“Is that supposed to be some kind of a threat?”
“Let’s just say I have a pretty good view of your future, and it’s not too bright.”
“You a clairvoyant now, Steele?”
“That’s right. Now in case you haven’t noticed, Stockbridge, I’m in the middle of a show and you’re standing right in front of the tube.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. How rude of me.”
Jim walked behind the TV set and yanked the cord from the outlet. The television screen went dark.
“Hey!”
“You’ve got psychic powers, Steele. Use them.”
The pungent odor of spicy food hit Jim the moment he entered the back hall of the station. It made him want to sneeze. He followed the scent to the last office and found his supervisor sitting behind the desk with his boots off, a plateful of barbecued chicken wings in his lap, and the phone receiver to his ear. Typical. He reminded Jim of an overweight bulldog, only more rotund and a lot meaner. Bagwell gave Jim a curt nod and then rolled his eyes at the phone. Red-faced with jugular veins protruding, he looked like he might blow his top at any moment. Jim took a seat to watch.
“Grimes, that’s three shifts in a row. Miss one more and you’re fired!” Bagwell slammed the phone into its cradle and looked up at Jim. “Sorry about that, Stockbridge, Grimes called out again.”
“So I heard.”
“So—” Bagwell wiped his chin with a greasy napkin. “You ready to get back to work?”
“As ready as I’m ever going to be. What do you want me to do?”
“Get the uniform on and get on the truck.”
“I thought you were putting me on light duty.”
“All that’s changed, Stockbridge. I’m too short-staffed to worry about a few minor cuts.” Bagwell picked up a pencil and started flipping through the pages of his desk calendar. Jim leaned forward in his seat. “Besides, you look fit enough. How’s that cut on your back anyway? Healing? You’ll need to put a bandage over the one on your face, you know.” Jim touched his cheek. It felt tender but no longer burned. “And, Jim, for Pete’s sake, no more fights. I got my butt chewed good for you.”
“Gee.” Jim flexed his fist. The stitched knuckle was tight but no longer sore. “You always were a great guy, Bill.”
Bagwell leaned over his calendar, erased Grimes’ name and scribbled Jim’s down in its place. “I’m putting you back on the rotation.”
“Where do you want me?”
“Do you have your uniform and gear?”
“You know I do,” Jim responded. “I always keep a spare uniform here.”
“Well—” Bagwell hesitated momentarily and then regained his bulldog stance over the shift calendar. “Tell you what, how would you feel about Duncan as your permanent partner?”
“Sharon? That’d be great.”
“It’s settled then. Get dressed and put your gear on seven. You two are riding. And tonight, you keep your butt out of trouble, you hear me?”
“Hey, Bill?” Jim hesitated. His respect for Bill Bagwell ran about as deep as a puddle after a summer shower, but at that moment he was his best source of information. “Have you heard anything yet? About Sid’s funeral?”
“Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you. It’s tomorrow afternoon. Sid was cremated today.”
Chapter 24
Jim could tell by the noxious odor of diesel fumes floating around the ambulance bay that EB-7 hadn’t been parked for long. He placed his hand on the hood and patted the big machine. Her waxed surface felt smooth. Warm. The engine ticked indicating a recent trip. He walked around for a brief inspection. He found nothing of interest but the faint odor of burned brake pads. He opened the cab door and tossed in his bag. Steele’s stethoscope and clipboard were still there.
He heard a door slam and looked up. Sharon Duncan walked across the cavernous bay carrying two green oxygen cylinders. Her uniform, like his, looked fresh and neatly creased, but unlike Jim, who liked to carry his 800-megahertz portable radio in his left rear pocket, Sharon wore hers clipped to her belt. A coiled cord extended diagonally across her girth to a microphone attached to her right epaulet. With an assortment of tools attached her belt, she resembled a police officer, only without the sidearm and badge.
“Well, hey there, stranger.”
“Sharon. I didn’t see you.”
“I’m practicing to be a ninja.”
A plump, bouncing ninja…the thought made Jim smile. Sharon waddled over and set down the oxygen tanks.
