Moments later I was strapped in and ready to go. On EEEK’s springy foot pedals I ponged over to the open space that used to be the driver’s side door and peered down at Mitch.
“Samanatha, get . . . the hell out of . . . here!”
“Shut up and tell me how to do this.”
He gave in to the inevitable. Jaw locked, he wrapped a fist around the branch.
“I’ll pull . . . this out. You and . . . EEEK will have to haul me up. Ready?”
God, no! I knew what was coming. Praying I wouldn’t throw up when he yanked on that branch, I gulped convulsively.
His knuckles went white where he gripped the wooden lance. Eyes closed, jaw clenched, he dragged in a deep breath and shoved his arm forward.
An animal growl tore from deep in his throat. Sweat popped out on his forehead. Then, finally, when I was sure we were both about to pass out, the tip pulled free and whipped against the roof of the Bronco.
The jagged end looked as sharp as a spear point and glistened with blood. More blood frothed from the gaping hole in Mitch’s shirt.
“Okay,” he grunted, his face dead white. “Let’s get the . . . hell out of . . . Dodge.”
I reached down with my heart in my throat and the stink of spilled gasoline in my nostrils. It took several tries before Mitch could get a grip on EEEK’s composite arms, but we finally hauled him clear of the wreckage. I refused to think about the pain I must be causing him as I dragged him horizontally along the slope.
With every step, my breath razored in my throat and that horrible clicking grew louder and louder in my ears. We’d covered less than twenty or thirty yards when the Bronco went up. The force of the explosion slammed me, Mitch, and EEEK into the ground.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I eased out from under Mitch’s prone body and unstrapped EEEK. Propped on one elbow, I gaped at the fiery inferno that used to be my Bronco.
First my lab. Now my car. Almost Mitch and me.
A burst of savage rage exploded inside my chest. SUV Guy was damned lucky he was dead! Then I pushed every thought but Mitch out of my head.
Scrambling onto my knees, I rolled him over as gently as I could. I’m understating the case considerably when I say he looked like everyone’s worst nightmare. Beneath the dirt and blood streaking his face, his skin was paper white. Blood pumped from the hole in his shirt. But he was conscious, thank God, and even managed a wry grimace.
“That was . . . a little . . . close.”
“No kidding!”
Tearing off the remaining sleeve on my tunic, I wadded it and pressed the makeshift pad against the hole. He raised his good arm up to maintain the pressure while I reached for the cell phone miraculously still clipped to his waist. I fumbled the thing out of its case, but my hands shook so badly I hit 912 twice before I got it right.
“This is the 911 operator. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“We’ve had a car accident. And an explosion. And a shooting.”
“Did you say shooting, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been shot?”
“No, but the guy who fired at us is dead and my friend was seriously injured when our car went off the road. We’re on Interstate 10, about twenty minutes north of Tucson. I don’t have the exact location. Just look for the black column of smoke.”
“We’ll take a fix from your cell phone. I have the police and the ambulance on the way, ma’am. Tell me the nature of your friend’s injuries and I’ll help you assess what kind of first aid to give him until someone arrives on scene.”
“He has a laceration on his scalp and a puncture wound in his left shoulder.”
“Is the object that punctured his shoulder still embedded?”
“No. We had to . . .”
The screech of air brakes jerked my head up. A semi pumped to a halt on the road above.
“Someone’s just stopped,” I told the 911 operator. “A trucker.”
From this angle I could see only the top part of the cab and silvery trailer, but the driver soon materialized on the verge. After one startled look, he disappeared for a moment. He reappeared with a fire extinguisher and started scrambling down the slope.
“Hey!” I waved both arms to draw his attention from the roaring flames. “Over here!”
THINGS happened fast after that.
The town of Marana turned out to be close enough to dispatch a squad car and fire truck. They arrived with a wail of sirens, followed in short order by an ambulance and an Arizona State Trooper. A rep from the county medical examiner’s office showed up while the EMTs were working on Mitch. A crime scene investigation team were the last to descend the slope.
