He turns around and grins. “I think you got him, Kid.”
I remember the rounds I aimed at his legs.
“You too, Cope,” Uncle D. adds, looking at the sniper.
“The truck anyway,” Cope replies as houses blend into a blur while my equally hazy mind realizes that Uncle D. and Cope never actually met as far as I’m concerned. Yet, they seem to be collaborating quite seamlessly after the former materialized out of thin air. Of course, it is at this point that my foggy memory allows me to recall that Granite had indicated that Uncle D. worked for him and—
“There’s our man!” Uncle D. shouts, pointing to our one o’clock.
Just ahead of us and to our right, less than two blocks from the Russian safehouse, I spot the shot-up F-150 that we assume Tupolev used to escape. The truck’s right front tire is up on the curb, smoke spewing from its engine. The driver, who looks like Tupolev from behind, is dragging himself toward the hedges lining the front lawn of a two-story blue house. His left ankle is all shot up, barely dangling from the end of his shin, presumably from that last volley I shot off before he vanished. And it appears that the rounds Cope fired as he was trying to drive away is what caused the truck to break down.
My tired brain ponders for a second at the cosmic coincidence that Cope and I, and now this damned Russian, are all missing our left foot.
The tires skid as Cope stops the SUV and Uncle D. leaps out while shouting, “Kid! On me!”
I muster the visceral fortitude to follow him, MP7SD in hand, working through the nearly-unbearable pain. I force my limbs into coordinated action, just as I learned to do during the darkest moments of my BUD/S training, when our instructors dished out more pain than a mob of crazy hajis while forcing us to execute a variety of tasks. It was the ultimate mind-over-matter exercise, flushing out those who couldn’t hack it.
More sirens echo in the distance, and I can almost see the distant glow of flashing blue and red lights. But I ignore it all as I follow CQB protocol and remain one step behind Uncle D. and slightly to his right, covering his flank. I leave the rear to Cope, whom I hear getting out of the truck.
We come up on the Russian, who’s leaving a trail of blood on the sidewalk and up the lawn of a house.
But as we’re almost on top of him, the man suddenly turns over clutching a pistol. It’s definitely Tupolev, and his ghostly face is contorted in what must be a combination of anger and pain.
I simply reacted as I was trained, tackling Uncle D. from behind, pushing him to the side just as Tupolev fires off a round.
Smacking me at the very top of my sternum.
No amount of training can offset this third blow. It shocks me down to my fucking bone marrow, and I collapse on the lawn trembling and pissing my pants.
Blurry figures, which I presume to be Uncle D. and Cope, lurch past me and converge on the Russian, who’s screaming stuff I can barely hear.
The bullet’s energy crushing the web of nerves of my upper torso is quickly muffling all sounds, clouding my senses, tunneling my vision, leaving me with just that narrowing and suddenly spinning view of the stars.
Plus, that wonderfully warm feeling running down my thighs.
I close my eyes to keep from getting nauseated as the world whirls around me, as images of Taliban compounds and nimble hajis fill my mind. Then I see those nimble Russians, their focused expressions as they scramble toward me with those damn AR-15s, leaping and hopping like a bunch of baboons on steroids.
Tires spin somewhere off to my left. The smell of burning rubber assaults my nostrils as I lay there scourged, in a daze, trying to catch my breath.
But I sense movement, feel her grunting under my weight as she carries me over her shoulders, as the rocky terrain blurs with the haze of the explosions and the pungent smell of battle. But the scene fades away, replaced by flashes from the Role 3. They now fill my mind, and for a moment I see that young man again sitting on a gurney smoking a Lucky Strike while regarding me with dark amusement. And he’s sitting next to Dix, who shakes his head at me.
That’s gotta hurt, Boss.
No shit, Kid. Even pissed your pants.
Pops? Dix? What are you guys doing here?
Watching you getting your ass kicked again, Kid.
Royally kicked, Boss.
But, guys, I’m really trying to—
Frogmen don’t try, Kid. We kick ass. Now, get your butt up and—
“Law?”
Their images wither away, superseded by blue and white flashing lights, and her voice.
But I can’t move, lying on my back on the cool grass, eyes fixated on the blanket of stars. My mind is on the verge of blacking out, and my lungs ache every time I fill them, the firmament slowly narrowing into a tunnel.
More vehicles race toward me, tires screeching to a halt, the smell of burnt rubber mixing with that of gunpowder. I hear shouts, hear shoes stomping on pavement as more cars arrive.
“Law!”
Her voice echoes somewhere in that background of sounds.
Slowly, her face looms in front of that tunneled view of the cosmos. Round brown eyes narrow under bushy eyebrows on a dark-honey face. Dark lips twist into a frown as she regards me with a mix of surprise and relief.
“LAW!” Mia Patel shouts a third time as she takes a knee by my side, her hands gripping my shoulders, giving me a firm shake.
Man, the woman is strong.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I want to ask her the same damn question. Last time I saw her she had taken a round in the shoulder and another one in the chest.
I also want to ask where Uncle D. and Cope—and the Russian ghost—are.
