“Come on,” he shouted. “Push. We’re almost—”
It felt a freight train. Hard and solid. It crashed into Rico’s right side. He felt the wind hammered from his lungs, the strength knocked from his legs. He stumbled and strained to stay upright, but off balance and confused he couldn’t regain his feet. He felt his knees drop and touch down. Jim’s dead weight pushed him to the ground.
“Oh, no!”
Rico panted and pushed and rolled out from under Jim, then spun on his knees and jumped into a couching position. He braced himself, then dug in his feet and charged the large shadow to his side, but it hit him again, something or someone so big and powerful it knocked him off his feet. Then a heavy blunt object came down across his shoulder, crippling his arm and knocking him to the ground.
Rico fought the pain and tried his best to gather himself for another attack, but he quickly realized it was useless. His arm was numb, his shoulder was hot with pain, and both of his assailants were armed. Michael Johnson stood above him with a cold sneer on his face and a silver aluminum baseball bat in his hand. Another figure moved in from the side—a stone-faced William “J-Rock” Jackson. He stared down the barrel of a MAC-10 pistol.
“Well mista cop,” Michael sneered. “Looks like you surrounded again.”
Rico glanced back and forth between the two gangsters. Michael stepped forward and jabbed him with the barrel of the bat.
“Time to die, cop.”
“I should’ve taken care of you when I had the chance.”
“Should have.”
Rico heard sirens growing closer…still too far away. He glanced at the 12-gauge. It lay less than five feet away. He considered going for it but realized he’d never reach it in time. He looked at his enemies and smiled.
“You two heroes have already killed one man tonight. Maimed another. What do you say we call it a draw?”
“A draw?” Michael scoffed and looked toward the shadows of the tent. “Yo, Trigger!”
An angry looking young man stepped forth with swollen cheeks and jaws that appeared to be wired tight with stainless-steel thread. Jim’s handiwork, Rico knew, and under different circumstances he might have actually felt sorry for the kid, but the lethal slickness of the automatic weapon in his hands was only matched by the look of pure malevolence in his eyes. Rico couldn’t find an ounce of compassion.
“Yo,” Michael said. “This cop wanna call it a draw, Tee? Whatchu think, bro?”
Trigger’s eyes narrowed. Saliva dripped from the corner of his puffy lips. He pulled back the slide on his gun, paused and then sneered at Rico as he released it. The gun was cocked. He leveled the barrel.
Rico knew he better think of something fast. He heard the sound of a big block engine in the distant. It roared, then faded, and then roared again as it raced through the neighborhood behind them. Backup. Oh please, hurry. Rico offered the gangsters his most convincing grin. “C’mon, boys,” he said trying to stall. “Let’s put the guns down and handle this like men. What do ya’ll say? Three to one? Odds don’t get much better’n that.”
“Kill ‘em,” Michael sneered.
Tires squealed. The engine roared again. Rico saw a dark green car round the corner of Core and zoom up the street.
“Cops,” J-Rock shouted. “Do it, Tee. Do it now!”
Rico froze.
Trigger’s finger tightened around the trigger.
Rico braced himself. Time seemed to stop.
Then, as if placed by a surgeon’s hand, a tiny, sharp, blood red laser dot appeared on Trigger’s abdomen. It zigzagged upward, over his sternum, finally coming to rest on the center of his chest. Dead center. And there it sat, unmoving, glowing like a bright LED.
Hurry!
Rico wanted to scream.
Do it!
“Shoot him, Zee!”
Thoot-thoot-thoot.
Sharon shrieked. Trigger’s gun jerked and fired. The round whizzed past Rico’s head, so close he could feel the hot metal nick the skin of his earlobe. The concussion almost knocked him down. Most men would have collapsed from sheer fear, but Rico was not most men. He pounced on the shotgun and brought it around, racking the action and bringing his finger to the trigger as he swung, but there wasn’t a target in sight. Trigger lay on the ground, a heap of lifeless tissue with three bloody holes in the center of its chest. J-Rock and Michael had vanished like phantoms. There wasn’t a target in sight.
“Go, Sharon! Go!”
Sharon felt terrified beyond words. She was past the point of understanding. Past the point of caring.
“The car, Sharon,” Rico shouted. “Go!”
Sharon stood up and ran recklessly toward the dark green car parked sideways across the crest of Core. A kneeling figure aimed some type of weapon across the hood. Jet-black with a scope, it looked like some kind of a fancy machine-gun. It looked dangerous. He looked dangerous. She didn’t care. She ran around to the other side and fell to the ground beside the dark avenger, another cop, dressed in a SWAT-type uniform with a badge hanging from a chain about his neck and a handgun holstered tightly against his left hip. Sharon saw his trigger finger pull. The gun barked. A small tongue of orange flame shot from the barrel. She covered her eyes.
“Open the door,” Rico yelled rushing up behind her. “The door!”
Sharon fumbled with the latch and opened the door. Rico pushed past her and manhandled Jim’s inert body into the back seat. “You next,” he said picking her up. Sharon felt herself being lifted off the ground. Rico threw her in on top of Jim. “Stay down,” he yelled. “Keep down!”
The door slammed.
Sharon clung to Jim like a mother to her wounded child. She pressed her head against his chest trying desperately to make some sense of the madness going on around her. Doors slammed. The engine roared. Tires squealed and the car took off.
The sound of roaring engines and sirens seemed to be coming from every direction. Cop cars. Fire engines. Rico shouted something into the radio. Sharon held on and prayed.
The car accelerated and made a sharp left turn. “Hang on,” Rico shouted. The car bounced a few times, made another hard sharp turn to the right, and then accelerated onto a smooth straight stretch of road. The Boulevard. Sharon saw streetlights racing past. She heard the siren bark then come to life.
“Sharon,” Rico called, his face obscured by the heavy stainless steel wire mesh separating the two compartments. “You okay?”
Sharon lifted her head and nodded. “I think so.”
“Well hold onto him,” Rico said. “We’ll be there in five.”
She heard radio traffic. She held on for dear life, frightened out of her wits, her hand pressed firmly against Jim’s bleeding side. Jesus. Oh, sweet Jesus.
“Sharon,” Rico yelled, his voice strangely altered by the high-pitched wail of the siren. “I’ve got Regional on the line. How bad it is?”
“Red Tag,” Rico. “Tell them we’ve got a Red Tag! Gunshot wound in his right side. Heavy hemorrhage.”
Rico acknowledged.
“And, Rico, tell them he’s paralyzed.”
Sharon fought back the tears, tears of anguish and embarrassment, tears of fear and seething hatred for the men who had held her down. She felt an intense need to scream. She held it in and focused on her partner.
“Jim, you crazy fool. Look at you. Why’d you have to go and do this?”
Sharon felt entirely useless. Her mind raced. She considered Jim’s injuries and tried to imagine what she’d be doing if she had him in the back of the ambulance. She began treating him in her mind, and then out loud, as if explaining the situation would somehow produce results: “You’ve got a punctured lung. Probably a hemothorax. First thing I’d do is get you intubated. That’s right. But you’ve got a thick neck so I’d probably use a number-four Macintosh blade and a number-nine ET tube. Then—” Sharon felt tears pour into her eyes. “—I’d start two IV’s, maybe three. Get the fluids flowing. Got to get your pressure back up, dear
. No problem there, your arms are so strong, you’ve got ropes for veins.”
Sharon couldn’t control herself. The thought of Jim paralyzed was more than she could take. She found herself almost wishing he wouldn’t make it. He wouldn’t want to live this way. God, she thought, what am I thinking?
“All right,” she said speaking directly into Jim’s ear. “You listen to me,” she shouted. “Hang on, partner! You hear me? Hang on!”
Sharon had never seen such a reception as the one waiting for them at East Beach Regional when they arrived. A team of emergency personnel stood in the ambulance bay with a rolling gurney and the look of concerned anticipation in their eyes. Rico screeched to a stop in the first space and hauled Jim’s body out of the car. The team moved in, helped transfer him to the stretcher, and then took off through the ER doors. Sharon jumped out and followed them inside.
Dr. Andrew Young and a team of at least a dozen staff converged upon Jim and went to work. Young called out orders while an army of practiced hands provided the miracle of emergency care. An ET tube was inserted. Ventilations resumed. IV’s were established and clear fluids and whole bloods began to drip into his veins. Young inserted a chest tube. Two pints of blood poured through the tube and into the waiting collecting vat.
Sharon disappeared into the corner to watch, sheepishly, hopefully, all the time praying. She prayed silently…for the next miracle that she and Jim had both hoped to see.
Three Days Later...
Chapter 36
A steady, monotonous, beep...beep...beep grew out of the darkness and slowly developed into a tangible, believable sound that pulled away the black shroud that clouded his senses. A soft feather tickled his nose. He reached up and tried to find it but wasn’t able. He heard strange voices, and the sound of curtains parting, and people talking, and the same steady beeping sound that was beginning to drive him insane. Slowly, ever so slowly, as if emerging from a fog bank, Jim Stockbridge regained contact with the outside world and opened his eyes. But what world? Everything was a blur. A harsh light burned directly overhead. He lifted his hand slowly to shield his eyes but it was like lifting a hundred-pound weight.
Jim turned his head to one side and saw an old man lying on a bed. A clear tube protruded from his mouth. IV-lines dripped yellowish fluid into one of his arms, clear fluid into the other. A bank of colorful monitors and machines hung just behind his bed. One seemed to control his breathing. Jim heard a quiet click-whir-click and saw the old man’s chest rise and fall. Click-whir-click. It rose and fell again. The sounds of a ventilator. He knew that sound. He looked at his arm and realized that, he too, had an IV. His other arm was wrapped in white plaster. He moved his eyes around and finally found the source of the annoying beep—a black screen with a trio of thin yellow lines, each tracing a different pattern, one the familiar complexes of an electrocardiogram.
A cardiac monitor? Mine?
He followed four gray electrode cables from the machine back to himself, each to a different extremity.
It is mine. Where am I?
He heard another noise and looked to his right. If he’d been fully alert he might have jumped. A short bulbous female stood by his bed with a silver clipboard in one hand and a pencil in the other. She seemed to notice Jim moving and came closer. He felt a warm hand touch his forehead. He closed his eyes and started to drift back off. She didn’t seem to want that.
“Welcome back, Mr. Stockbridge.”
“Huh?” Jim noticed the tickle again and tried to scratch it. “Welcome back? From where? Where am I?”
“Leave that alone, hon, it’s your oxygen.”
“Oxygen?”
“You’re in SICU.”
“Where?”
“S-I-C-U, the surgical intensive care unit.”
Jim strained to put together the scattered pieces of his memory. “The hospital? Why?”
He heard a throaty chuckle. “I see the drugs are still working.”
“Where’s Sharon? How long have I been here?”
“Go back to sleep, hon. It’ll all be here when you wake up again.”
“Sleep?”
Jim’s eyelids became as heavy as sandbags. He forced them open and took another look at the short, stout woman tending to his needs. She looked comical almost, with cherubic baby blue eyes, a droll mouth, and a knobby chin that bobbed when she talked. Her uniform, crisp and clean, gave her the appearance of a nineteenth century nurse. She reached down with plump fingers and adjusted the nasal cannula blowing into his nostrils. The tickling resumed.
Jim frowned. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Helga.”
“Helga?”
“I’m you’re nurse.”
“Helga?” Jim tried but couldn’t make the connection. “I don’t know anybody named Helga. What are you, I mean who, where…where am I?”
“I told you already, sweetie. You’re in SICU.”
“Sick-u?”
“You’ve had major surgery.”
Jim tugged at his memory banks and forced himself to go back, to relive whatever event it was that caused him to end up there. He couldn’t remember at first, but then slowly, ever so slowly, his mind reopened. He heard the sound of gunfire. Screams. He smelled fresh cordite. Tasted blood. He looked around as if for an answer but all he could see were the unmoving bodies of other people. Then it hit him. His mind finally released the hidden information he was seeking. The revival tent appeared. Zee. Sharon screaming. And then more pain than he’d ever imagined possible. And his legs.
I can’t move my legs!
Jim’s eyes widened. He reached out, panic-stricken. “Sharon! Rico!” He grabbed Helga by the arm and glanced down at his legs. “Helga!”
“Hon—” Helga’s face saddened. “Let me get the doctor. He might be able to—”
“No, you. Talk to me!”
“But I don’t know anything, I just—”
“Yes, you do.”
“Jim, it’s not up to me. The doctor, he’s the one who should explain—”
“But I need to know!”
Helga sighed, then moved to the foot of the bed and placed her hands on his feet. “Can you feel this?”
Jim shook his head. “No.”
“Can you wiggle your toes?”
Jim tried, but beneath the white bedspread that covered his legs and feet, he saw no movement. A strange dread began to creep up his spine. Helga moved her hands higher and palpated both sides of his belly. He felt a slight sensation at his ribcage on both sides but below that, nothing. He was beginning to understand but the wooziness of the lingering drugs kept full realization at arm’s length. He closed his eyes again and drifted off.
Jim awoke to the sound of laughter. Somewhere beyond his curtained prison cell, someone was having fun. It sounded distant. Harmless. Probably just a couple of people sharing a joke, but it annoyed him. His arm ached. His back burned. He could think of no reason why anyone should feel like laughing. He lay and stared at the ceiling until the shuffle of curtains caught his attention. Helga came back into the room with a fresh IV bag. “Well,” she said her voice cheery and light. “There you are.”
“Been looking for me?”
Jim heard Helga chuckle. She showed no sign of weakness, no sign of giving in to the cranky mood he was feeling. He watched her remove the spent IV bag and spike a new one. The confident smile never left her face.
“Have I been asleep?”
“Hon, you’ve been asleep for hours.”
“I have?” Jim looked at the white curtained wall encaging him. Beyond it he could hear quiet breathing, the mindless snoring of drug induced comas. It made him feel sick. “Time sure flies when you’re having fun.”
“Well—” Helga pushed a button on the IV infusion pump and tossed a handful of trash into the pail next to the bed. “You’ll be in a private room soon enough.”
“How did I get here anyway?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you remember?”
“Remember?” Jim wasn’t sure what he remembered. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It all seemed so fuzzy, so distant, and so long ago. He strained to replay the scene in his mind. It was like trying to drum up the image of a horrible face, one that he’d already decided he never wanted to see again, but then it came to him, so vividly he could almost smell the smoke, feel the flames, and hear the popping of gunfire in his mind. He shook his head, opened his eyes and refocused. “I remember Zee paging me.”
“Zee?”
“This poor kid I met at the revival tent.” Helga seemed confused. Jim realized he needed to explain. He hesitated, paused, and then continued. “He sent me a text message asking me to meet him at the tent. So we did, my partner and I, we drove over. And I remember, it was dark…too dark…and quiet. There wasn’t a soul around. At first I thought I’d received a false message, but then I spotted him. He was sitting by himself in the back row of the tent.” Jim paused and glanced at Helga. “Dead.”
“Oh my.”
“I’m not really sure what happened next. I heard a pop. I fell. I guess that’s when they shot me. And then Sharon, she—” Jim froze in mid-sentence. “Oh, no! Helga, Sharon!”
“If you mean the female paramedic who’s been coming by to see you every day, hon, relax. She’s fine. A real sweetheart. In fact, you’ve had a number of visitors. Several of your EMS friends have been by to see you. Your supervisor. Oh, and one young lady has been here a dozen times or more.”
“Valerie?”
“Valerie? I’m not sure she mentioned her name. Black hair? Blue eyes? I believe she’s a nurse in the Emergency Department.”
“That would be Linda.”
“Your girlfriend?”
Jim cleared his throat. “Not quite.”
“Well—” Helga nudged him. “—I can tell you one thing, she’d like to be. The way she dotes on you. And then there’s that annoying cop that keeps trying to sneak in here when I’m not looking. A Ricky, or Ricko, maybe?”
Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1) Page 21