by Laura Acton
Oleg, a towering, bulky guard glanced at his buddies, and spoke Russian, “Maks is all mine. I’m gonna crack his puny skull open.” He popped his knuckles then slipped his fingers into iron knuckles and fisted his hands as he took a step forward.
Though his throat was on fire, Dan made a valiant effort to project confidence into his words but his voice came out squeaky, “You can try.”
“Maks squeaks like a frightened mouse,” Stepan snickered.
“Look, he’s so afraid he is sweating bullets,” Rodya mocked as he stepped closer with his comrades wanting to amuse themselves with their mouse.
Attempting to stall for time, hoping all Ripsaw’s tutoring would assist him, trusting the guys to aid him as soon as possible … not proud of wanting help, but recognizing his condition put him at a significant disadvantage, Dan bragged, “Taken on six at a time and they were all bigger than you puny assholes. Try, if you want to die.”
“Liar!” Oleg snorted and clenched his fists.
As Oleg stepped forward, Dan kicked the man’s knee with lightning speed. Cracking bones sounded, followed by agonizing screams as Oleg’s knee bent in the wrong direction. Oleg collapsed to the ground withering in pain.
Stepan and Rodya gaped at their shrieking friend. The next moment Oleg fell silent as a bullet sliced through his head, ending his life.
Dan glanced beyond the two stunned men and glimpsed a man garbed in traditional Arabic dress. He recognized him as one of Al Sattar’s men. He didn’t have time to ponder his appearance or why the man shot Oleg as the other two recovered from their stupor.
Rodya and Stepan, hulking guards in their own right, moved on him. Ducking Stepan’s swing, Dan’s lethargic body responded too slow to dodge Rodya’s fist. The blow clipped his jaw, sending him staggering into Stepan.
Grabbing hold, Stepan wrenched Maks’ arms behind him. Rodya slammed his fists into Maks’ stomach four times as their mouse struggled mightily to escape the grasp.
Sweat dripped into Dan’s eyes blinding and stinging him as he attempted to blink his vision clear.
Rodya grinned and pulled back, intending to smash Maks’ face. He would knock the mouse into next week and haul his unconscious body to Savelievich for a handsome reward.
His sight clearing, Dan saw Rodya preparing to launch another fist. This one aimed at his head. Dan realized the strike would be disabling and he couldn’t allow him to connect. Though reeling in pain, Dan lifted both feet. His shoulders and arms painfully bore the full weight of his body. Before either guard registered his move, Dan kicked out at Rodya with every ounce of strength he could muster. His Salvatore Ferragamo shoes slammed squarely into Rodya’s chest.
The thrust sent Rodya flying backwards, and he landed on his ass. Pissed off, Rodya started to rise to seek payback. He never made it as a slug struck him between the eyes and sent him to his maker.
Dan blinked as a second guard died. The trajectory indicated Fakhir’s man had fired again. Why the hell is the Arab killing them?
Fighting the grasp of Stepan, endeavoring to wrench himself free. Dan became ticked off as the guard managed to maintain his hold and dragged him towards a room. As they backed up, his throbbing head and growing lack of coordination impeded his efforts to free himself.
Having stopped the invasion into the stairwell, Panin’s men realized they faced a death sentence advancing upstairs, causing the last few to turn tail and ran, Blaze refocused on Blondie. He noted two dead. He had heard one screaming and the Russian words but had no clue what any of them meant.
Blaze aimed but didn’t have a clear shot, and he refused to risk hitting the kid. Rising, he took one step into the hall when a bullet whizzed by his head too close for comfort. He ducked and attempted to locate the shooter, judging the shot came from the left room. Blaze found a robe-clad man with a weapon trained in his direction but didn’t have the right angle to eliminate him. Blondie’s shout drew his attention.
“I am not going to be taken captive again!” Dan roared. Using fury to his advantage, channeling everything into action, he swung his feet out to the sides and behind him, locking his ankles together around Stepan’s legs.
Taken by surprise, Stepan lost his balance and crashed to the floor pulling Maks with him.
Using the opportunity he created, Dan pivoted and squirmed, striving for freedom. He wrenched one hand loose and lurched at the same time. The two twisted back and forth wrestling for dominance. Stepan put him in a chokehold, but Dan rotated his torso, freeing himself. He rolled away and came up in a fighting stance.