Did my beloved uncle actually leave me here after I took a bullet for him?
What the hell’s happening?
But the end of my tunnel is closing, shutting down fast, like a guillotine.
And there isn’t a damn thing I can do but surrender to its unbearable force.
Chapter 30
“We’re going to take good care of you, Law! You hear me?”
I hear her alright. I just can’t answer. The pain is choking me.
I also see her face hovering over me as white hospital walls, overhead lights, and people wearing scrubs blur into a tunnel.
“Law!”
I stare at those lips—those unforgettable lips that remind me of Qatar, of a beachside cabana, of the sound of waves breaking in the darkness. And also of the interior of the Role 3 while the worst pain I’ve ever felt raked my back and—
“LAWSON!”
Her face comes in and out of focus, before finally resolving into another twist of my filmic experience.
It’s Kate, but she can’t be here. She’s—
“Dammit! Look at me, Marine!”
I blink at this cosmic impossibility.
I’m not dreaming, right?
Is it really Kate?
My beautiful Kate?
Who dumped me.
“Lawson! Dammit! Look at me!”
So, it is her.
I’ll be damned. Of all the ERs in this corner of the world, I had to end up in hers. What are the odds of that happening in—
“Good,” she says. “Keep looking at me. Stay with me.”
I wanted to stay with you, Kate, but you broke it off.
But that’s not what she meant, did she?
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
“Can you hear me?”
I nod, then inhale deeply, blinking again. Swallowing, I manage a barely audible, “Yes.”
“Welcome back.”
“Good… to be back.”
“I see you’re still at it,” she says as I manage to lift my head, before she snaps her head toward the door and shouts, “Out! All of you!”
I catch a glimpse of Mia trying to get past the nurses and orderlies blocking the entrance to the ER.
But the effort is apparently too much too soon because the room decides to start spinning on me.
“Nurse!” Kate shouts. “Keep everyone out of here!”
And that’s the last thing I hear before everything goes dark again.
#
A strong shake makes me come around.
I open my eyes and see a face over me, blocking the bright overheads.
For a second I think it’s Kate again, but the hands gripping my shoulders and the strength behind them are all wrong.
“Snap out of it, dammit,” she hisses in my right ear, and I smell her tobacco breath.
I blink and focus on her round face and equally round eyes glaring down at me before her eyes shift to the door, which is closed.
“Mia?” I mumble.
“What the hell happened out there, Law?” she asks, still leaning down and speaking directly into my ear.
“Why are you… whispering?”
Mia looks back at the door, then, “Not supposed to be in here yet,” she confesses. “The ER doc… she’s one tough Lil’ bitch.”
I want to laugh, but I’m afraid my ribs won’t like it. Instead, I point at her chest and say, “I saw you… get shot… twice. Vest?”
“The shoulder was just a bee sting.” She smiles that smile of brownish teeth and pink gums. “And as far as the second bullet…” She pulls down her shirt and taps on the Kevlar. “Always while on duty.”
“Good girl,” I mumble.
“Not so for the Little Bees. They’re one floor up recovering from getting slugs removed. But they’ll be alright, and hopefully all the wiser.”
Relief sweeps over me at the knowledge that Beatriz and Rossi will be okay.
“What’s… going on out there?” I ask.
“I tell you what’s going on,” she says. “A whole world of shit is what’s going on out there.” And she proceeds to spend a minute telling me that because all of the shootings took place in Norfolk, the first to arrive at the scene were two cruisers from the Norfolk PD. However, since the place is also pretty much a Navy town, NCIS followed right behind them, as well as two Humvees packed with Master-at-Arms personnel. Then apparently, a heated discussion ensued over jurisdiction of the case between Norfolk PD detectives and NCIS, the latter represented by Mia. Norfolk PD claimed the shooting took place on their turf. NCIS claimed it was Navy personnel involved. Eventually, ASAC Roy Ledet worked it out with the Norfolk chief of police, and an agreement was apparently reached: NCIS would lead the investigation but share all findings with the Norfolk PD.
“He’s still out there working it out with—”
The door swings open, followed by, “Goddammit! How many times I gotta tell you to stay out of this room!”
We turn and stare at my favorite ER doctor dressed in blue scrubs. A stethoscope hangs from her little neck and a pissed off expression twists those lovely lips.
“Out! Now!” Kate stands there pointing at the open door.
“Alright. Alright,” Mia replies, before looking at me a final time with a wide-eyed stare.
And she’s gone.
My eyes land on Kate, and all I can think of saying is, “Hey… Guapa.”
It takes her a moment to settle down after the door closes, before she focuses her admonishing stare on me and says, “Don’t fucking guapa me, Mister. An inch higher and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
It looks like the round that Tupolev fired at me must have struck the edge of the armored vest, just below my neckline.
“Bad enough you risked your life in country and got blown up,” she continues. “But you have to keep doing this shit here? Seriously? When are you gonna grow up?”
“Great to see you too, Kate.”
