Hot Pursuit

by Christina Skye

  She shook hands with the mayor, then turned anxiously to look for Jack. As the crowd parted briefly, she saw a waiter moving toward her, one hand hidden beneath a white towel. Something about his posture made her take a step back. She was jostled by someone behind her and abruptly felt a stabbing pain at her side, followed by an odd tingling. She pressed one hand to her ribs, surprised when she felt something warm and sticky on her palm.

  Blood.

  The voices around her seemed very loud, and the floor shifted. She tried to stand straight, but the room suddenly tilted and there was a burning pain at her side that made no sense at all.

  Someone called her name. She turned, everything in slow motion, the room blurring into grays and browns while she tried to explain to Jack, who was fighting to reach her, his eyes angry, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying and he was going too slowly, too slowly.

  Afraid, she tried to say.

  Something wrong.

  Hurry.

  She grabbed at the closest support, sending a display of champagne bottles crashing to the floor, but she kept falling, only now the room was dark, and for some reason she couldn’t breathe and she knew she’d never get to Jack.

  Not in time.

  Chapter Thirty

  “What the hell happened to the lights? Somebody check the damn power.” The security guard was shouting, trying to be heard against the panicked voices of the guests.

  In the chaos, Jack lunged sideways and groped along the location where he’d last seen Taylor. God, she’d been white. Dead white. Then she’d toppled, hitting a display of champagne bottles.

  Glass crunched as he knelt, pushing away anyone who came too close in the darkness. “Taylor, where are you?”

  Desperately he searched the ground, hearing a muffled sound too weak to be a groan. He tracked the noise and found her arm, then skimmed lower, looking for a pulse. “Come on, talk to me, damn it.”

  He found a beat, but it was fast and irregular. He touched his mike. “Izzy, she’s going to need medical evaluation. Looks like some kind of poison—maybe in the champagne. Pulse is thready, skin cold to the touch. I’m leaving the dais now. If it’s ricin—”

  Jack didn’t finish. Both of them knew what the odds were in that case.

  “Copy. I’m on the way.”

  Jack caught Taylor against his chest and jumped from the stage, guided by the small infrared penlight he always carried. There was shouting all around him, women screaming, the crowd pushing blindly in search of an exit.

  With the penlight for guidance, Jack headed for the rear corridor leading to the kitchen, one hand on Taylor’s throat in case she stopped breathing. With ricin, labored breathing could progress swiftly into respiratory failure and there wasn’t a whole lot that anyone could do to help, given the lack of a reliable antidote or inhibitor.

  Ignoring the angry protests, Jack shoved people out of his way, using one hand outstretched like a halfback plowing toward the end zone. He flashed the light again to take his bearings.

  Twenty more feet.

  Taylor began to cough.

  “Izzy, I’m near the south entrance to the kitchen. You have any power there?”

  “Negative. I’ll be waiting at the secure area. How’s she doing?”

  “Not good. She’s coughing. Get that oxygen ready.”

  Jack hit the swinging door to the kitchen, his penlight beam cutting through the darkness. A heartbeat later he spotted Izzy outside the locked storage room that Jack had commandeered for use in case of problems.

  He slid Taylor onto a table while Izzy relocked the door. Izzy held up a commercial flashlight that lit the small room.

  “Her color’s bad.” Jack forced himself to focus on facts, not emotions. “No sign of cyanosis.” He put an oxygen mask over Taylor’s face. “Check her ribs, Izzy. She was holding her right side when she went down.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “In that horde, I could have missed a tank attack,” Jack said grimly. “It was a damned zoo in there. Everyone was fighting to get a photo with the mayor.”

  “Including Admiral Braden?”

  “Especially him.” Jack checked Taylor’s pulse again. “Getting weaker. Damn it, we’ve got to find out what she was given.”

  “Whatever it was, it came via injection.” Izzy pointed to the slash in Taylor’s dress, now smeared with a trail of blood above her last rib.