“I heard you got suspended. What’s up?”
“I did,” Jim said, “but when Bagwell realized he was short-staffed he called me back in.”
Sharon clicked her tongue. “All that man cares about is keeping warm bodies on the trucks.”
“That’s true, but it worked out well. For me at least. He’s putting us together.”
“Us?” Sharon’s eyes brightened. “You mean partners?”
“Duncan and Stockbridge…medic-seven.”
“Duncan and Stockbridge. We sound like a law firm.”
Jim chuckled. Sharon grabbed his chin and turned his head to the side.
“It looks like your cheek’s healing up pretty good, but what’s this?” She tapped the bruise on the side of his head. “Don’t tell me you got into another fight.”
“Sharon, you have no idea…”
“Well—” She picked up one of the oxygen tanks and removed the factory seal. “ I suppose you’ll have plenty of time to tell me about it later. Right now we need to restock this truck. It’s a disaster.”
Jim rolled his shoulder to loosen the stiffness. “You hear about Valerie?”
“No.” Sharon attached the O2 regulator and gave the knob a twist. “What?”
“Her old ER called. They want her to come back.”
“To Pittsburgh?”
“Chief of Emergency Medicine.”
“What about you guys? I mean, I thought you were, like, getting married.”
Jim shrugged. “So did I.”
“Have you asked her?”
“I never got a chance.”
“Jim, you big dummy. Ask her.”
“I was going to, but…” Jim told Sharon the whole story—about Linda Newton, the fight, Valerie’s untimely arrival at the docks. “She didn’t believe a word I said.”
“So?” Sharon’s curious expression changed to one of genuine concern. “Where do you guys stand now?”
“Who knows? She thinks I have something going with Linda. We’re prob’ly done for.”
“Well do you? Have something going with this other girl, I mean?”
“No.”
“Well—” Sharon chuckled. “Either way, it’s fantastic novel material.”
“Maybe I should write a book.” Jim nodded toward the truck. “What do we need here?”
“Like, everything.”
Sharon climbed into the back of the truck and began to scribble on her pad. Her bulbous chin drew up tight as if she’d just swallowed something sour. Jim tucked in his uniform shirt and climbed in to help, but as he took a look around he began to feel strangely out of place. It was the first time he’d seen the interior of EB-7 since the night they’d lost Sid, and he suddenly realized how hard it was going to be to carry on without him.
“Steele,” Sharon continued. “Useless twerp. In there watching TV. He left this thing practically stripped.” She said tossed aside an empty saline vial. “There’s only one bag of LR, trauma supplies are short, O2’s down—”
“Sharon.”
“There’s no three-inch tape—”
“Sid got cremated today you know.” Sharon stopped her ranting and stared at him. “I just found out, and I think it just hit me, Sharon, I’m never going to see him again.” Jim saw a small tear form in the corner of each of Sharon’s eyes. His own eyes felt heavy and wet. He felt a large tear break loose and roll down his cheek. He didn’t bother wiping it away, more were yet to come. “Last time I saw him alive he was laughin
g. You know how he laughed, that nerdy way he always did, his head and shoulders bobbing like his whole body was involved in some kind of celebration. It’s just so hard to accept that he’s no longer here.”
Sharon’s arm fell across his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she said, her voice unsteady.
“I guess so. It’s just weird. I think it’s going to take a long time.”
“Of course it is.”
“Well—” Jim leaned over her and glanced at Sharon’s note pad. “Sorry about that. What can I do?”
“Oh,” Sharon sniffled and wiped her eyes. “If you’ll check the med-box, I’ll go get all this junk.”
Jim opened the orange and white tackle box and scanned the shelves. He knew it by heart, and at first glance everything seemed to be in place. He perused each drawer, checked a couple of expiration dates for good measure, and tossed in a couple of extra IV catheters and tourniquets. The pediatric bag seemed complete too. Everything from intubation equipment to the tiny catheters used for infantile veins was in perfect order. He assembled a rectal Valium administration set and zipped the bag shut. Sharon climbed back into the truck and dumped a box full of supplies onto the stretcher. Jim crammed a handful of 18-gauge IV catheters into their rack and then slapped a new battery into the cardiac monitor. He turned on the unit and tested it, charging up and firing the defibrillator once before turning it back off and placing the unit on the shelf. “Okay,” he said. “All done here.”