“Goddammit,” she mumbles, exhaling heavily before stepping up to the side of the bed and sitting on the edge. She leans over me and gives me a hug, before sitting back up. Inhaling deeply through her nostrils, she parts her lips as she exhales heavily while shaking her head. Her breath washing over my face reminds of Qatar.
She then runs a hand through her hair, which is shorter than I remember. “Sorry. It’s a circus out there. What in the world are you into?”
I raise my shoulder an inch, noticing for the first time that I’m wearing one of those humiliating hospital gowns. “Too much… apparently.”
“Law,” she says. “Seriously. I think every law enforcement chief in the area is out there, local, state, and federal.”
“That sounds about right,” I reply, filling my lungs, my strength returning. “Better let them in and get this shit show over with.”
“Not until I’m finished with you,” she says, grabbing my right wrist with her left hand and turning it over to check my pulse.
“What’s with the purple rings,” she asks, pointing at the marks left by the handcuffs.
“You don’t want to know what—”
And that’s when I notice the engagement ring hugging her left ring finger. Big round diamond sparkling under the glaring overheads signaling that life, indeed, is moving on—and damn fast.
Warp Speed for you too, Ms. Parker.
And a warning for you, Mr. Pacheco.
I definitely better not take my foot off the gas again with Franky.
She sees me staring at it and slowly retrieves her hand as her whole demeanor softens. Then, in an almost apologetic tone, she says, “Law, it all happened very fast and—”
“No worries, Kate. It wasn’t meant to be, and I’m really happy for you. Really. I mean it.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and at her continued silence I add, “And I know he’s gotta be a great guy who’s going to make you very happy.”
She compresses her lips, takes my hand, and nods with enthusiasm. “He is. He really is. Works upstairs. In oncology. We met right after I rotated back.”
“Good. You deserve that,” I say before pointing at the IV on my left forearm. “So, Doctor Parker, what do you have me on?”
I get a smile. “Oh, just your average cocktail for someone who got shot three times in the chest.”
“Well, it’s working,” I say. The headache and dizziness are finally receding. Also, the stabbing in my ribcage has diminished, and with that, my mind starts to get back in gear. Kate helps me to sit up and uses her stethoscope to check my heart before grabbing a flashlight to check my eyes. But as I sit here, where an ambulance took me after peeling me off of the lawn less than two blocks away from the shooting—where Uncle D. and Cope abandoned me—I get the very strong feeling that the job is far from being done.
And that means I need to get going.
But where?
I don’t even know how to get to that underground compound in Oceana. It was too dark outside when we emerged from some tunnel aboard that Tahoe SUV.
And where are Uncle D. and Cope?
Why did they leave me there?
My only guess is that they needed to get that Russian into some secure place so they could interrogate him and extract the whereabouts of Sokolov. And do so before the posse of patrol cars and ambulances reached the scene.
After all, we’re not supposed to exist.
I ponder on that while she keeps doing her thing with medical efficiency.
“So, the headache and the dizziness are gone?”
“All gone.”
“Lawson,” she says, cupping my face and planting her face in front of me. “The truth. Don’t you lie to me.”
“Really. Good as new.”
“You’re impossible,” she says at my obvious lie, pushing my face away. “But it looks like you’ll live,” she adds, apparently resigning herself to the fact that I will do what I have to do—which is part of the reason she
broke it off in the first place.
She still pokes around for a few minutes before removing the IV and producing a bottle of Tylenol-Codeine. “Take one every twelve hours if needed for the pain.”
“Will do,” I say, setting the bottle aside on the bed. “Can I get out of here now?”
“Of course, but take it easy, or you’ll end up right back here.”
“Sure thing, Kate,” I say, getting off the bed and stretching. But she surprises me and gives me a long hug, even runs a hand through my hair.
“Take care of yourself, Law. Really,” she says, pushing away and avoiding my stare.
“You, too,” I tell her.
She then presses a button on the side of the bed, and a moment later the door swings open, releasing the people waiting to see me. And elbowing her way to the front of the line is little Franky Hope.
She’s in the same pair of blue jeans and sweatshirt as she rushes toward me while I’m still wearing just this humiliating gown. But she doesn’t care, hustling past Kate and latching onto me, pressing the side of her face against my chest.
I cringe when my bruised ribs protest the embrace. But even with the soreness—and with everything else that’s going on—all suddenly feels right with the world.
And as I hug her back, Kate just stares at me. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Her gaze conveys her thoughts, bringing back those words we exchanged what seems like a lifetime ago and a half world away.
You’re right, Law. I do like you, probably more than you like me.
Why would you say that? Did I do something to—
A girl can tell. I could almost feel her that night in Qatar. Like there were three of us in bed. Who is she?
She continues staring at me as Franky keeps the side of her face pressed against me.
So, now she knows.
Slowly, Kate lifts her chin a dash while giving me her best easy-knowing and parting smile before returning to her world while I hold mine tight.
But the feeling of bliss is broken a moment later, when Franky slaps my back with one of her tiny hands while whispering, “Damn you, Law. You promised me.”
Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 30