by Glen Frost
Light dawned in the eyes of both nurses. The second, whose name was Jennifer according to the writing on her scrub top, offered to go and fetch the on-duty doctor.
"That won't be necessary, Jennifer," Padilla said reasonably. "No need to disturb the doc." He knew that the doctor would almost certainly be catching a cat nap. "An FBI medical team will be here momentarily. They'll take care of everything."
"I'm not sure..." Janie sounded dubious. "We have to get a physician's signature before transferring a patient out..."
The document required to do that was called a PCS, short for Physician Certification Statement, and explained in legalese the necessity behind having the patient moved. It was mainly used by private ambulance companies in order to collect money after the fact. Padilla's smile was genuine this time. He didn't need a PCS. He had something far better.
Reaching into his pocket, the SA removed a legal document and smoothed out the folds and creases on top of the nursing station counter. Then he handed it to Janie and Jennifer for their inspection. It was one hundred percent genuine, a unique court order that had been signed less than an hour ago by one of the few federal judges that held the necessary clearances to know of The Agency's existence, and the critical work that it performed in safeguarding the American public.
Both Janie and Jennifer scrutinized the document, up to and including the signature and seal at the bottom. Janie was familiar with this particular judge, because he had handled a number of high-profile cases over the past few years. They were forced to reluctantly conclude that the court order was probably legit.
"We'd better wake Dr. Glover anyway," Jennifer said doubtfully. "Just to be safe."
"Be my guest." Padilla left the document right where it was. He could hear the sound of military issue boots coming closer from further along the corridor, every step squeaking on the tile. "In the meantime, you'll forgive me if we prepare the patient for transport."
"I..."
Unwilling to prolong the conversation any further, the SA turned away from the desk and went to meet the tactical medical team. All six wore khaki jumpsuits with the American flag Velcroed to the right bicep. They were the standard mix: one emergency physician, two nurses, and three tactical paramedics. All had overseas combat experience in one of the two recent wars in the Middle East. The team was wheeling along a bright yellow cot, on which was stacked a small pile of med bags and a state of the art cardiac monitor.
"Dr. Hill," Padilla greeted the physician warmly. Sara Hill was a diminutive brunette who was more than capable of kicking the ass of most men, thanks to her passion for mixed martial arts training.
"Supervisory Agent Padilla." She nodded perfunctorily.
"Actually, Doctor, it's Special Agent Mura today," he whispered, offering her a sly grin. "I'm wearing my Bureau outfit."
"Duly noted." Was he mistaken, or was that an amused twinkle in the doc's eye? If it was, then it was gone in a flash, because Sara Hill was suddenly all business. "We're read the patient's medical records during the drive down. A little sedation should keep him calm and cooperative while we transport him. Has our ride arrived yet?"
"Sitting on the helipad as we speak."
"Excellent. Please show us to the patient's room, if you'd be so kind."
Piotr's room was almost completely dark, save for the screen that showed his cardiac rhythm, blood pressure reading (they were taken automatically on the quarter hour) and other vital signs. A breathing tube had been inserted into his mouth, fed by a mechanical ventilator at a rate of twelve breaths every minute. In order to keep him from gagging and bucking the tube, the Denver Health medical staff were keeping him sedated for the time being. Dr. Hill was pleasantly surprised; it meant that he'd be no trouble to handle during the transfer. She had a bag full of sedatives and other drugs that would ensure his compliance, but it was much less hassle for the hospital to have done it themselves.
She checked both of his pupils with a penlight. They were both constricted, which told her that his central nervous system was still under effective sedation, and probably would be for a while yet.
"Just what the hell is going on here?"
Sara turned to face the open doorway, where the figure of a woman stood with balled fists on her hips. She appeared to be angry, which meant that she was probably the attending physician. Just to be sure, Sara, said, "And you are?"
"Dr. Jennie Glover. This patient is my responsibility. Now, who the hell are you people?"
"Dr. Sara Hill." She extended a hand, which the other woman looked at disdainfully and refused to shake. "The patient is now my responsibility."
"By whose order?"
Sara sighed. "I take it you have read the court order that Supervisory...excuse me, Special Agent Mura gave to your nurses?"
"I have. And I've never seen anything like it, to be honest. What you're doing is most irregular."