  Jack’s jaw tightened. “Taylor, can you hear me?”

  There was no answer.

  “Hold her,” Jack snapped. “I’m checking the wound.” He probed her side, working along the torn skin in search of any foreign objects left behind after the attack.

  “Be careful,” Izzy said quietly. “Secondary dermal absorption is a possibility.”

  Jack gave a short, four-letter answer to the warning. There was no time to worry about finding gloves or suitable tools to protect himself. Taylor could be dead if they went by strict medical procedures.

  Grimly he continued to search for foreign material. Finally he straightened. “If anything’s still in there, it will take a microscope to find it.” Jack put a sterile piece of gauze over the wound, frowning. “She needs an excision of the wound site, followed by local skin decontamination, but we don’t have time or tools. Where’s that damned ambulance?”

  “On the way.” Izzy touched his earphone. “Make that right outside the kitchen service entrance. Let’s get moving.”

  Jack repositioned her oxygen mask, then lifted Taylor from the table. “How about running interference?”

  “With pleasure.” Izzy shoved open the door, flashlight in hand.

  Neither man spoke, aware that Taylor had begun to show signs of labored breathing.

  An emergency technician was waiting when they charged out of the dark kitchen. Blinking in the twin beams of an ambulance, Izzy briefed the paramedics on the attack while they loaded Taylor onto a gurney, hit the siren, and raced toward the hospital.

  The paramedic shot a glance at Taylor. “Looks like an overdose, if you ask me.”

  “It’s poison,” Jack said flatly. “Possibly ricin.”

  “Has the wound been checked?” The EMT was already pulling on sterile gloves.

  “As best I could. The conditions weren’t exactly optimal.” Jack tried to fight the image of Taylor in a coma, succumbing to circulatory failure and multiple organ shutdown.

  “Is she allergic to penicillin?” The paramedic probed the wound, and Taylor twisted, gasping.

  “God, I don’t know.” Jack took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Hold on, honey,” he whispered.

  “Penicillin allergies?” the paramedic repeated, looking at Izzy.

  “I’ll check with her sister.” Izzy pulled out his cell phone and dialed grimly while the siren screamed and lights flashed by in the darkness. Each burst cast Taylor’s face into a waxen pallor before she faded into the darkness again.

  “She’s okay with penicillin,” Izzy said, covering his phone.

  “Any renal impairment?”

  “No.”

  “Is she pregnant?”

  There was no sound for a moment. Jack looked up, his eyes filled with furious impatience. “No, damn it. She’s not pregnant.” He forced his voice to icy control. “She’ll need a chest X ray for foreign body evaluation and possible respiratory distress. You’ll also need to get a direct tissue analysis.”

  The paramedic raised an eyebrow. “You a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re what, some kind of expert on ricin?”

  “That’s exactly what he is.” Izzy’s voice was hard.

  The paramedic stared curiously at Jack. “No shit. You with the FBI? CDC? Hey, don’t tell me—you’re USAMRIID.” He sounded excited for the first time.

  “Maybe you should concentrate on setting up that IV,” Izzy said quietly, “and stop asking questions.”

  “I’m going to have to call her sister back.” Izzy paced in front of the
closed doors of the E.R. “So far there’s no diagnosis, no prognosis, and no known assailant, but hey, so what?”

  Jack didn’t answer, staring out the door to the room where Taylor was being held.

  “Not that I could give Annie any details even if I had them.” Izzy put some coins in the coffee machine, then looked at Jack. “You okay?”

  Jack gave a shrug, turning sharply as a doctor walked toward them, only to enter a treatment room down the hall.

  Muttering, Jack pulled off his tuxedo jacket and dropped it on a battered table near the coffee machine. “I’m asking for a transfer.”

  Izzy took a sip of the truly awful coffee and grimaced. “I assume you’re going to tell me why.”

  Jack could feel the tension stretch across his back and shoulders like a vice. “Because when you can’t do the job, you step aside.” He pulled off his bow tie and tossed it down on the jacket. “I didn’t, so it’s time for me to step aside.”

