Susan squatted and reached to secure the loose weapon, still lying on the floor.
Abruptly, Mike collapsed, rolling.
For an instant, Susan thought he’d had a heart attack. Her medical training kicked to the fore, and with it, the professionalism and composure that characterized her medical rotations. As she grew hyper-vigilant, the world seemed to move through Jell-O, each movement densely slowed, her every option easily considered. As Mike went sideways, she registered the motions of his hands, his left drawing up his pant leg, his right grabbing for the opposite ankle.
An image flashed through Susan’s mind: Jake making a similar motion, pulling his backup pistol from an ankle holster in order to hand it to Kendall. Awkwardly, Susan’s finger went to her trigger. Her right arm snapped up, the left still outstretched toward the second gun.
She was at her medical-school graduation, reciting the Hippocratic oath with her classmates, engraving its key provision forever on her heart and mind: “I will do no harm to anyone.” It brought to the fore another adage she had subscribed to her entire life without consciously knowing it. Through the way he lived his life, through the lessons he imparted, through his every action, John Calvin had passed the most intrinsic knowledge of his creation to his daughter: “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”
The first phrase paralyzed her, but the second saved her: “May not…through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”
Mike’s backup gun came up, aimed directly for Susan. There would be no counting this time.
I’m a human being. Gritting her teeth, Susan pulled the trigger. The report slammed her ears with raw agony. She did not anticipate the recoil. It was only a mild pull, but wholly unexpected. Startled, she jerked crazily. And that, combined with her already tenuous position, dropped her to her buttocks. She heard the crack of Mike’s gun an instant afterward, muffled by the intense ringing in her ears. The shot pinged high off the wall behind her. He had apparently expected her to rise.
Susan’s shot had no obvious effect, either. Missed him, damn it! Shooting wildly, devoid of any training, she wondered if she had even fired into the same room. Another thought occurred to her then: Bulletproof vest? Panic swam down on her again, and she lost the composure that had kept her mind ahead of the quickest action. Time returned to normal speed. Her finger spasmed on the trigger before she could think to retreat, to take another shot, but she did have the presence of mind to shift her aim for his head.
The roar of gunshots seemed to come from several directions at once, including her own hand. She could hear Kendall shouting, and only then remembered the second federal agent, the one Nate could threaten but never actually shoot. Even if the agent did not carry a secondary weapon, Susan remembered he had previously confiscated the one Kendall had been using. He was armed and definitely dangerous, but she dared not take her eyes from Mike.
A moving target is a difficult target. Susan attempted to gather her feet under her. Her heel struck the pistol she had reached for, still on the ground, and she tumbled back to the floor. For the second time, an awkward misstep probably saved her life. Something hit the floor directly in front of Susan, pelting her with chips of linoleum. Almost simultaneously, Mike clutched his throat with his support hand.
I got him! Susan scrambled to her feet.
Mike managed to squeeze off one more wild shot that came nowhere near his target; then the gun fell from his hand and he gripped his neck in what Susan immediately recognized as the universal sign of a victim choking. Her first impulse, to run toward him and administer the Heimlich maneuver, passed quickly. Even if she dared, it would do nothing to help him.
Mike’s head sank forward over his clutching fingers; then he whirled violently and dropped to his knees, gagging, sucking noisily, frantic to catch a breath that was never going to come. It went against everything in Susan’s nature, everything in her training, to do nothing to assist a man in such clear and evident agony. Too seasoned to vomit, too frantic to cry, she could only watch in horror, unable to tear her gaze away. Her mind went to a clinical place where she put the symptoms together.
The human neck was a crowded place, perhaps the only one with so many vital structures in so small an area. The bullet had clearly torn the larynx or trachea. Assuming it missed the carotid arteries, the jugular veins, and all the cervical vertebrae, the emergent placement of an endotracheal tube, accompanied by the rhythmic injection of oxygen, could keep him going until an ambulance arrived. But Susan did not have any of the necessary tools. In the same situation, she could not have saved her own mother. But she did not have to watch him die.