The fact that Mitch carried a badge must have cut through two dozen levels of officialdom. That, or his loss of blood. The lead investigator took an abbreviated statement from him before he let the EMT load him onto a stretcher.
“We’ll talk more once you’re stitched up,” the investigator promised.
The EMTs offered to take me with them but my scraped palms and knees weren’t sufficient to extricate me from the scene. The police instructed the EMTs to patch me up enough to provide a more detailed account of what had happened.
“I’ll see you at the hospital,” I promised Mitch before they carried him up to the ambulance.
I got a bone-crunching arm-squeeze in return. It had to last me through forty-five minutes to an hour of yes, SUV Guy ran us off the road; yes, he opened fire on us; yes, Agent Mitchell fired in self-defense; no, I don’t know who our attacker is or why he tried to take us out. Although . . .
“I think he may be connected to the Hooker case,” I informed the various investigators listening to me give my statement.
“Hooker Who?”
“Patrick Hooker. The guy who was killed over near El Paso a week ago. The one suspected of selling stolen arms to druggers.”
The state trooper scratched his chin. “I thought they arrested someone for that. The father of a dead marine.”
“They did but . . .”
I didn’t think I should spill all the details. Particularly since I didn’t know all the details. Then there was the consideration that both Mitch and I had been told in no uncertain terms to butt out. I didn’t look forward to explaining why we butted back in.
“You need to contact Special Agent Paul Donati. He’s with the FBI’s El Paso office. He knows more about the case than I do.”
Mitch’s Glock went into an evidence bag. So did SUV Guy’s silenced weapon and the bullets the crime scene investigators dug out of the dirt. I should mention that EEEK received more than one dubious glance while all this was going on but they didn’t have a bag big enough to stuff him into.
I wasn’t surprised to learn SUV Guy carried no ID of any kind. Unless he’d filed, seared or stuck his fingers in acid, though, I was pretty sure his prints would pop up in a database somewhere.
He had to be the mysterious, rogue agent who torched my lab. At least I hoped he was. I had no desire to watch any more fires or dodge any more bullets.
Paul Donati and company could work that one out, however. My priorities at this point were to get to the hospital to see how Mitch was doing, then wash away the dirt and smoke clogging my every pore.
Before I could leave the scene I had to figure out what to do with EEEK. That turned out to be a non-issue as the police wanted to impound him as evidence.
I was a tad gun-shy after the loss and/or damage of my lab and associated equipment so I had them write out a hand receipt for Mitch’s handgun and for one Experimental Exoskeletal Extension. I didn’t care what happened to the smoldering remains of the Bronco.
The state trooper offered to drive me to the hospital. One of the investigators had found my Coach tote with cell phone still intact so I used the drive to call my office. My bandaged hands made dialing tricky, but I eventually got O’Reilly.
“FST-Three.”
“Hi, Dennis. It’s me.”
&nbs
p; “Greetings, oh Goddess of Gadgets. Did you deliver EEEK to his makers?”
“Not quite. He’s now in the custody of the Marana, Arizona, police department.”
“Uh-oh. What happened?”
“Long story. I’ll fill you in on the details when I can. Right now I’m in a squad car, en route to the hospital where Mitch is being treated.”
“For what?”
“Scalp laceration and tree stabbing.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain later. I just wanted to let you know I may be delayed here in Tucson a day or two.”
“Noted. Just out of curiosity, why are you being transported in a squad car? Where’s the Rustmobile?”
“Smoldering at the bottom of a ravine.”
“Good God!”
I had a mental image of his eyes bugging out below his shock of gingery hair. Pen had once commented that O’Reilly bore a remarkable resemblance to the Kikori River Delta tree frog when startled. I don’t have a clue where the Kikori River Delta is, but she nailed the frog part.
“Are you okay, Lieutenant?”