  “Was there a fumble I missed back there? I could have sworn I saw an operator who made all the right calls.”

  “When you can’t be objective, you do no one any good. I should have pulled her out the second I saw the crowd inside that store.” Jack’s voice was raw. “I should also have kept her from going onto that dais, where I couldn’t reach her. Then I should have paid more attention when she started making those hand gestures.”

  “A lot of shoulds there, my friend.” Izzy put some more coins in the vending machine, then held out a cup to Jack.

  Jack waved a hand.

  Izzy just kept holding out the coffee.

  Jack cursed softly, then took the white Styrofoam in callused fingers. “If she dies, it will be on me, Izzy, because I let things get personal. Because my judgment got shot to hell the first second I saw her.”

  “You’re taking credit for the attack? For the well-planned injection of a poisonous substance? Or are you taking credit for the success of the charity event, which made access difficult and a swift exit impossible?”

  “Don’t split hairs, damn it. I’m at fault here.”

  “If there’s blame to be assigned,” Izzy said grimly, “you might want to start with the people who okayed Taylor’s participation or the civilian security personnel who didn’t put a cap on the guest list. While you’re at it, you might as well blame the people who made the knife that cut her.”

  Jack closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. “They didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  “Neither did you. You walked the building, you made the on-site assessment, and you calculated the risks. I saw your plan, remember? It was comprehensive and it was sound.”

  “So why is Taylor lying on the other side of that door with a tube in her throat?”

  “Because life can suck and you’re not God.” Izzy finished his coffee and crumpled the cup. “Live with it.”

  Jack glared at him. “You’re saying self-blame is self-pity?”

  “I’m saying the line is pretty damned fine and you just may have crossed it.”

  Jack took another drink of coffee. “What if she doesn’t walk out of here? No more arguments. No more maternity clothes. No more irritating, harebrained schemes.” His voice was harsh.

  “Let them do their job,” Izzy said quietly.

  The double doors swung open in front of them, and a woman with tired eyes walked out holding an X ray. “Mr. Broussard? Mr. Teague?”

  “Right here.” Jack strode across the room, his whole body tense.

  “I’m Dr. Fellows, Ms. Smith’s physician.” She closed the file, frowning. “Usually the next of kin are approached at a time like this, but I understand there are unusual circumstances, so I’ll give you an update pending our effort to reach her family.” She rubbed her neck, watching a patient wheeled past, headed for surgery. “Another drunk driver. Third one tonight.”

  She motioned the two men into an empty waiting area across the hall. When they were seated, she opened the file, scanning the pages. “Despite your information, the patient showed no evidence of ricin. If so, she would be facing localized necrosis and organ failure by now. Not that what we found was much better.”

  Jack sat forward. “What was it?”

  “The wound tested positive for ketamine.”

  “Special K.” Izzy’s eyes narrowed. “A surgical anesthetic known to reverse muscular control and create dissociative experiences. It was used for battlefield surgery in Vietnam,” he said grimly. “Now a drug of choice for date rape.”

  The doctor nodded. “Your pharmacology knowledge is impressive, Mr. Teague. Nonmedical administration of ketamine is a crime, so of course I’ll have to report this.”

  Izzy’s face was blank. “Of course.”

  “What about Taylor?” Jack said. “How is she doing?”

  “Better than expected, considering the amount of ketamine she appears to have been given. The good news is that the wound missed her rib and kidney and no foreign material was evident on the X ray. She’s being monitored for suppressed breathing and possible vomiting, as well as cardiac arrest. The bad news is that the next two hours will be critical.”

  Jack took a hard breath. “Can I see her?”

  “Not yet. She’s under restraint because of possible effects of paranoia and violent behavior. Do you know if she has a history of cardiac disease?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Any use of thyroid medication?”

  Jack rubbed the knot of tension at his neck. “Not that she mentioned.”

