Shoot: A Crime Thriller (CJ Sheridan Thrillers Book 1)

by M. P. McDonald

  She looked puzzled? "Later? Tonight? I work until three am. I picked up some extra hours." An expression of grief flashed on her face. "We're short-staffed now, after..." She bit her lip and he nodded.

  "I meant later...maybe tomorrow night?"

  "Yes. Okay." She handed him a prescription and a sheet of instructions along with his copy of the paperwork. "Bye, CJ."

  “Bye. Thanks.” He pocketed his copy of the paperwork and motioned to Mark to follow him.

  As they headed towards the door, Mark said, “You guys would be a cute couple.”

  CJ groaned. “I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm batshit crazy. Did you see that look of...pity she just gave me?”

  “That wasn't pity, you idiot. She was totally into you.” Mark opened the door for CJ, waving him through ahead of him. “I can't believe you didn't notice. Did you ever have a date before?”

  CJ's head hurt too much to answer, but he just gave Mark a dirty look and followed him to his car.

  Mark unlocked the doors, and then pulled out his cellphone. “Just gonna see if I can reach your dad, give him the good news that you're okay and save him a trip here.”

  Nodding wearily, CJ eased into the car. Vaguely, he heard Mark say his call had gone to voice mail. He closed his eyes, but every time he did, he saw the bomber's face. Her eyes watching him and as if in slow motion, she'd reach for the bomb.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jim pulled into his garage. He'd hoped Mark would already be here, but his car wasn't out front and he didn't think Mark would leave before he got back. He'd been heading over to the hospital when Mark had called and said CJ was being released. Relieved at the news, but feeling like the worst father in the world for not getting to the hospital to see for himself if his son was okay, he detoured back to his condo. The bomb site had been a crazy mess and he still had a lot of explaining to do with CJ and where he had obtained the gun was a huge question mark. He'd hoped to make some calls to D.C. to get some backup from them on CJ being affiliated with them. It was true. Sort of. It had only been an intern position, but Jim was owed a ton of favors after the debacle involving Mark in the early summer. He intended to call in all his markers if need be to keep CJ out of trouble. Normally, he would never pull strings to cover for anyone, but this case was different. His son was a hero and nobody would ever know except for him, Mark and Jessie. A lump of pride formed in his throat.

  The female bomber had confessed to the paramedics who treated her that her intention had been to reach the church first, and she'd seemed scared that she hadn't made it. Her fear made Jim certain that she had been forced to carry the bomb-that someone had a hold on her, but they would have to wait to question her again until she was medically stable. The bomb squad guy told Jim and the police officials that in a contained environment like the church, the blast would have been devastating. It would have been strong enough to take out at least part of a roof and wall, and the stained glass windows would have become deadly shrapnel.

  Entering the kitchen, he threw his keys on the counter and started a pot of coffee. He still had reports to write, but he needed a hefty dose of caffeine before he could do any paperwork. While it brewed, he eased onto the couch. At first he put his head back and just closed his eyes. A headache behind his forehead and he rubbed the spot. Opening his eyes, he stared at the dark screen of the television, wondering how much of the story had made the news. Looking for the remote, he cursed when he didn't spot it. Why couldn't CJ just use it and return it to the coffee table so it was always available? He'd reminded him several times since he'd come to live with him. Shaking his head, then wincing, he sat up and scanned the floor, hoping it wasn't beneath the sofa because the thought of bending forward made him cringe. Last time it had been lost, it had been wedged in the sofa cushions. Digging behind him, he came up empty, and searching the right end proved fruitless. He plunged his hand in the gap in the middle created by the two sofa cushions. Something hard met his fingers, but it wasn't the remote. He tugged it out and found a photo envelope from a drug store. The stamp on it indicated it was from a few days ago. It must not have produced any future photos.

  The door opened and he heard voices. He rose and strode to the front door. CJ entered. Jim stood back in surprise. Other than the large goose egg above his eyebrow, he looked okay, although he walked slowly. Jim approached, his arms opening to give a hug, but CJ held up a hand. “No!”

