’s eyes filled with tears. “I just heard. I can’t believe it.” She stepped away and wiped her eyes. “Jim, I’ve heard people talking. What happened?”

  Jim felt his anger return. He stood up and resumed his pacing. “He was down at The Terrace. He must have been preaching. I’ve told him not to go there alone, Val. I told him!”

  “Rico said you found him?”

  “We were dispatched to a shooting. I had no idea it would be…I should have been with him, Val. I should have been there.”

  “Jim, listen.”

  Jim felt his torso begin to shake. Tears filled his eyes. His vision blurred. Valerie took him in her arms and hugged him. There was no holding back the tears. Jim laid his head on her shoulder and wept without shame.

  “It’s okay,” Valerie said her voice a whisper. “It’s okay.”

  “I heard the shots, Val. I felt the percussion wave. I had no idea. They ran right past the ambulance. Three of them. I thought they’d killed a drug dealer, or another gang member, or...and we were joking about it, you know? If I’d only known, I could’ve—”