“I’m fine except for a few cuts and scrapes.”
And a pair of hot pink crops that will never see action again. My now-sleeveless poppy tunic wasn’t in any better shape.
“You want me to jump in the van and come get you?” O’Reilly offered.
“Thanks, but I don’t know how bad Mitch is or how long we’ll be here. I’ll rent a car to get us home.”
“You don’t sound in any condition to drive. Just say the word and one of us will hit the road.”
“Thanks, Dennis.”
The genuine concern in his voice got me sniffling. For all their warts and personal idiosyncrasies, my team was . . . well . . . my team.
“I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening as soon as I check on Mitch.”
I hung up, fighting the urge to burst into loud, sloppy sobs. I knew it was a delayed reaction. A cumulative effect. The thing is, I’d never crashed through a guardrail before. Or sailed off an embankment. Or pulled someone out of a vehicle mere seconds before it exploded.
I managed to gulp back the sobs but some watery hiccups must have escaped. The trooper slid me a quick glance and extracted a handkerchief from his hip pocket.
“Here.” His expression said he’d seen enough accidents and human tragedy to understand the aftereffects. “Sometimes it helps to let go.”
I buried my face in soft white cotton smelling of bleach and sunshine. The combination of those homey scents broke the dam. That, and their reminder that there was a clean, bright world out there untouched by murder or death.
I engaged in a healthy blubber that did nothing for my image as a military officer but relieved a hundred pounds of stress. The handkerchief was a soggy mess when I finished so I stuffed it in my tote.
“I’ll launder it and send it back,” I promised with a final sniff.
“Keep it.”
I was more or less composed by the time he dropped me off at the North Tucson Regional Medical Center emergency room. The intake coordinator did a double take when she saw me. I must have been more smoke-blackened and dirt-stained than I’d realized, as she came out of her chair and rushed at me with a wheelchair.
“I’m okay. Really.” I held up my bandaged hands to show I’d already received medical attention. “I need to check on Border Patrol Agent Jeff Mitchell. The EMTs brought him in about an hour ago.”
She gave me another, doubtful once-over but went back to her station to consult her computer. “He’s still in the ER. Treatment Bay three. I’ll buzz you through.”
I got the same startled reaction from the ER staff when I hurried down a corridor with squeaky clean white floors and pale green walls. Bay three was near the end of the hall. I rapped a knuckle on the partially closed door but didn’t wait for an invitation to enter.
Mitch lay propped at a forty-five-degree angle. An IV snaked from his arm. Monitors beeped above his head. Bandages covered most of his immobilized left shoulder, but his eyes were clear and focused.
“How do you feel?”
“I’ll live,” he replied with a good attempt at a smile. “How about you?”
“Ditto.” I rolled a stool over and plunked down beside his gurney. “What did the docs say about your shoulder?”
“Big hole, minimal damage.”
“Don’t go all macho on me. What did they really say?”
“That I was damned lucky. The branch speared through muscle and tore some tendons, but missed my lung and brachial artery.”
I suspected he was giving me the sanitized version, but a tall, lanky doc in green scrubs entered the cubicle before I could pry out more detail. Hooking a brow, he ran a quick eye over my bandaged hands and knees.
“I’m Dr. Paulson. You are?”
“Lieutenant Samantha Spade. I was in the car with Agent Mitchell.”
“Did the EMTs treat you at the scene?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone check your vitals since?”
When I shook my head, he performed a thorough assessment. Only after he was satisfied I wouldn’t go into cardiac arrest or bleed out on him did he obtain Mitch’s permission to explain his condition to me.
“We ran a series of neurovascular tests. He has good distal pulses in his hands and feet and capillary refill in nailbeds.”
Took me a moment to translate that to healthy looking finger- and toenails.
“We irrigated and sutured his wound,” the doc continued. “To be on the safe side, we gave him a tetanus shot and put him on antibiotics to counter all the dirt he picked up. Since he lost so much blood, I’ve set him up for a transfusion. They’ll be coming to transport him upstairs any minute.”