  Jim halted. He wasn't much of a hugger, but it wasn't so foreign to their relationship that his son would reject it.

  Mark circled in front of CJ. “He's got a broken rib.”

  “Just cracked.”

  “Same thing.” Mark rolled his eyes. “Anyway, save that hug for later.”

  “I just started coffee brewing.”

  “None for me, Dad. I'm going to shower and go to bed, but first, I'm gonna get something cold to drink.”

  “Do we have to wake you up every hour or anything?”

  “They didn't say, and don't you dare.”

  “Just check on him from time to time, is what I got from Blanche's instructions,” Mark said. “His head was okay, no fractures or bleeding, but I think he'll be out of commission for a few days, at least."

  "Quit talking about me like I'm not here." CJ moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. He looked over his shoulder as though thinking about getting a glass, but then tilted the bottle and drank it right from the container. Jim didn't comment. Tonight, CJ could drink right from the carton, lose the remote, or leave his dirty socks on the floor by the couch and Jim wouldn't say a word.

  "Out of commission?" It just dawned on Jim what Mark had said.

  "You know...with the camera."

  Jim snapped his fingers. "Hey, son, speaking of the camera, I found some photos stuffed in the couch. I didn't know if you wanted to keep them. They're on the coffee table."

  CJ squinted in confusion, then he shrugged and trudged from the kitchen into the living room. A few seconds later, Jim heard the bathroom door close.

  Mark pulled two cups from the cabinet and set them on the counter next to the coffee machine. “Hey, have you heard from Jessie? I tried calling her, but she didn't answer.”

  “She should be here soon. I think she said her cellphone died.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Jim pulled out a chair and sat, feeling like he'd aged about ten years since the morning. Mark drummed his fingers on the counter as he waited for the coffee, but didn't look nearly as stressed as Jim felt. How the hell could he be so calm? If this one encounter had him feeling this worn, in the next year he was going to be dead from old age.

  Suddenly, he envied Mark's father. He hadn't known about the camera for the first few years Mark used it. “Jeez, I kind of wish CJ had torn a page from your book and kept the camera a secret.” He tried to laugh, but it died before it left his mouth.

  “Yeah, I can imagine it's been a rough day, but your kid did good. Hang onto that.”

  “Hey, how did it change?”

  “What?” Mark gave him a puzzled look then took the coffee pot and filled their cups.

  “You saw CJ getting killed and we didn't do anything, so how did that change?”

  Mark blew on his coffee, his gaze focused on the floor. Then he looked at Jim. “It wasn't us...not really. It was CJ. He reacted to us being there by saving us the only way he could.”

  “Saving us?”

  “Think about it. We were just about to speed past the bomber to stop the bus. She was grabbing at the bomb. I remember that now. CJ saw it too, and must have realized she was going to detonate it.”

  * * *

  CJ sat on the edge of his bed and flipped through the images. Mixed amongst the pictures of everyday images of Chicago were horrific photos of medical personnel tumbled in a bloody heap on the floor of what appeared to be a hospital. An emergency room. Shit! When had this all happened? He'd shot the roll of film a few days ago. Why hadn't he seen these? He thought back and it hit him.
He'd been about to view them when the police pounded on the door. Damn Hamilton. How had CJ not heard of this attack? It would have been on the news, but then again, he hadn't had much time to read a newspaper or watch television. But still, could he have missed a story this big?

  Standing, he flicked his wrist, letting the photos spin from his hand onto the top of the desk. He'd have to ask his dad about this tomorrow. If anyone knew what went down, it would be his father...but why hadn't he mentioned it either? Maybe his dad had stopped it somehow. That had to be it. What if something he'd done between taking the photos and now had changed something and he hadn't even known it? Could that happen? But if it had, wouldn't the photos have changed? That's how it had worked the handful of times CJ had used the camera. That's how it had worked for Mark. CJ tore his eyes from the images on the desk. Whatever had happened, it was over now and he had failed to stop it. The pictures stayed in his mind, superimposed over the events of the day as though it had all been intertwined. Did that mean that they had taken place at the same time? It would have still been late though. The events in the photos should have happened yesterday. No matter how he spun it, there was no excuse for not fixing this. Instead of coming home and looking at the images, he'd gone out and bought the gun. He'd completely forgotten he'd even taken the photos. Some hero he was. Mark wouldn't have forgotten.