Reaching into the back pocket of her scrubs, Sara pulled out an iPhone. It wasn't her personal phone (that never came along with her to work); it was registered to The Agency. Unlocking it with her thumb print, she opened up the contact for the hospital's senior medical director and handed the phone to Dr. Glover.
Surprisingly, considering the obscenely early hour of the morning, it was picked up after the third ring. Sara folded her arms and waited patiently while a very one-sided conversation took place. Finally, Dr. Glover said, "Yes, I understand," hung up, and handed the phone back to her.
"It seems that the transfer of care has been authorized at the highest levels," Dr. Glover said quietly.
Sara decided to cut her a break.
"It really is for the patient's own good. The next stop for this man, once he is healed, is witness protection." That was a lie, but it came easily to her lips. Like all good lies, it contained just enough of a kernel of true to make it believable. "Besides, this man is former Russian mob. You don't want them turning up at your hospital with guns, do you?"
Glover blanched. "You don't think..."
"I don't think that I would put anything past these people. That's why the FBI feels the need to get involved."
"Well, then I suppose I hadn't really considered that."
"Federal law enforcement has a medical program for criminals like Mr. Blinov. Once he's back on the road to health again, we'll put him into witness protection. But until then, the safest place for him is with us, in a more secure facility."
"That makes sense." Glover sounded somewhat more mollified. "Do I need to sign anything?"
Sara shook her head. "We'll take care of everything. Help us disconnect everything from him, and we'll hook him up to our equipment. His ride's waiting."
"You have a rig waiting in the ambulance bay?" Dr. Glover ripped the Velcro blood pressure cuff away from the unconscious Piotr's arm and set to work on moving him over to the FBI team's portable ventilator.
"No. It's on the helipad."
Ten minutes later, Piotr was being carefully loaded into a UH-60 Black Hawk. Denver Health's helipad sat directly above the ambulance bay. Directly below them, paramedics unloaded their own patients and wheeled the gurneys inside. Thankfully, the snow was beginning to ease off a little, and while some civilian pilots wouldn't have flown in weather like this, Agency pilots had no such compunctions. They were all former military, and trained to fly into the mouth of hell and back if that was what it took to complete the mission. A little snow was hardly going to make them think twice.
Once the patient was loaded and secured, the tactical medics set about hanging his IV drips from hooks in the roof. Sara Hill was the last one onto the bird. While its pilot started the engines and began to throttle them up with an ear-splitting whine, the doctor crouched in the doorway with one hand on the door handle.
"You'll take good care of this piece of shit?" Padilla asked, raising his voice to compete with the steadily-increasing engine noise. "I hate to say it, but there's a lot riding on his welfare. As long as he's alive, t
he revenant stays in play."
She leaned in close and bellowed into his ear, "This isn't our first rodeo, Juan, and I'm very familiar with how revenants are maintained. We'll keep Anya out of her master's clutches for as long as humanly possible."
With that, she slammed the sliding door closed and latched it from the inside. The rotors began to spin up. The SA backed away, ducking to avoid the low-hanging blade tips, which flared upward as they picked up speed. Padilla stood on the helipad, shading his eyes from the snow and watching as the Black Hawk rose straight up into the pre-dawn sky. Strobe lights flashing, the bird banked in a northeasterly direction and disappeared from sight.
Inside the passenger cabin, the crew chief had switched the red lighting to ordinary white: after all, it wasn't necessary for the team to preserve their night vision, and they would be able to keep a better eye on their patient.
The experienced medical team went about their business with quiet professionalism, trading vital signs and assessment results in hushed tones that were just loud enough to carry over the engine noise. Everybody knew their assigned task, and everybody jumped right to it...all except for the solitary figure sitting on one of the corner bench seats.
She was dressed in an olive drab flight suit and wore a flight helmet, but that was just in case one of the Denver Health employees had somehow gotten a peek inside the aircraft. The helmet wasn't required for safety purposes; if the bird went down, she had a better chance than any of the crew had of surviving it. After all, this passenger was already dead.
One day, Anya knew, she was going to have to pay the piper. It was inevitable. Her journey ended at one destination, and one destination only: Hell. But in the meantime, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just traded one soulless master for another. Her deal with The Devil had been postponed, but only because she had made a deal with an entirely different devil: The United States government.
A smile spread slowly across her face. As the Americans liked to say, there was many a slip 'tween a cup and a lip.
Uncle Sam was going to get far more than he had ever bargained for...
The End