Still clutching the pistol, now in both trembling hands, Susan turned to where she had last seen the second member of the Cadmium team. He was struggling viciously, Nate clamped to his gun arm and a shirtless Kendall wrapped around his legs like a football tackle. The fed had squeezed off at least two shots, both wild. Holes in the ceiling revealed where they had penetrated, and a whitewash of mineral fibers coated all three men.
Susan came as close as she dared. “Be still,” she said.
The tussle continued. No one even seemed to notice her.
Added to the events of the past several minutes, that one simple snub threw Susan over the edge. Purposefully, she leveled the pistol at the agent’s face, making absolutely sure he saw it. “Drop the gun!” she hollered.
The stranger’s dark eyes widened. He ceased struggling, and the pistol fell from his upraised fist. Nate kept his hands clamped to the man’s arm, allowing the gun to fall unceremoniously to the floor.
“You killed a good man, a friend.” The realization filled Susan with a grief she had put on hold for far too long. Again, a much stronger emotion flared to a bonfire inside her, banishing sorrow. “You made me shoot someone! You turned me into a killer wholly against my will, and that pisses me off!”
“Susan,” Kendall started.
Susan ignored him. Her hands were visibly trembling now, the gun pulsating in time to her movements. She knew better than to loop a finger in the trigger, even for show; she could not trust her own digits to obey her. “Keep your hands in the air, Goddamn it. Don’t make me shoot you, too.”
Kendall tried again, “Susan…”
Susan interrupted him; she didn’t care what anyone had to say. “Kendall, check his pocket. He still has the gun Jake gave you.”
“That’s the one he was using. On the floor.”
“Then check his left ankle. That seems to be the law enforcement go-to backup spot.”
Kendall knelt at the man’s feet, hiked up his pant leg, and freed a pistol from a holster lashed to the ankle. The doctor rose, pointing the spare at the agent.
With Kendall covering, Susan scooped up the weapon on the floor, Jake’s backup, the one he had given to Kendall. Tears flooded Susan’s eyes, obscuring her vision. She crammed the gun into her pocket, then wiped the tears away fiercely. Now was not the time to soften. “Now get over there, Cadmium. Sit in that damned chair and don’t do anything until the cops get here.” She pointed to one of the foldables, still in its place across from Lawrence’s desk.
Lawrence was still talking into his Vox, attempting to describe the scene.
Nate finally released his death grip on the federal agent’s arm. Kendall continued to back up Susan. They both covered the man as they walked him to the indicated seat and watched him drop resignedly into it.
Suddenly, shots erupted behind Susan. Her heart rate tripled in an instant, and she loosed an unintentional scream. Whirling, legs tensed to the point of pain, she saw what looked like a zombie firing round after round into Mike’s unmoving body. Susan screamed again.
The gunshots stopped, and the creature looked up. It was Jake, the hole still visible in his forehead, dried rivulets of scarlet running from the back of his head to both ears, crusted clots clinging to his hair. The gun in his hand was Mike’s backup. Susan had never bothered
to collect it from the floor.
“Jake.” Her own gun forgotten in her hand, Susan lowered her arms. The fight left her, replaced by relieved disbelief.
Kendall threw his arms up. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“How…?” Susan started and stopped. “How…How can that be?” Kendall’s ministrations would have kept Jake from bleeding out, but even with that assistance, a shot through the brain should have put him down until the neurosurgeons pieced him back together, assuming they even could.
For an instant, Susan and Kendall were back on common ground, two medical residents discussing an interesting case in a hospital corridor. “The projectile hit here.” Kendall tapped the proper spot on this forehead. “Handgun, which means low velocity for a gunshot wound. It must have hit skull and deflected upward, tracing the line of the skull along the periosteum.”
Susan caught on. “He must have had his head tilted slightly upward. When it got to the hairline, it tore through the scalp, leaving an ugly mess, then went out the back.” She cringed. “Man, that’s gotta hurt.” She considered. “But it shouldn’t have put him out, at least not this long.”
