Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  “Yeah, I’m hit. This is no good, man.”

  LaChaise jumped into the hallway, fully exposed, like in the cop and cowboy shows, and blew the entire thirty-shot magazine down the halls, playing it like a hose. Martin had gone to the elevators. He pushed the “down” button and the doors slid back: “Let’s go!”

  “One more,” LaChaise screamed. He poured another magazine down the hall, then skipped across the hallway and piled into the elevator and the doors closed and they started down.

  “Maybe somebody waiting,” LaChaise said. He shoved his last magazine into his rifle. The wells around his eyes were white, his nostrils wide as he gasped for breath: “How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough, but I ain’t gonna die from it,” Martin grunted. “Watch the doors,” LaChaise said, and they leveled their rifles at the opening elevator doors. Nobody.

  The lobby was deserted and they ran out toward the hall that would lead to the car.

  They’d been inside for little more than a minute.

  LUCAS SKIDDED TO a stop in the parking lot, on the opposite side of the building from the emergency room entrance. Del’s wife was screaming on the radio: “Del’s hurt, Del’s hurt . . . they’re going away, but Del’s hurt . . .”

  Lucas had everything on the street headed for the hospital, and Dispatch said more guys were running down from City Hall. They’d be there in a minute, in thirty seconds . . . He jammed the truck into park and got the shotgun off the seat and ran toward the lobby doors. As he ran up, he saw the elevators open, and LaChaise and Martin lurched out, Martin hobbling.

  They turned the other way, not seeing him, heading down a hall that would lead to the emergency room exit. He was behind them, sixty or eighty feet away, on the wrong side of the hospital. He pulled at the door and nearly fell down: locked.

  Without thinking, he backed up a step, pointed the shotgun at LaChaise’s back through the glass and fired. The glass exploded, and he pumped and fired through the hole, and pumped again, was aware that somebody was screaming, and then the glass panes ten feet to his left blew out and he could see the flash of a machine gun rolling toward him. He went down and automatically ducked his head, and the shattering glass ripped at his coat and pants.

  When the long play of the machine gun passed, he got to his knees and fired two more shots as quickly as he could, got no response and stood up.

  The hall opposite him was empty. There was a sudden, keen local silence, as though he had suddenly gone deaf. Then the sound of sirens faded in, and he stepped through the holes in the glass doors and ran across the lobby.

  He ducked behind the wall at the reception desk, and saw a woman with a bleeding face looking at him from the floor where she’d crawled for cover. He waited, listening, then hurried down the hall, ready to take someone at the corner . . .

  Another body, the security guard, breathing but blowing bubbles of blood. There was a double blood-trail, going out the door, one stopping five feet from the curb, the other going all the way to the curb. They had a car, but they were gone.

  A cop car skidded into the lot, and Lucas stepped out with his hands up, waved, groped for his radio and said, “They’re on the streets . . . look for the brown car, the big brown car. They’re not more than fifteen seconds out of the lot. They got machine guns, they’re hit . . .”

  A doctor was running down the hall toward him. He glanced at Lucas, then bent over the security guard and shouted back toward the emergency room: “We need a cart, get a goddamn cart.”

  Lucas said, “There’s another one by the reception desk.”

  The doctor screamed, “We need two carts . . .”

  As the cops broke out of the incoming car, Lucas turned and ran back to the lobby. The elevator doors were open, the floor a pool of crimson blood. There was only one puddle, he noticed, with two footprints in it. The other man hadn’t been hit yet, so he’d got him with the shotgun.

  He pushed two, rode up, and when the doors started to open, he yelled, “Davenport coming in.”

  He could hear a woman shouting, and he hurried around the corner toward Del’s room. Del was on the floor, with Franklin and Cheryl, both in hospital gowns, bent over him. A nurse was hurrying down the hall with a cart.

  “How bad?” Lucas yelled as he came up.

  “He’s not gonna be as pretty as he used to be,” Franklin said grimly.

  Lucas knelt beside Cheryl and Del looked up at him: a splinter of Formica, thin as a knife, and about the width of a pencil, was sticking through Del’s neck, inside the lines of his jaw. He looked at Lucas and shook his head, his eyes wobbling.