“Move, Blondie. Give me a shot,” Blaze shouted.
Dan wanted to comply, but his body didn’t cooperate. As he faltered, his legs beginning to give way, Stepan lunged at him. They ended up on the ground again. This time Dan put Stepan in a side headlock and trapped his arm. Using all the strength he possessed, he applied pressure on the carotid artery until Stepan went limp then he snapped the bastard’s neck.
His voice raspy due to his burning throat, Dan growled, “I’m not going to be captured ever again.” He pushed Stepan’s dead body off to the side. Dan’s eyes locked with Blaze’s as he struggled to regain his feet. He took three steps on rubbery, tingling legs, stumbling to the stairwell door.
Blaze checked for the Arab and noted he was gone. He rushed to Blondie and caught him before the kid toppled over. “Proud of you, son. Damn proud.” Blaze slung Blondie’s arm over his shoulder.
Resisting Blaze’s efforts, Dan halted and turned back to the room looking for Fakhir’s guard. A wave of pain overtook him and his eyes closed.
“Got you. We need to move now.” Blaze tightened his hold and endeavored to guide Blondie’s sagging form toward the stairs.
Breathing through the agony, Dan opened his eyes and looked for the man again. To his surprise, he appeared in the entryway holding a pistol. “Blaze, behind.”
Swiftly pivoting, shielding Blondie with his own body Blaze raised his weapon but didn’t fire as the strangest thing happened.
Dan was unsure if he could believe his eyes.
Jaasir Al Sami lowered his gun as he stared at the blond man. He had witnessed a worthy and honorable battle. Although a proud servant of Emir Sheikh Umar bin Farid Al Sattar, acting as guard to the Emir’s fifth and youngest son, Sheikh Fakhir, he did not condone Fakhir’s lifestyle or actions.
The man before him may have killed Fakhir, and he may be honor-bound to kill him in return, but Jaasir felt only relief that two young, innocent girls had been rescued from a horrible fate and Fakhir could no longer bring dishonor to the royal house of Al Sattar.
Jaasir bowed to the two men, and as he straightened, he said, “.الله يبارك ويطيل حياتك” He turned and strode away to finish his assigned task.
Blaze gaped as the man left and he translated Arabic in his head.
“What did he say?” Dan asked knowing Blaze spoke some Arabic.
Taking most of Blondie’s weight and moving them toward the stairwell, he answered, “May God bless and prolong your life.”
Seized by another cramping pain, Dan clung to Blaze. “Not sure God wants me to live. The general will be pleased if this is my last mission.”
Holding tight, Blaze said, “I want you to and so do your brothers. We are all leaving here alive, and you’re going to remain that way.”
Dan caught Blaze’s hazel eyes, noting the determination. “Is that an order?”
His expression deadly serious, Blaze stated, “Yes, a direct order, son.”
Cherry Club – Stairwell
Blaze pulled Blondie into the stairwell, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t bother to ask how the kid was doing, the toxin’s effects evident to the naked eye. Recognizing Blondie needed a moment to catch his breath, as did everyone else, he said, “Damn glad you practice so often with Ripsaw.”
“Yeah, me too. Saved my ass.” Dan’s hand went to his burning stomach. All he wanted to do was curl up and pass out, but he couldn’t yet
.
Helping Ripsaw to sit up and giving his leg a cursory check, Blaze related the move he witnessed Blondie execute.
Ripsaw peered up at Blondie taking in the sweat-drenched blond locks plastered to his to his head, bloody nose, face etched with pain, shaky hands. One word summed up his appearance … shit.
How Blondie executed that move in his condition, Ripsaw was uncertain. He smiled, brought his palms together, bowed his head, and quipped in his best fake Chinese accent, “Grasshopper becomes the master.”
Leaning against the wall for support, Dan couldn’t help the half-chuckle despite the unrelenting pain. “You’re still master. They would’ve never landed a punch on you.” His eyes slipped to the girls as Mason lifted them once more. He swiped the blood from under his nose, a pointless action as more dribbled out. “I need a weapon.”