Kendall nodded. “My theory is he banged his head on the floor when he fell.”
In a charting room, surrounded only by health-care professionals, Susan might have laughed. “Shot through the head, no problem. It’s the bump on the noggin that—”
Lawrence shouted.
Another gunshot exploded. Susan’s heart seemed to fly out of her chest, and she gasped for breath. A flash of heat suffused her.
Two more gunshots followed, and the no-longer-living agent toppled limply from his chair. Once again, Susan heard the heavy clatter of a gun hitting the floor. Eyes wide with terror, she whirled toward Jake in time to see him rush past her and stand over the crumpled agent.
Lawrence was on his feet. “He had a gun! I think he pulled it out of his underpants!”
Jake fired several more times into the corpse.
Susan found herself on the floor without intending to move, arms protectively over her head. “Have you gone stark raving mad?” It struck her suddenly that brain trauma could have addled him, making Jake dangerously unpredictable. And armed. “Why are you shooting dead people?”
Jake continued to stare at the body, but he did not fire again. “I wake up with no idea how long I’ve been out. There are unsecured weapons on the floor. You’ve got your backs to a guy who’s down but made it abundantly clear he won’t hesitate to kill. And there’s a pistol still in his reach.” He made a gesture as if what he said explained everything. “As close-quarter combat expert Pat Rogers used to say: ‘When in doubt, NSR the’”—he hesitated just long enough to make it clear he substituted for an unsuitable word—“guy.”
“What does that mean?” Kendall demanded.
Jake tried to explain. “Nonstandard response. Two shots to the chest is a standard response…” He regrouped. “Okay. Roughly translated, it means anyone worth shooting once is worth shooting seven times. Just to be sure.”
“But he’s dead!” Susan emphasized.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Jake pointed out. “You thought I was dead, too. If I was on the other side, I’d have had all of you.” He snatched up the gun that had fallen from the agent’s hand.
He was right, Susan realized, and that sent a chill spiraling through her entire body. “There is a difference. A doctor whose judgment I used to trust declared you dead.”
Kendall went on the defensive. “What did you want me to do? Yell, ‘Thank God he’s still alive?’ They’d have…NSRed him.”
Susan could not believe Kendall still did not realize how recklessly he had acted. “Kendall, after being told anyone who moved would have his head blown off, after seeing them carry out that threat, you charged across the room and started hollering. It’s a miracle they didn’t NSR you!”
Lawrence’s Vox buzzed, and he poked it on. “Hello?” He paused a moment, listening. “This is Dr. Lawrence Robertson, CEO and founder of United States Robots and Mechanical Men.” He listened again, then said, “A cop? Yeah, he’s right here.” He looked up. “Jake, it’s the emergency rescue team. They want to talk to you personally.”
Jake lowered his head, putting his wound on full display. Susan found herself wanting to examine it, to probe it, to calculate the extent of soft-tissue damage. He was not out of the woods yet. The impact of the round, or of the floor, might have caused a skull fracture or produced an intracranial bleed that could still take him down. Prolonged unconsciousness, whatever the root cause, was never a good sign. “Put it on conference,” Jake instructed. He gestured for everyone to keep quiet.
Lawrence tapped the appropriate button, then nodded at Jake.
“Detective Carson, Manhattan South Homicide.”
A strong male voice came over the line, his accent thick and Brooklyn. He sounded direct, almost accusatory. “What’s your tax registry number?”
Susan kept her attention glued to Jake. She knew next to nothing about police procedure, but anything to do with taxes seemed like an odd thing to request.
Jake, on the other hand, didn’t bat an eye. “It’s 1138786.”
The voice over the Vox was muffled, clearly not intended for Jake, but Susan could still make out the words, “Hey, Tiffy. Get the Wheel to run his tax registry number.”
A silent moment passed, then the voice returned, much softened. “It’s Boomer, Jake. Give me the SITREP.”
Jake almost smiled. He clearly recognized the name.