  The doctor made a note in the chart, then tucked it under her arm. “You’ll be notified when you can see the patient, gentlemen. It may be awhile.”

  “We’ll be here. Just—do what you can for her.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “I do what I can for all my patients, Mr. Broussard.” She stood up, her eyes glinting with irritation, and then she sighed. “Sorry, it’s been a long night. Two car accidents and a drug overdose in the last hour.” She rolled her shoulders as if they hurt. “Perhaps someday you’ll tell me what kind of party involved formal dress—and the injection of an intramuscular illegal anesthetic and hallucinogen. It’s definitely the kind of party that I’d prefer to avoid.” She didn’t wait for an answer, heading back to work.

  “So would I,” Jack said grimly, staring at the stained gray floor.

  The doctor stopped outside the E.R.’s double doors. “By the way, please tell Ms. Smith that I love her books.” Her brows rose. “Although I don’t expect to read about this in any upcoming volume.”

  The big doors swung closed.

  “So much for using a false name,” Jack muttered.

  Eighty minutes later, a nurse in green scrubs motioned for them to follow her into a room filled with lights and equipment.

  Taylor lay motionless, her face blank. There was an IV in her right wrist and two machines near her bed beeped loudly.

  Jack fought an urge to turn and walk out again.

  “I’m afraid you can only have five minutes, gentlemen. She’s still hasn’t come around.”

  “How much longer?” Jack’s throat felt raw.

  “Impossible to say. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe several hours. Ketamine reactions are unpredictable. Funny, but she looks familiar.” The nurse shrugged, then pulled the fabric screen closed behind her.

  Jack gripped the metal back of the chair beside the bed. The cross bar was cold, but not as cold as his hands. “Why doesn’t she wake up?”

  “You heard the nurse. These things are unpredictable. Concentrate on the fact that she’s here, she’s breathing, and she’s in good hands.”

  Jack took a long, painful breath, then sank down in the chair. “I’ll get whoever did this to her. That’s a promise.”

  “We both will.”

  Jack took Taylor’s hand carefully in his. “I still don’t see why. There was never any sign that they wanted to kill her.”

  “Maybe they wanted to incapacitate her so they could get her outside without a fuss,
but things got out of hand.”

  “Disorganized crime,” Jack said gravely.

  “Something like that.”

  On the bed, Taylor made a sudden movement, one hand twitching violently. Jack reached across the bed and gathered her rigid fingers gently against his palm until the tremor stopped.

  “What if she doesn’t come around?” His voice was a whisper. “What if it stops here, just like this? What the hell am I going to do?”

  The machines kept beeping. Noises continued to drift in from the corridor, the raw evidence of life and death surging on around them.

  After a long time Izzy cleared his throat. “Hell, the woman is too stubborn not to have the last word. She’ll be ordering us around within the hour, trust me.” He stood by the bed for a moment, then patted Taylor’s hand. “Take your time. I’ll be right outside.”

  Jack heard the footsteps cross the room, but he didn’t look up. It was too hard to move. There was an emptiness around him, a cold stillness that felt as if it was about to crush him.

  He shut his eyes, craving the light and movement and laughter that might never come again. There was a burning in his throat as he squeezed her hand and felt no response.

  Then he sat up straighter and began to talk. In a low, calm voice, he told her exactly what had happened and how she’d come to be here and what a fool he’d been to let her go to the damned event. His voice turned raw halfway through, but he went on talking.

  A nurse might have come in at some point, but Jack kept talking and she left again. He talked until he’d said everything about the night, everything about how Taylor should open her eyes and start talking or he was going to get angry.

  He said everything, in fact, but what mattered most.

  Which was that he didn’t want to think about living if she wasn’t around to irritate him, confuse him, and make his life hell.

  “Can you hear me, Taylor? Can you hear any of this?”

  There was no answer.

  He sat beside her, watching for any movement, any hint of response. When none came, he closed his eyes, feeling as if some part of him was dying.