Winds, who had gone to the first floor to recon and resupply their ammo from the dead men, grabbed a Heckler & Koch USP, off a corpse and checked the magazine before taking the steps two at a time to the top. “Brought you a present. A sweet USP with thirteen rounds.”
Handing it to Blondie, Winds eyed him critically. The kid appeared to be fading fast and needed Patch posthaste. Shifting his eyes to Blaze, they shared a look as he reported, “Appears we have a clear path. No guards lurking.”
Damned proud of Blondie but aware the kid was running on fumes, Blaze said, “Winds, Mason switch places. Ripsaw, help Blondie cover the rear.”
Dan took four steps before doubling over, his legs giving out again.
“I got ya, kid.” Blaze caught Blondie before he dropped to his knees.
Dan tried to wrench out of Blaze’s grip, but he held tight. “Let go. I can walk.” Frustrated at appearing weak, he flashed angry eyes at his CO.
After four months of rehab, Blaze understood more about Blondie’s drive and determination … and his insecurities. The rooftop conversation played in his head again, and he recognized Blondie needed to do this, he must walk out of the club not be carried. He would not fail Blondie now when he had the chance to help restore the kid’s self-worth.
“Let’s finish this together.” Blaze turned his gaze to Mason, Winds, and Ripsaw. “Blondie is overwatch. He and I will take point. Mason next and then Winds. Ripsaw, you cover our six.”
“I’ll cover the rear.” Dan started to pull away again, hating being molly-coddled.
His voice stern, Blaze said, “What is your position in this unit, soldier?”
Dan stopped and stared at Blaze. “Overwatch and point.”
“Exactly. Now, I need you on point because you’re the best-damned shooter among us and these innocent girls are relying on you to get them out of this hell hole.” Blaze didn’t give his shocked sniper an opportunity to object again as he slung Blondie’s right arm over his shoulder, wrapped his left arm around his waist, and started down the steps. Blaze half dragged Blondie along with him, but Blondie was walking instead of being carried, and that is what the kid needed at this moment.
Cherry Club – Kitchen
They made it into the kitchen without encountering any opposition, for which Blaze was grateful. He released Blondie, leaning him against a table as he went to the back door. “Thumper, we’re coming out. Is everything clear?”
Noting the pitch of blaring sirens, Brody unmuted his com-link. “Clear but hurry, the cops will be here any moment.”
After pushing open the door for Mason, Blaze pivoted to retrieve and assist Blondie.
Dan pushed away from the table and stood on unsteady legs as he declared, “I can make it on my own from here.”
A grin broke out on Blaze’s face. “I know you can. Let’s go.”
Hope, Faith, and Divine Intervention
38
May 29
Hope Clinic
Patch glanced up at the metal signage on the red brick wall, Поликлиника Надежда, as they approached their destination. “What does that say?”
A slight grin came to Mike. “Hope Clinic.”
“Well, I hope this little clinic stocks everything we need.” Patch scanned the deserted street as Mike pulled out his tools.
Mike knelt by the front door since the building didn’t possess a back entry. Somewhat exposed, he worked quickly at picking the lock. “It should. The sign on the door indicates this is an outpatient surgical center and urgent care facility. We should have one-stop shopping.”
“Wow of all the luck. But Blondie’s gonna need more than luck. He needs a damned miracle. The combo of diquat and tetrodotoxin …” The light snick of a lock disengaging caused Patch to trail off.
Standing, Mike gripped his gun as he put another hand on the doorknob. “We’ll probably encounter fewer problems sneaking in at this time of the morning. Though, I suspect there is a night watchman or two with all the drugs inside, so keep your head on a swivel.”
Patch nodded. “If we can, non-lethal.” He slipped inside after Mike and followed him through what appeared to be a reception area, waiting room, and triage area to a broad corridor. Dim yellowish lights provided enough illumination to make their way without using flashlights.
Coming to another locked door, Mike retrieved his lock picking tool again. “Sign says this is the recovery room. Should be a path into a supply room and narcotics storage through here.
Patch glanced at the signage and breathed a sigh of relief having someone with him who read Russian.