“Me too,” Sharon said, loading the last of her supplies into the cabinet. “Let’s go eat. I’m hungry.”
“If you don’t mind,” Jim said stepping down from the back of the ambulance, “I have an errand I need to run first. I need to run by The House of Hope.”
“That halfway house for troubled teens?”
“Over on East Angier. I know a kid there who might be in trouble.”
“That’s cool, but what about Bagwell? You know how he feels about us cruising around, especially out of our district.”
“It’s not far out of the way. Besides, if he asks we’ll tell him we’re doing territorial studies or something like that.”
“Well,” Sharon said patting her belly, “make sure you get me some food quick, my stomach’s beginning to eat itself.”
“Let’s do it.”
Jim was years past the point of feeling butterflies in his stomach whenever the station tones sounded, nature had already seen to that, the visceral hardening that comes with years of experience and an endless routine of call after call after call, but when he heard the familiar pre-alert tone and the dispatcher’s voice came over the air, he felt that old familiar rush again, that frightening sense of wonder. Will it be ours? What will it be? He glanced at Sharon and listened intently as the dispatcher spoke.
“EMS report, subject choking. Jackson Street Apartments, six hundred block of East Canal to the Jackson Street Extension.”
“That’ll be us,” Sharon said slamming the truck’s rear doors and disappearing around the driver’s side. Jim hurried around the other side and climbed into the cab as the station tones were sounding. A myriad of thoughts flooded his mind as the dispatcher continued.
“Medic-seven and Engine-three, respond to a subject choking at the Jackson Street Apartments. Six hundred block of East Canal to the Jackson Street Extension.”
“So much for food,” Sharon huffed, flipping on the batteries and turning the ignition key.
Jim chuckled and flipped on the emergency lights. He fought to maintain a cool facade, but deep inside he felt a flock of tiny butterflies take flight. He picked up the microphone and called en route.
“Ten-four,” the dispatcher responded. “Medic-seven and Engine-3 be advised, the caller reports subject not breathing. I repeat, not breathing. Responding units switch to OPS channel two. OPS-two.”
Jim felt the butterflies begin to kick. He switched his handheld unit to the designated OPS channel then fastened his seat belt. The truck jerked and pulled out of the station and into the early evening traffic on Club Boulevard. He turned a switch and the siren began to wail. Most of the traffic pulled over. One car raced ahead, hogging the lane as if impervious to the noise and lights.
“Let’s see,” Jim said, flipping the siren from Wail to Yelp. “Whose call is this anyway?”
“Oh, no,” Sharon said, hitting the brakes and sounding the air-horn. “Don’t even think about it.” She cursed and flashed the headlights. Finally the car changed lanes. She raced past and gave the driver an angry scowl. “I, like, ran my tail off Saturday while you were home convalescing. This one’s all yours.”
“I know,” Jim said. “Just kidding.” He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then exhaled slowly as he thought about what lay ahead. “This one’s mine.”
Chapter 25
Rico Rivetti focused in on the sharp clean grooves of the barrel, pleased with what he saw. The M&P45c Smith & Wesson was his favorite handgun. It had served him well. And if he had to go into combat—something he never particularly liked to do—it was the gun he liked to use. He lowered the barrel, wiped it with a clean rag, and then slid the spring back over the slide and reassembled the weapon. Next he slammed a loaded clip into the handle and rocked the slide to chamber a fresh round. He flipped on the safety and slid the gun into his holster. It was time to go to work.