  Cheryl turned to the nurses and shouted, “Hurry,” and to Lucas, in a calmer voice, “It goes all the way through, up in the roof of his mouth.”

  “Jesus, let’s get him . . .”

  The nurses came up and Lucas picked Del up and laid him on the cart. “Down to the ER,” one of the nurses said. The other one pointed at Cheryl: “And you’ve got to lie back down, you can’t be up . . .” And at Franklin: “You too . . .” She pushed Cheryl toward the bed behind them.

  Franklin said, “You get them?”

  “They made it out, but we got guys coming in all over the place.”

  “Shit.”

  “I hit one of them and you guys hit one. We’ve got one blood trail going in and out of the elevator, and another one starting in the lobby.” Lucas started to tremble with the adrenaline.

  “Good,” Franklin said, and he began to shake as well. He looked down at the wreckage of the hallway, and said to Lucas, “You know what it was like in here?”

  “What?”

  “It was like one of those scenes in Star Wars where the Storm Troopers are shooting about a million shots at the good guys and never hit anything. I mean, more shit went up and down the hall . . .”

  Lucas looked at him, covered with plaster dust, and said, “You know, you might want to sit down.”

  Franklin rubbed his chest, looked at Cheryl, now flat on her back and deathly pale, and said, “Yeah, I might.”

  24

  MARTIN WAS RUNNING, staggering, turning the corner into the hall that would take him out past the emergency room, past the body on the floor, LaChaise a step behind, when the world blew up again, and a hail of glass and lead blew past them.

  LaChaise screamed, but Martin could sense him still moving, then another shot pounded past them and LaChaise turned and opened up with the machine gun and Martin went through the door out onto the sidewalk, half expecting to die there.

  But the car was waiting, idling peacefully. A woman was a half-block away, walking toward them carrying a bag. She stopped, suddenly, when she saw them, but Martin was already around the car; he threw the gun in the backseat and climbed inside. LaChaise piled in the passenger side and they rolled out of the lot, the passenger side door flopping open, then slamming as they slewed in a circle and headed south.

  “Hurt bad . . .” LaChaise moaned. “My fuckin’ legs . . .”

  “Fire alarm,” Martin said. He had one hand clamped over the wound in his leg, and he could feel the blood seeping between his fingers. “Sonsofbitches set off the fire alarm.”

  “How bad are you hit?” LaChaise asked, then moaned again as they bounced over a curb and around a corner. The streets were empty.

  “I’m bleeding heavy,” Martin said. “Christ . . . Hang on.”

  Martin was trying to turn into the side street that led to the garage. But he was moving too fast, and driving with one hand, and they hit a curb again, ran through a small bare tree, bounced off the parking strip and back into the street. LaChaise, groaning, reached over Martin’s head to the sun flap and pushed the button on the garage-door opener. Across the street, the door started up, and Martin horsed the car inside.

  Sandy Darling was there with the chain, her eyes wide as she moved behind the steel post, and Martin reached up and jabbed the garage-door opener again and the door started down.

  They had not been gone more than t
en minutes, and were now no more than a minute and a half out of the hospital. Martin pushed his door open and climbed out, leaving the rifle behind, clutching his thigh, trying to stop the flow of blood.

  LaChaise was out, got the padlock keys. “Hurt,” he said. “Get your first-aid shit . . . we’re hurt.”

  “What happened?” Sandy asked, as LaChaise popped open the padlock at her waist.

  “Fucked up,” LaChaise said. “They were waiting.”

  “Are they coming?”

  “Don’t know,” LaChaise said. “Let’s get upstairs . . .”

  THE TWO MEN pulled off their outer clothes in the living room. Martin’s leg looked like somebody had carved out a golf ball-sized chunk of meat with a dull hunting knife: the wound was circular, ragged, choked with blood and chopped flesh, with pieces of thread from his pants mixed in the gore. Sandy handed him a heavy gauze wound pad and said, “Clamp that over the hole . . . let me look at Dick.”