“Two perps, both down. Four civilians, no apparent injuries at this time. I’m shot in the head.”
Another short pause, then, “Jake, confirm. All perps dead? No one outstanding?”
“Ten-four. Two perps, both down, apparently DRT.”
“You were shot in the head?” There was actual concern in Boomer’s voice, which surprised Susan. It was also the most comprehensible thing she had ever heard spoken in a conversation between officers.
Jake’s hand went instinctively to the top of his head. He touched it, winced, and immediately removed the offending hand. He said softly, almost plaintively, “Yeah…”
For an instant, he was a lost and frightened child appealing to his father. An urge seized Susan to cradle and protect him.
“We’ll have a medic standing by. Where are you located? Are you in the main office?”
“I think so.” Regaining his composure, Jake glanced at Lawrence, who nodded confirmation. “Roger, main office,” Jake repeated with more assurance. “Retinal-scan security on all doors. Will you let me open the front for you?”
Susan could hear voices conferring, but nothing coherent. Jake waited patiently for Boomer to return.
“Jake, we’ll be entering via opened front door in exactly two minutes. Push it open and step back. Make sure everyone is facedown, arms outstretched, no weapons nearby. Copy?”
“Copy.” Jake looked around the room, at everyone in it intently staring at him. “Give me an extra thirty seconds to explain and secure.” He made a motion indicating everyone should get on the floor.
Susan could scarcely believe it, but she lowered herself to the linoleum in silence. They were still on conference mode, and she did not want to say anything that might change the dynamics of the situation.
“Roger, Jake.”
“I’ll meet you at the door in two and a half. K.”
“Copy that.”
Jake motioned for Lawrence to disconnect, then addressed the group.
Kendall asked the question on every mind. “Am I to understand they want us on the floor? Facedown?” It sounded like madness. “Are you sure you’re dealing with the good guys?”
Jake became all professional. “Standard operating procedure. They need to treat the scene as unsecured. They don’t know any of you, and they’re not going to take any chances.” He pointed to the top of Lawrence’s desk. “I’m going to need every single firearm. If you forget and have one on your
person, you’re probably going to die.”
Susan never saw a group of people scramble so fast, including herself. In a moment, a pile of seven pistols lay on the desktop. Jake checked the two belonging to him and replaced them in their holsters. The cryptogram caught her eye, and Susan grabbed the paper, folded it, and stuffed it into her pocket.
Susan searched out a location away from the bodies where she would not accidentally become contaminated with blood. One by one, Susan and her companions lay facedown on the floor, arms outstretched. And waited.
Chapter 23
Susan approached Jake’s hospital room on the Neurosurgery Unit, abruptly seized by a sense of almost incapacitating grief and foreboding that seemed far out of proportion to the reality of the situation. She paused to consider, and a picture filled her mind’s eye: a muscular dark blond with melting green eyes, dressed in surgical scrubs stained with Surgiprep, walked toward her down precisely this same corridor. Neurosurgery. Remington. She felt as if she had fallen into a black hole of heartache and wondered how she had managed to come this far into Remington’s old territory before it overwhelmed her.
Exhaustion was the only logical explanation. The emergency rescue team had cuffed her, searched her, and questioned her in private. Next, they had brought everyone together, except Jake, whom they transported directly to the hospital. They were soon uncuffed and their belongings returned, and they were plied with goodwill and snacks. And the questioning resumed.
When the emergency response team had finished with Lawrence and Nate, another group of law enforcement officers escorted Susan and Kendall to the Ninth Precinct. Again, the two of them were separated, and Susan spent hours answering more questions that went back nearly as far as she could remember. The days and incidents blurred together and, after a while, she thought she might understand how Jake had felt upon awakening from trauma. Her head ached as if someone had clamped it in a vise that slowly tightened in maddening increments. Her skull seemed almost ready to explode.
When they finally released her, Susan went straight to the hospital, and now directly to Jake Carson’s room. Without knocking, she pushed open the door.
To Obey Page 37