“Upstairs?”
“It’ll take all night to get four units of packed red blood cells into him. We’ll keep him in the hospital for at least that long, maybe longer. I’ve prescribed some pretty powerful painkillers. They’ll put him out for most of that time.”
A transporter and two ER techs arrived almost as soon as the doc exited. Mere minutes later Mitch was ensconced in a private room and being hooked up to more tubes. One fed from a bag of the previously mentioned packed red cells. The thick, dark blood inside the bag convinced me I had absolutely zero vampire-ish leanings.
I started feeling queasy when the nurse at Mitch’s bedside asked him to state his name and date of birth and checked the information against his plastic wristband. She then read off more data to include his blood type and what I assumed was his patient ID number. A second RN confirmed the info matched that on the bag of blood.
I don’t know why that packaged blood got to me. I had the real stuff all over me, for God’s sake! Mitch’s and my own. Another delayed reaction, I decided. But I must have turned green around the gills since the nurses preparing the patient suggested I step outside. Mitch was more direct.
“You look like you’re about to keel over, Samantha. No need to stick around the hospital. As soon as they finish this hookup, I’ll call someone and arrange transport for you back to El Paso.”
“Oh, sure. Like I’m going to leave you here.”
Kind of hard to carry on a conversation while staring at the opposite wall, but I managed.
“I’ll call my insurance company to tell them about the Bronco and arrange a rental car to take us both home tomorrow. Be right back.”
I could recite a long list of things I dislike about my present occupation. One of the things I love is the mega-huge USAA Insurance Company that caters exclusively to military members and their families. When someone clued me in to the San Antonio-based company, I got them to agree to cover me, the meager personal possessions I’d salvaged from my marriage and the Bronco.
After one call to a USAA claims adjuster and one to Enterprise Rent-A-Car, I had a compact waiting for me at a north Tucson location. The rental office only stayed open until seven P.M., so I arranged to have them pick me up at the hospital in a hal
f hour.
That done, I hit the ladies’ room. The first glimpse in the mirrors produced a shriek. No wonder the ER doc had insisted on taking my vitals! I looked like a cross between a grave digger and one of his clients.
I washed the worst of the grime and dried blood off my face, hands and arms before digging in my rescued tote. Fishing out a comb, I gritted my teeth and did battle with my helmet of tangles. My eyes were watering by the time I threw the comb back in the tote and found my lip gloss. Amazing what a swipe or two of Georgia Peach can do to an otherwise scratched and colorless face.
When I ventured into Mitch’s room again, his head was back and his hazel eyes were fuzzy. I studiously avoided looking at the slow, dark drip as the nurse informed me she’d administered the painkillers the doctor had prescribed.
“You get some sleep,” I told Mitch. “I’ve got to pick up the rental car and find a place to stay tonight. Then I’ll be back to check up on you.”
“There’s a Holiday Inn Express just across the street,” the RN put in helpfully. “They give a discount to folks with family members in the hospital.”
“If you have time,” Mitch murmured, his voice already heavy and slow, “stop at a Walmart or Academy Sports. I could use some sweats for the drive home.”
So could I! My tunic and crops were hitting the Dumpster the moment they came off.
“I’ll take care of it,” I promised, leaning down to brush my lips over his. “See you in a couple hours.”
He raised his good arm and snagged mine. I could see him trying to fight the painkiller’s wallop.
“We need to talk about what happened, Samantha.”
“We will. Later. Get some sleep.”
I’D been operating on adrenaline to that point. Aside from my small meltdown in the state trooper’s cruiser, I hadn’t really stopped to think about the terrifying experience we’d gone through.
I had plenty of time to do just that while I picked up the rental, made a stop at Walmart and checked into the Holiday Inn Express. Once in my room, I dumped the plastic shopping bags and headed straight for the shower.
All the Wrong Moves Page 15