  All of LaChaise’s wounds were in the back of his legs, the back of his arms and the back of his head, and most were superficial cuts from glass. When he first took off his pants and shirt, he appeared to be shredded. But blood was actively flowing from only one wound, and when Sandy dabbed at the rest of him, she said, “I don’t think you’re too bad. Get to a hospital, and you won’t die.”

  “Kiss my ass,” LaChaise groaned. “Wipe it up or something.”

  “On the other hand,” she said, looking at the one wound that was bleeding, “you’ve got a bullet hole in the back of your arm.” She rolled his arm, and found a lump under the skin near the front. “And that’s the bullet, I think.”

  “Cut it out,” LaChaise said.

  “It’s pretty deep.”

  “I don’t give a fuck, cut it out.”

  “Dick, I’d just hurt you worse.”

  “All right, all right . . .”

  Martin stretched out on the floor and lay silent and motionless as she poured a glass of water over the wound, probed at it, shook her head and said, “All I can do is put some more pads over it and bind it up. You need a doctor. You’re going to get infected.”

  Martin’s stomach heaved and she realized he was laughing: hysterical, she thought. Then again, maybe he thought it was funny. “Infection’ll take a couple days. We ain’t got a couple days.” He looked at LaChaise. “We gotta keep moving, boy.”

  “I’m really fuckin’ hurtin’, man.”

  “They’ll wonder where we went, and sooner or later, they’ll kick their way in here. If we’re gonna do any more damage, we gotta move.” He looked at the windows. “Before light.”

  LaChaise groaned, but got to his hands and knees, looked sideways at Sandy and said, “Tape me up where you can.”

  “I don’t have that much tape.”

  “Well, get the worst ones,” he said. To Martin: “That fuckin’ shotgun. Somebody had a fuckin’ shotgun and he had me dead, but that first shot missed. That fuckin’ glass was like a hurricane . . . Second shot hit me in the vest.”

  Sandy said, “I’ll get a towel.”

  As she ran back to the bathroom LaChaise crawled across the floor to the bulletproof vest he’d taken off. A ragged pattern of pellet holes punctured the nylon back panel. “Probably shooting triple-ought,” he said. “Christ, if he’d been a little worse shot and a little high, I wouldn’t have a head.”

  Martin was on the phone, dialing.

  “Surgery, please . . . Thanks.” Then, after a moment, “This is Chief Davenport, is my wife Weather there?” He listened as LaChaise watched, then said, “No, that’s okay. Tell her to call when she gets done, okay?”

  “She’s not his fuckin’ wife,” LaChaise said, when Martin hung up. “Was she there?”

  “She’s scrubbing for surgery.”

  “That’s where we’re going, then,” LaChaise said. “That motherfucker Davenport set the whole thing up. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was him up in the hallway. Jesus, that was something . . .”

  SANDY CAME BACK from the bathroom, and overheard the last part of the conversation. “Where’re you going?”

  “Hospital where Davenport’s old lady works,” LaChaise said.

  “You gonna let me go?”

  “Something like that,” LaChaise said, and he grinned at her. Her heart lurched: they were going to kill her.

  “Turn over,” she said. She dabbed his back with the wet towel, cleaning him up as best she could, isolating the biggest cuts, pulling a few pieces of glass out of his back and legs. “I can’t patch the ones under your hair,” she said.

  “Just get the rest.”

  Martin had slid over to his travel bag, got a pair of camo jeans out, and pulled them on as he sat on the floor. “We wait an hour, and then we head out: if we go right straight across to Washington Avenue . . .”

  “Around that curve and down that ramp and across the bridge and the hospital’s right there,” LaChaise finished, remembering the recon.

  “Five minutes from here,” Martin said. He pulled on his boots and looked at Sandy. “You about done with him?”

  “About as much as I can do,” Sandy said.

  “We could use some coffee and eggs,” Martin said. He found the TV remote and clicked it on. An announcer was barking something into the screen, and he fumbled a minute to get the sound up. “. . . just a few minutes ago. They have been positively identified as . . .”

  “I better get the rifles, in case they show up,” LaChaise said. He stood carefully, groaned and started down the hall. “Coffee and eggs,” he said to Sandy. “Toast.”