  He slumped onto the edge of the bed and scrubbed at his eyes with heels of his hands. With a sigh, he slipped under the covers and reached up to turn off the light.

  * * *

  “Hey, Doc, we’ve got abdominal pain in room three, and an asthma attack in four.”

  “Did you call respiratory?”

  “Yeah, they’re on their way to give a neb treatment.”

  CJ edged away from the doctor and nurse. The vivid dreams still spooked him a bit. He’d only had a few so far, and still found it difficult to wrap his mind around the phenomenon. He knew he was in his bed, asleep, and yet, he could see and hear everything. He sniffed. Did he smell antiseptic? He shook his head. No way could he smell the hospital. It was just his mind filling in familiar details. That had to be it.

  The doctor, his white coat flapping behind him, headed down the corridor, turning into a room with a plaque beside the entrance labeling it ER 3. CJ turned in the other direction. The plaques beside the rooms in his future photos showed a seven, eight and nine. If he had this figured out right, those rooms should be in this corridor. At least that doctor should be safe.

  CJ poked his head into one room and grimaced as a guy coughed and spit into a plastic bin. Gross. In the next room, a woman tried to corral two small children while a man lay on the gurney and moaned softly. One tyke, her hair in cornrows with multicolored barrettes, played with the pump of a blood pressure cuff. Squeezing it over and over again as the cuff inflated. The mom didn’t notice because she was busy trying to keep a baby from taking a header onto the floor from her lap. The little guy cried at the top of his lungs, protesting his mother’s attempts to hold him still. When his big brown eyes opened wide as he sucked in a lungful of air in preparation to let it out in a one loud bellow, CJ recognized those eyes. They had been staring back at him in one of the photos. Sickened, he backed from the room. Who could kill a baby? A sweet, innocent little baby?

  He hated that he would be observing the answer to that shortly. If the baby was here now, that meant the rampage was imminent. His heart pounded.

  A siren sounded, fading after only a few seconds and CJ followed the sound to its source in the attached garage bay. He found a parked squad, the lights still flashing. The back doors opened and a medic hopped down, then turned to get the back of the stretcher. Large garage doors showed night sky. He spotted a large clock on the wall at the nurses’ station. Just a couple of minutes to three.

  The place was crazy busy with nurses, doctors and other healthcare workers entering and exiting treatment rooms. His stomach churned as he looked around. This was all so familiar and he was pretty sure it was the same hospital he went to receive treatment for his wound. Blanche’s hospital.

  CJ wanted to rove around the department looking for her, but the dream didn’t allow it. The hallway scene dissolved and, instead, he found himself in a treatment room. It was larger than the one he’d been in for his leg. More like the one he'd just left a few hours ago. A patient lay on the gurney, moaning and thrashing, cursing at those trying to help him. A person in dark blue scrubs rushed past CJ and he reflexively stepped out of the way, still unused to being invisible to those around him. Since the dream had pulled him here, this was where it was going to happen. He glanced at the clock in the room-a twin of the one at the nurses’ station. Two minutes to three. Why had he been shown the other areas of the emergency room? Was he supposed to have noticed something there? His gut clenched. Why couldn’t the dream just show him what happened immediately?

  The man on the gurney groaned and CJ took a closer look. He looked familiar. That couldn’t be though because CJ hardly knew anyone in Chicago and the guy wasn’t Mark or his dad. That summed up all the males he knew in the city.

  Shouting sounded from the hallway and CJ rushed for the door. Those in the room glanced at the corridor, but the curtain was pulled blocking their view and they were too busy to investigate. They turned back to their tasks. The staccato sound of gunfire sounded, and in a brief instant when it paused, the ER was silent. Deadly silent.

