On her back, JJ punched and kicked wildly at the two men attacking her. A fist crashed into her face. A heavy shoe thudded into her side.
Taye got up onto one knee and, in a flurry of action, she swung both fists. She rained bruising but ineffectual blows onto the arms of her attacker. A savage blow knocked her back hard, slamming her head against the steel rib on the side‑wall of the van. Out cold, she slid to the floor. Blood quickly pooled.
Both men attacking JJ backed off. “Did you kill her?” one asked.
“I don’t know. Bitch tried to get up, so I had to knock her ass down.”
“Oh God!” JJ crawled across the van to Taye. “Taye! Taye! Taye!” she screamed.
Taye lay sprawled out on her back, the blood spreading wider. They’d been in the van for less than a minute.
The man who’d hit Taye shouted, “Pull over now!”
“Now? Here?”
“Yes now, you stupid fuck!”
The van jerked to a stop.
“Throw these bitches out!” the guy in charge yelled as he flung open the side door. He grabbed JJ and, violently twisting her arm, dragged her out of the van.
The other two picked up the unconscious Taye and half‑dropped, half‑tossed her into the gutter next to JJ. The van sped off. Hands shaking, JJ dialed for help.
“Nine‑one‑one, what is your emergency?”
“We’ve been jacked. Taye’s bleeding bad. She might be dead,” JJ cried into the phone, voice trembling.
“Where are you?” the female voice asked.
“We’re in the gutter on the fucking street!” JJ shrieked.
“What street are you on?”
“Hurry! We need a goddamned ambulance, here, now, you stupid cunt!”
“Yes, ma’am, what street are you on?” The officer talked in low, calm, direct words to counteract JJ’s near‑hysteria. “Ma’am, I need to know what street you’re on. Can you tell me the name of the street you’re on?”
“Walnut Street. Hurry the fuck up! Oh God, please hurry. My friend’s hurt bad.”
“Where on Walnut Street?”
“Um, um, across from the Lotus Nails.”
“An ambulance is on the way.”
JJ hung up, then clutched her friend and cried. “Please, Taye, don’t you die. Don’t you even think about it. You hear me? Don’t you die.”
The wail of sirens came from not too far away.
Eight: Chaos
“LIEUTENANT TORRES,” the man said, answering his phone.
“Hey, Lou, you better call the captain right now,” said the 911 duty officer, Sergeant Warnock, to his lieutenant. “This is big. It’s gonna be a bad one. Every line’s full. Calls are still coming in from two major gun battles. Nine units are arriving at the park, and four more are responding to a drive‑by street shooting three blocks south. My guess is they’re related.”
“Holy crap. What do we know?”
“Best I can tell, two gangs are trying to wipe each other out. Several people are shot, possibly dead at both locations.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“The Unit Commander is Lieutenant Murphy. She’s with the first responding cars at the park.”
“Civilians?”
“Don’t know yet.”
The lieutenant hung up and dialed.
“Hello, Captain Thomas speaking.”
“Hello, Captain, this is Lieutenant Torres . . .”
*
“No way. No. Absolutely not. Not another person. There’s no room!” The attending emergency room physician’s voice rose to near‑panic. “Every operating room is full. Every bay in the whole ER has a critical situation. Christ, people with gunshot wounds are out in the waiting room, lined up for help.”
“Doctor! Focus,” the charge nurse shot back. “You have to do something. Three more ambulances with GSWs are on the way.”
Another nurse stuck her head through the emergency room bay door. “Doctor, we’re losing this guy. We need you in here now.”
“You! Yes, you. Take this patient—”
“You a doctor?” a man interrupted, clamping his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. He pulled back his jacket, showing the gun tucked into his belt.
“Yes,” the doctor said, “and I don’t have time to mess with you.”
Leaning in close, face to face with him, the man said, “Yes, you do. That man”—he pointed at the one being frantically worked on—“he’s my dog. You don’t let him die. He dies, you die.”
“Get out of my ER with your shit. I can’t waste time with you and save your friend’s life. One or the other—I talk to you or I save him. It’s up to you.” The doctor stared into the man’s eyes.
“Fix my friend.”
“Good. Now get the hell out of my ER.”
Chaos reigned at the Centinela Hospital Emergency Room—the phones and radios exploded with calls for eight incoming gunshot wounds, or GSWs as they were called in the emergency room. At the same time, an ambulance brought in two badly beaten women.
The attending physician placed his hand on the charge nurse’s arm. “Three more GSWs?”
“Yes,” she replied.
Still clutching her arm he surveyed the ER. It mimicked a bad movie with blood, misery, and injured men filling every bed. He no longer noticed the tang of antiseptic laced with the heavy, meaty odors of blood, plasma, and medicines.
In rapid succession, he let his focus dance from station to station.
“Clamp here . . .”
“Get a line . . .”
“He’s Bradying down . . .”
“Cut those clothes . . .”
“On my count . . .”
Each one is a managed crisis . . . everyone’s in place . . . we’re good here . . .
The attending doctor and charge nurse, both absorbed information for about fifteen seconds. “Anyone not been through triage?”
A man’s moaning stopped briefly, and a woman’s soft crying broke through.
“Dr. Sanghvi has assigned everyone.”
“Anyone critical not being seen?” he asked.
“No.”
“The GSWs?”
“All but two are in care and those two are non‑critical. They’re out in the waiting room.”
Outside the double‑wide doors, an ambulance’s backup beeper marginally filled the space the siren vacated moments before, while the emergency lights continued to flash a red‑and‑blue tattoo on the door’s windows.
The doctor dropped his hand from her arm. “You go with Dr. Sanghvi. I’ll take care of the next one.”
The ER was a smooth‑running machine compared to the craziness of the waiting room. The noise and visual bedlam was multiplied by the smell of blood and sweat pungent with pain, anger, and fear, mixed with stale coffee and antiseptic. Pure chaos!
Over at the reception counter, two harried receptionists fended off a dozen panicked family members. Similar to the counter in the TV show ER, it was all that separated the waiting room from the emergency room.
“Jerome, Jerome Henderson! Where the fuck is he?” shouted a woman at the front of the counter.
The man jostling to keep his spot next to her said in a firm, loud voice, “I don’t got no insurance. I need to know if my boy, Darius Wilson, is gonna make it. They said he was shot and brought here in an ambulance.”
A short, heavy‑set woman tried to push her way in between the man and woman.
“Hey!” someone shouted behind the man. “Fuck you, bitch. You ain’t crowding in front of me.”
Another woman off to the side leaned over and pulled on one receptionist’s wrist. “Is my fiancé here?”
The receptionist held up her free hand in front of the first woman to stop her from talking, then she slowly turned her head to level a dead‑eyed stare at the woman clutching her wrist. “Let go, now.”
“Is my fiancé here?” the woman repeated. “His nam
e is Robert Roberts.”
“Let go, now.”
The first woman grabbed the other woman’s arm. “Goddammit, Myisha, let her go. She won’t talk to nobody as long as you’re holding her like that. Now wait your damned turn.”
Just a few feet away, a teenaged boy tried to sidestep around the guard to the ER doors. The guard moved in front of him. “No you don’t,” he said. While they stared at each other, a woman tried to slip past. “You neither.” The guard grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back in front of him. “Both of you, go sit down.”
“Fuck that. I ain’t sitting down,” the teenager said, glaring at the security guard.
“It’s the smart thing to do,” the guard replied. “You’re not going in; I can’t let you. You can’t do no good in there. