Kill Shot - An Abram Kinkaid Thriller

by Blake, Cameron

  He dove onto the bed and slid underneath the sheets. They smelled like lavender and were still warm. How had Abram gotten so lucky? The next morning, Tom drove Abram into town and introduced him to a friend. After a thirty-minute introduction, some questions, and a curt handshake, Abram had a job. He was the new bagger at the grocery. After a year, he was promoted to cashier, and another three months, to stocker. Tom and his wife had built a spare room for Abram to stay in. He was welcome to stay as long as he liked.

  But Abram always felt like he didn’t belong, as though there was something else out there. He hated leaving Tom and his wife, especially after they had been kind and generous to him for so long. They both had said they understood, but Abram could tell his decision had crushed them. He had become a son they’d never had.

  Enlisting in the Navy was more out of necessity than anything else. The poster promised you’d see the world. Anything that got him out of Midland and away from everything that reminded him of his childhood, he was in.

  The recruiter had him take a test called the ASVAB and when he scored in the top percentile, he then took a weird test with some made-up language. The recruiter said it would determine his aptitude for learning foreign languages. And since the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were in high swing, linguists were in high demand. Abram had no idea if he was answering the questions correctly or not. Approximately two hours later, he placed his pencil down.

  The scores came back two weeks later. Abram had somehow scored a 150 out of a possible 164. The recruiter was flabbergasted. He had never known anyone to have scored above a 100. He quickly told Abram about the language school in Monterey, CA. Abram listened absentmindedly, but his heart was set on a different path.

  Against the recruiter’s wishes and many requests, Abram enlisted to become a Navy SEAL. Boot camp was a cinch. BUD/S was a different story. Despite nearly nineteen years having passed and many experiences, Abram still saw himself as the scared, little eleven-year-old boy who thought he was protecting his mother. If he could do it all over again…Abram knew he would have made the same choice. He was a fighter. It was in his blood.

  You make the bed you lie in.

  The plane slowed and Abram’s stomach flipped. They were starting their descent. Abram’s past flashed by in the clouds. You made the right decision. You have nothing to feel ashamed about. Your mother’s fate was not your doing. She made her choice, now it’s time you made yours.

  “I am the master of my own fate,” Abram whispered to himself. The city lights of Ottawa came into focus as the G550 descended below the clouds. The jet followed the Ottawa River until it banked left, south toward Ottawa International Airport. The tires touched asphalt fifteen minutes later.

  Scott Train jolted awake.

  “I didn’t snore did I?” he asked.

  “Nah, not too bad,” Abram said.

  Abram stood and walked to the aft of the plane. His legs tingled with the new blood flow. He couldn’t believe how quickly five hours had passed. He went behind the bar and grabbed a bottled water. His throat was parched. His face felt salty. Had he been crying? He wiped the dried tears from his cheeks and chugged the cold liquid hydration.

  The co-pilot exited the front cockpit and exchanged some words with Scott. Sandra’s seat was inclined again. Amir was shifting in his seat as well. The co-pilot shut the door behind him. Scott pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. He walked back to his seat and propped his hand against it. By this time, Sandra was standing and stretching her arms and legs. She joined Train, listening over his shoulder.

  Abram assumed the call was for their driver. Abram lifted the bottle to take a sip and stopped. He saw the rocket soar by the left wing right before it made impact with the front of the plane. The explosion flung Abram backward and over the bar. His back popped as he went sailing over and his head caught the fall.

  Everything went black instantly.

  Chapter 19

  The whole front of the plane was missing when Abram opened his eyes. Smoking debris littered the runway for three hundred meters in either direction. He couldn't see the others. For all he knew, they were all dead. How he had survived was a miracle. He tried lifting himself off the concrete, but collapsed. His arm was broken. He saw the bone protruding in his forearm. The back of his head was sticky where he had smacked into the glass cabinets.

  He managed to swivel his head 180 degrees without too much pain. Where was the back of the plane? He was lying on the tarmac, a seat cushion on fire ten feet away, and pieces of the plane everywhere. He thought he heard sirens but he wasn't sure if that was the emergency crew coming or just his eardrums having burst. He unzipped his belt and wrapped it around his left arm. He forced his feet under him. The world spun as his inner ear tried to stabilize. He pushed on his right ear in an attempt to relieve the pressure. It was useless.

  He stumbled through the wreckage looking for signs of the others. He lifted a piece of the interior wall off the ground and tossed it to the side. The keyboard to Sandra’s laptop lay underneath, burned to a crisp. Somehow, it had survived the blast. He squinted through the smoke and gas fumes. The cool night made it hard to see more than twenty or thirty feet. He looked through more debris when his foot made contact with a leg. It was Amir's. The body was missing. Abram replaced the window over the leg and kept walking. With Amir most likely dead, that left just Scott Train and Sandra. They were both closer to the blast. Abram grew less optimistic the longer he searched. Where were their bodies?

  The first ambulance and fire truck slid to a stop just outside the ring of fire. The men immediately began spraying a dry chemical over the Class B fire. Using water would just spread the flammable petroleum fuel. Two paramedics were by his side shortly after.

  "Are you okay, sir?" a young blonde asked in a thick Canadian accent.

  "My arm is broken and I most likely suffered a concussion. There were four of us, not including the pilots. I found the one; he's dead. I was in the process of searching for the other two. They aren't anywhere in the wreckage."

  "It's okay, sir. We'll find your friends. I need you to come with me now. We need to look over your arm."

  Abram followed the young blonde EMT back to one of the ambulance trucks. They gave him oxygen while they investigated his wounds. The woman shined a flashlight in his eyes and had him answer a battery of questions.

  "Your eyes are dilated. You most likely suffered a concussion. We'll need to take a CT scan to know for sure."

  "And the arm? Will I make it?" Abram said, cracking a smile.

  She didn't look amused.

  "It was a clean break. So that's good. We'll need to snap it back into place. You'll most likely need a cast."

  That would put a damper on things.

  "Thank you," Abram said. "Can you let me know when you find my friends?"

  "We'll keep searching. Felipe here will take care of you."

  A burly man with a beard down to his chest walked around the truck. The blonde updated him on Abram's condition before heading back into the chaos.

  "She says you're going to live," he said. He sounded American.

  "Looks like it," Abram said.

  "Do you remember anything before the explosion? Do you know what happened?" the EMT asked.

  The missile racing through the night and ripping the plane to bits flashed before his eyes. He was walking in the wreckage and there was Amir's leg. Some of his last words were, "Assume everyone is a spy. If you do that, you'll be ok."

  A Canadian EMT with an American accent who just so happened to be the one monitoring Abram after they were attacked…Abram took his deceased colleague's advice. Everyone's a spy.

  "I don't remember."

  "Are you sure? Nothing?"

  "No. I was in the aft getting a drink when the next thing I know I'm lying on the tarmac, the plane splintered to smithereens. Everything else is just a haze."

  Abram glanced out into the carnage. Emergency crewmembers were out with flashlights rummag
ing through the debris all along the runway. The tower had halted all flights in or out of Ottawa International until an investigation could be made and the rubble cleared.

  The Canadian-American EMT said no more about the incident.

  "I need to set the bone. This will hurt."

  Abram nodded. He braced himself.

  The EMT didn't wait for a count; he set the bone right away and wrapped it in a splint until Abram could see the doctor for a proper cast. Abram bit his lip, his vision blurring. The EMT finished the splint.

  "That should hold you, but I'd encourage you to get a cast to ensure the bone heals back properly."

  "I'll be sure to do that," Abram said.

  The EMT closed the doors behind him. They dulled the chaos outside. His ears were still ringing. The ambulance's gears shifted and shot off. Through the back two windows, Abram saw the true extent of destruction. Debris burned a mile from ground zero where the missile had struck. He wondered if Scott Train and Sandra were among the rubble that far out.

  The ambulance sped away from the airport, shooting up Route 79. Ten minutes later, it made a sharp left on the Trans Canada Highway. Nine minutes later, the ambulance pulled up to the ER entrance of Queensway Carleton Hospital. The doors opened and two EMTs helped Abram out.

  "I can walk," he said.

  The two men released his arms, but stayed close as they entered through the sliding glass doors to the ER. They admitted Abram to a room and told him the doctor would be in to see him shortly. An hour later, a nurse finally came in to check on him.

  "Has anyone been in to help you?" she asked.

  "Not since I arrived," Abram said.

  She picked up his medical chart at the foot of the bed and reviewed its contents.

  "A possible concussion, broken arm, and minor lacerations to the face and back. Seems you've had quite a night," she said.

  "You could say that," he said.

  "Let's get you to Radiology and check that pretty head of yours."

  Abram caught the sparkle in her eyes.

  "Only if you're the one who's checking," he said. That got a smile out of her.

  "I'm sorry, no can do. They need me here. It seems you're not the only one with mysterious injuries tonight."

  Abram portrayed a sad face.

  "How about this," she said, crossing her arms across her chest in playful defiance. "If this night ever ends and you're cleared of any serious brain trauma, you take me out for a cup of coffee. Deal?"

  Abram held out his pinky. She giggled and wrapped her pinky around his.

  "It's a deal then," he said.

  She shook her head as she left the room. Abram had a big grin on his face when the same EMT who had brought him from the accident walked in.

  "You seem awfully jolly?" he said. "It wouldn't have anything to do with the brunette that just left, would it?"

  Abram let the smile stay.

  "I'm in shock," Abram said.

  The EMT rolled his eyes.

  "Shock isn't what I'd call it. Love-struck, maybe."

  "Did the crash cause that?" Abram asked.

  The EMT stopped his notes and looked up.

  "Did you say crash?" he asked.

  "Did I? Oh, I don't know. Maybe, everything's still a bit blurry."

  "Sir, I need you to try and focus. Do you remember your plane crashing?"

  Abram pretended to think hard.

  "Maybe. Yeah, I think so," he said. "We were making our descent. I got up to get a drink before we landed. And then the plane started rattling as if we hit some turbulence. I thought it was strange since we were so close to the runway. The plane bent to the left suddenly. That's all I can remember. That must have been when this happened?"

  He pointed to his head and held up his broken arm.

  "Are you sure that's what you remember?" the EMT asked. "I need you to be sure."

  "Yes. I'm sure," Abram said.

  The EMT scribbled a note on the pad and hurried out of the room. Abram's smile returned. If he was a spy, maybe that would distract him long enough for Abram to find out what happened to Scott Train and Sandra and get himself out of here. A new nurse came in moments after the EMT ran out.

  "Follow me, sir," the nurse said. She was a young black woman. No more than twenty-three, if Abram had to guess. Her accent wasn't quite as strong as the blonde's on the tarmac, but she was definitely a native. Abram followed close behind. It felt like he had to run to keep up with her short legs.

  The Radiology sign jutted out from the ceiling a few hallway turns later.

  "Wait here. Someone will be with you shortly," she said.

  The waiting room was empty except for an elderly woman in the back. Abram sat in one of the chairs near the entrance. The clock on the wall read 11:03. At 11:37, his name was finally called. A black man roughly the same age as Tom might be held the door open and ushered him inside.

  "Well, Mr. Kinkaid, it seems you're having a rough night."

  Hearing his name felt strange. No one had asked his name when he arrived, taken any blood or fingerprints, or asked for identification. So how did this man know his name?

  "I've had better days," Abram said.

  "Do you have any metal on you? Have you had any surgeries requiring metal implants?"

  "No," Abram said.

  "Lay down for me, and place your head here. Try not to move for me," he said. He adjusted the machine and walked into a separate room. "Alright, keep still."

  The machine buzzed for a few seconds.

  "Alright, now lay on your left side for me."

  Abram rolled onto his left side. The moment he laid his head back down, he felt a cord around his throat.

  Chapter 20

  The cord dug into Abram's windpipe, cutting off the air flow. Abram tried to slip a finger beneath, but the wire was taut against his skin. His fingers became slippery as he fought to pry it off. His hands were covered in his own blood. Spots danced in his line of vision. He only had thirty seconds or so before his brain shut down. He needed to do something quick if he wanted to survive.

  Abram attempted to reach for the doctor, but failed. He was a pro. Not underestimating Abram's skill, he had wound the cord around the one side of the CT machine and used it as leverage. The white spots went back and then red. Only seconds now. In a last ditch effort, Abram thrust himself off the table while simultaneously yanking his head backward. That caught the doctor off guard. Abram's weight forced the doctor's chin into the machine. His grip loosened, and that was enough for Abram to break free. He gasped for air and maintained his distance momentarily. The doctor was climbing back to his feet. Abram gripped the cord in his good hand and rushed the doctor before he gained his feet and slammed his raised knee into his nose. He felt a crack and blood immediately gushed free. Without slowing, Abram spun sideways, allowing his momentum to spin him one hundred and eighty degrees. As he did so, he looped the cable around the man's neck. The spin twisted the cord with a tight spiral. Abram's spin brought him to the man's back. He spun his wrists to wrap the excess cable around them and pulled back. It was the doctor's turn to clasp at his own throat. His hands flailed over his head, trying to grab anything he could. The doctor's knee buckled under Abram’s kick. Using the doctor's own weight against him, Abram pressed his knee deeper into the groove of the man's back. The doctor hit the tile face first with a loud thud. Abram looped the cable one more time around the man's neck and pushed hard with his knee and tugged with his arms. Abram's left arm was screaming in agony as the broken bone tried to pierce back through the skin and through the splint. Abram blocked out the pain, his face turning scarlet from the strain on the injury. The vein in his forehead protruded as he pulled with all his strength, leveraging his good hand to hold the brunt of it. The doctor struggled for several seconds, and then his body lay still.

  Abram fell back against the wall, gasping for breath. The room still spun with white specks. He tried to swallow but his neck was too bruised. His left arm was bleeding thr
ough the bandages. The bone hadn't broken the surface. Good. He crawled over to the dead man and flipped him over. His badge said Doctor Richards and had a picture of a middle-aged white man. He found a wallet in his back pocket. No photo identification, just forty bucks. In the lining of one of the folds was a small piece of paper. Abram pulled it out and unfolded it. It had a number on it. He tucked it in his pocket and searched the rest of the body. He was clean.

  Abram dragged the unknown body inside the side room where the controls were and closed the door. He wiped up the blood splatter from his neck as best he could and tossed the paper in with the corpse. Before exiting the room, he flicked the light switch and peeked out. The waiting room was quiet and empty. He squeezed out. The front desk was vacant. He walked over to confirm his fears. The real Doctor Richards was stuffed under the desk, his skin a dark purple. Abram exited the waiting room back into the main hall. He followed the wall panels back to the ER. He ran right into the blonde a few hallways later.

  She gasped, then saw who it was. At first she smiled, but then her expression turned to one of confusion.

  "Why aren't you at Radiology?" she asked.

  "All finished," he smiled.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  "That was fast," she said. She analyzed him a bit longer. "Our neurologist won't be in until the morning. We'll need you to stay here until then so we can be sure you've not suffered a more severe injury."

  "Will you be here?" he asked.

  She blushed and glanced away. She pulled her hair back behind her ear.

  "Yeah, I'll be here."

  "Good. Hospitals can be scary, especially at night. It's good to have a friend nearby."

  "So we're friends now?"

  "Would you have preferred lovers? I was just trying to be respect. I know we Americans can sometimes give off the wrong impression of being pushy."

  She furrowed her brow.

  "Just a little."

  Her eyes were smiling.

  "I seem to have gotten lost. Would you be able to fix me up?"

  He held up his left arm with the most innocent and puppy-dog face he could muster.