  Then as if someone had thrown a switch, the gunfire shattered the silence, as well as the glass wall of the treatment room. The curtain billowed inward. Screams and shouting completed the scene of utter chaos. CJ swept his arm out to move the curtain, but didn’t need to as the dream allowed him to walk right through it. Rushing into the corridor, he encountered a man dressed in commando gear. Three nurses and a doctor were already down, the blood splatters out of place here in the hallway. Anger and disbelief warred for dominance as CJ took in the scene. So senseless. If only he had his gun, he could take the guy out right now. The gunman couldn’t even see him. The man shouted in heavily accented English. CJ tried to make out the words, but with the screams and moans, doors slamming and alarms sounding, he couldn’t decipher it. It might have been Middle Eastern, but he wasn't certain, but if this was a terrorist act, it didn’t make sense. Why a hospital? Was this just a lone crazy? Not that it made much difference to those already dead or injured.

  A flash of red hair caught CJ’s eye. Blanche! And she was rushing from the patient's room toward the injured on the floor of the nurses' desk, either not seeing, or, ignoring the gunman.

  She didn’t even seem to see the man but he saw her and swung his weapon, training it on Blanche before being distracted by another healthcare worker coming around the far edge of the desk. It was the only opening CJ needed as he launched himself at the gunman, but bullets ripped through his apparition and he rolled on the floor and saw Blanche stagger, her hand clutching her stomach, but there were more holes than she had hands and as if in slow motion, Blanche fell beside a coworker.

  He barely registered his cry of anguish. Why? It wasn’t fair. CJ stared down at her motionless body. He dropped to his knees as grief and anger cascaded over him. How could he have been sent to save her only days ago and now she was dead in another photo? It wasn’t fucking fair! Hands balled into fists, he jumped to his feet and rounded on the gunman.

  Despite the commando outfit and ski mask, cold blue eyes stood out, looking through CJ to something behind him. He'd expected dark eyes, so coming face to face with blue eyes stopped him short. Ignoring whatever the gunman was focusing on, CJ studied the eyes. Ice blue. Memorized them. He would stop this guy. He had to stop him. Every scrap of information helped. If only he could reach out and rip the mask off the killer.

  A few strands of hair curled out of the edge of the mask eye hole. Blond, and it couldn’t be very short if it showed with the mask on.

  Stepping back, CJ gathered his anger and coiled it tight within him. He was here for a reason and right now, ge
tting angry wouldn’t help. With a sense of purpose, he took note of everything he could. The height and build of the gunman. His attire, the make of the assault weapon, the military-issue boots. He knew what they looked like-he’d seen enough of them around DC and growing up.

  * * *

  CJ rolled out of bed with the dream still fresh in his mind. He grabbed the notebook on his bedside table and flipped it open, furiously jotting everything down. The details poured out of him as if he’d turned on the tap to a special holding chamber in his brain that he had never used before. It was all there, stored as securely as a vault and it spilled out as soon as he opened the door.

  Finished, he read his notes. There were more details than he had expected. Scratching his jaw, he tried to remember seeing the gunman exit a car near the ambulance bay. He hadn’t realized he’d seen that when he had looked outside. All he consciously recalled was seeing that it was dark outside, but his mind had seen and noted the gunman leaving his vehicle. When he’d written his notes, he had the make of the car and an approximate color. That was a little less precise due to seeing the car only in the dark. It was light colored but CJ wasn’t sure if it was white, cream or yellow.

  Reading further, he felt almost as if someone else had written these notes. He’d written the words shouted by the gunman, phonetically and as he read it back aloud, he recognized a frequent cry used by militant Islamic terrorists.

  Shaken, CJ yanked on his running shorts and hobbled into the living room, holding his side with one hand, his notebook with the other. His head throbbed and felt like vomiting, but he didn't know if it was the result of the dream or a side effect of the head injury.