  Sandy followed him down the hall and stepped into the kitchen. LaChaise went on, and she glanced back at Martin. He’d picked up his bow, but he was watching the television. Sandy stepped into the kitchen. She hadn’t done this because she suspected that the cops would kill anyone with LaChaise: but now she had no choice. She took the phone off the hook, punched in 911. When it was answered, she said, quietly, “Sandy Darling. They’re here.”

  She put the receiver down beside the phone, leaving the line open, and started banging around in the cupboard, looking for a frying pan. LaChaise came by a minute later, carrying an AR under his arm. He was pushing shells into a magazine as he walked, and he continued by into the living room. “Where’d you put your rifle?” he asked Martin.

  “Aw, shit, it’s probably on the floor in the backseat,” Martin said. “I just threw it . . .”

  He stopped, suddenly, at the sound: breaking glass down the stairs, then pounding feet. “They’re here,” Martin said. He pointed a pistol at the door, and LaChaise ran to the window and looked out. “Nothing on the street.”

  A man screamed through the door: “LaChaise, they know you’re here, they’re coming . . .” The screaming continued for a moment but they couldn’t make it out, and the feet pounded back down the stairs.

  “Aw, shit, aw, shit,” Martin yelled. “Down the back . . .”

  25

  STADIC WAS UP, dressed but still groggy—he was a hundred hours behind on his sleep, he thought—and thinking about breakfast cereal when he heard the screaming on the radio.

  He threw on a parka and gloves, grabbed his gun, and ran for his car. He was five minutes from downtown: he made it in four. The parking lot outside the medical center looked like a used car lot, cops coming in from everywhere in their own cars. Light racks lit up the snowstorm.

  He paused, looking at the chaos, then went on by, and took a turn down Eleventh. Yes: Lights shone down from Harp’s apartment. Damnit: He went around the block, got a shotgun out of the trunk and loaded it. If he could flush them, unsuspecting, he could finish it. Dispatch said both men were hurt.

  He decided to wait a few minutes: if they’d been shot, maybe the woman would be going out for medical supplies. He could take her at the door, and then go right on in. Otherwise, the place was a fort.

  A DOCTOR CAME down the hall to the phones and said, “Are you Davenport?”

  “Yeah.” Lucas was on the ph
one with Roux. He said, “Hang on,” and looked at the doctor.

  “We got a picture, you might want to look at it.”

  “OKAY. ” OUT THE window, he could see the media vehicles piling up down the street. Cameramen orbited the building, their lights like little suns illuminating the night. “Gotta go, they got an X-ray on Del,” he said to Roux.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said.

  Lucas followed the doctor back into the emergency room, where two other doctors were looking at an X-ray clipped to a lighted glass. Lucas could see the outline of the Formica where it pierced Del’s face.

  “He got lucky,” the doctor said, tapping the film. “It just penetrated into the base of the tongue. Didn’t quite make it through: we were afraid that it had penetrated the pal . . . the roof of the mouth, but it didn’t. It’s just sort of jammed in there. We’ll get it cleaned out.”

  “No damage?”

  “He’s gonna hurt like hell, but in a couple weeks, he’ll be fine. He’s gonna need a plastic guy on his neck, though. The thing looks nasty.”

  “How about his wife?”

  Cheryl had ripped some IV tubes loose when she’d crawled across to her husband, and had been bleeding. “That’s nothing,” the doctor said. “She’s fine.”

  “God bless,” Lucas said. “And Franklin?”

  “He’s okay.”

  TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES AFTER the firefight, Lucas was talking to a patrol captain, trying to figure out why they hadn’t found the car: “Christ, they were no more than thirty seconds ahead of you guys.”

  The captain was getting a little hot: “Look, a fuckin’ mouse couldn’t have gotten out of here on its hands and knees. We’re looking at every car parked in the loop, they must be in a parking garage, somewhere. We’ll get them . . .”

  Lucas was staring over his shoulder, his eyes defocused. He said, “Stay put,” and put his handset to his mouth and said, “I need a run on Daymon Harp. That’s first name D-A-Y-M-O-N, last name H-A-R-P. I need to know what he drives.”