Rico’s uniform, simple as always, consisted of a pair of faded blue jeans, a white tee shirt, and a pair of tan Tony Lama cowboy boots. He wasn’t quite the cowboy type—with a thick Italian accent and a sharp Sicilian smile, he looked more like a Mafia hit man than a cop—but nobody dared tell him that. Rico had a rock solid frame, bound by pure unadulterated muscle, the kind earned after years of hard, iron pumping work, and there were few men around who would mess with him. Those who did generally lost.
Rico pulled a ballistic vest over his tee, fastened the Velcro straps, and then completed the uniform with a custom fit New York Yankees ball cap he had worn to the 2009 World Series. He grabbed his radio from his locker and pushed it into a pocket on the vest. He heard footsteps and glanced toward the locker room door. Lance Albright appeared with a serious expression on his face.
“Sir, the boys are waiting.”
“Coming. What’s their mood?”
“Playful, sir, but ready.”
Rico slammed his locker and followed Lance into the assembly room where five cops stood in a tight circle talking quietly amongst themselves. He folded his arms and leaned back against a table, proud of what he saw:
The Knight Squad.
His team. Master sharpshooters, each with a special skill and the know how to use it. Each of them wore the same black jumpsuit and body armor as Lance, with POLICE stenciled across the chest. Their Sam Brown utility belts hung heavy with gear. Their faces looked young and eager. Lance clapped his hands together to get their attention. “Gentlemen,” he said, “listen up.” The group grew quiet. Lance stepped aside. All eyes turned to Rico.
“Before we get started,” Rico said, “I’d like to say that I’m proud of you guys. The Knight Squad has become more than I’d ever hoped. We’ve made more gang related arrests than the Dragon Squad in Durham, and I don’t have to tell you they’re the best around. So nice job, you guys.”
“Hey, Rico,” one of the men responded. “How’d you come up with the name Knight Squad anyway?”
“Well—”
“It’s from the Holy Grail,” the youngest team member cut in. Rico glanced at Private Jimmy Little. He seemed eager, ready to go, his dimpled smile wide, his short blonde hair bristling beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. “Sarge here, he’s The Black Knight.”
“The Black Knight?” Another team member objected. “Didn’t he use a sword?”
“What about it?” Little said with a grin. “You plannin’ on trading that forty-five for a sword, sarge?”
Rico rolled his eyes and chuckled. Lance leaned over and whispered into his ear. “Remember, sir, you chose them.”
&nbs
p; “They’re just nervous,” Rico murmured. “Young and excited and nervous.”
That’s good, he thought. Before a raid like this they should be nervous. He let the bantering continue for a moment then held up his hand.
“All right, you guys, cool it. Actually, it’s pretty simple. I’m a big fan of Batman.”
“The Dark Knight,” Little said.
“That’s right, the real one. Now look—” Rico unfolded his arms and stepped into the center of the group of young men. “Batman may be a myth but our gang situation is not. We’ve got our eyes on a number of prime targets. Most, as you know, belong to the gangs up in The Commons. For that matter, most of them are within a half-mile radius of this room. But tonight we’re going farther north.”
“Northside?”
“Lakeland Avenue.”
“But, sarge?” Jimmy Little stood up and adjusted his ballistic vest with a curse. “Why Lakeland? Ain’t nobody up there but a bunch of old rednecks and fishermen.”
“Exactly. Does the name ‘Posse’ mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“Biker gang from the Havelock area. Deal in heroin, crack, and most recently, crystal meth.”
“So what’s the problem?” Little said. “Why do we give a hoot about Havelock’s drug problem?”
“Because the Posse’s trying to move their operation here. Set up a meth-lab in our town.”
“You’re telling me a biker gang from Havelock has a meth-lab in East Beach?”
“Yep.”
“How come nobody knew about it ‘til now?”
“They’re using an out of the way spot. The old Northside Grill.”
“That old shack?”
Rico nodded. “It’s solid. Painted windows. The perfect place for a clandestine drug lab.”
“How do we know it ain’t booby trapped?”
“We don’t, Jimmy. But look, if we can take the Posse down now, before they get firmly established here, we’ll be sending a major signal to the other gangs. I want everyone to know we’re here to stay and that we are a force to be reckoned with.”
Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1) Page 15