They stealthily moved across the spacious six bay room. Spying some of the requisite supplies, Patch whispered, “Hold.” He moved to one bay and unzipped his pack. He snatched a box of medium-sized disposable gloves, anti-bacterial hand soap, liquid hand sanitizer, several biohazard bags, sterile gauze, elastic cotton gauze, utility drapes, micropore tape, disposable waterproof pads, several towels, and two blankets.
As he turned to go, he bumped into one of the racks, and something started to fall. He reached out to catch the item not wanting the sound of it hitting the linoleum flooring to alert security. His eyes lit with disbelief as a finger pulse oximeter landed in his palm. He whispered to Mike, “I absolutely can use this. The paralytic nature of the chemicals will make monitoring his oxygen saturation critical.”
“A gift from God,” Mike said before he cracked open a swinging door to peer down a corridor. After reading signs hanging in both directions, he strode to the left. He stopped at another door and grinned as he picked the lock. “They’re offering a five-finger discount for one night only.”
Patch chuckled as he slipped into the darkened room and found the light switch. They had to risk turning on the lights to see well enough to gather the right items. “The most important thing we need is bentonite or Fuller’s Earth. If you can’t find those, check for activated charcoal. Also, need several bags of saline.” Then Patch listed off the antibiotics and ingredients necessary to test Blondie’s urine for the level of diquat.
He hoped for a minimal level because the kidney was the principal excretory pathway for diquat absorbed into the body. A high amount would result in renal damage. With diquat poisoning, proteinuria, hematuria, and pyuria might progress to renal failure. Patch prayed for the best, planned for the worst, and preferred Blondie was already in a hospital being treated by doctors.
The symptomology of both chemicals appeared similar. One alone might kill Blondie. Combined … well, his only hope of saving Blondie’s life hinged on two factors … ingestion of a minuscule dose and administration of an adsorbent. Blondie’s gastrointestinal tract must be decontaminated immediately with bentonite, Fuller’s Earth, or activated charcoal. The first two were more effective, but he was unsure if this clinic stocked them.
With no antidote, the only therapies left to him included maintaining Blondie’s airway, preventing dehydration, monitoring urinary output, and managing his pain. The reference gave the doses for morphine, but Blondie’s reaction to the drug nixed that option. He hoped Blondie’s specially formulated pain meds would work in the same manner an
d not cause additional harm.
Staring at bag upon bag of saline solutions, unsure which one Patch required, Mike called out, “Many choices on saline. Got bags with several different labels. Which ones do you want?”
Needing to monitor Blondie’s output closely to gauge if his kidneys were shutting down, Patch grabbed a urinal with measurement markings. At Mike’s words, he realized he hadn’t been specific enough. “Grab as much normal saline as you can. I also need a bunch of D5W or D5NS which has glucose in the solution which Blondie will need. Find Ringer’s lactate solution too, likely labeled D5LR.” Realizing Ripsaw might need a urinal, he took another.
“Got it.” Mike began stuffing bags of various saline mixtures into his backpack then continued searching for the other items Patch listed off. He blew out a breath as he found the bentonite. Next up the broad-spectrum antibiotic. His eyes searched. “You said ceftazidime, right?”
“Yep.” Patch split the list, giving Mike everything requiring knowledge of the language while he searched for surgical and other supplies he recognized by sight alone. He located sterile packages containing scalpels, forceps, hemostats, suture needles, and absorbable chromic gut suture thread. He appropriated antimicrobial surgical scrub brushes, laparotomy sponges, surgical masks, gloves, gowns, and sterile gauze bandages and pads in a variety of sizes.
Moving to another area, Patch glimpsed another gift from God as Mike would call it. He purloined a walking cast for Ripsaw. If the bullet damaged his bone, keeping his leg immobile would be important. Also, when they went through customs, Ripsaw could claim a broken leg, not a gunshot wound. He stuffed it into his pack and spied the IV kits. Worried the others might’ve suffered injuries, he took several of them.
He pulled more necessary items off the shelf, and the last thing he selected was a couple of Foley catheters. Blondie wouldn’t like the insertion, but after the incident which sent him catatonic, Patch realized Blondie would be humiliated if he wet himself. Satisfied he gathered all he might need to treat the men on the flight back to Kandahar, Patch moved to the door to await Mike.
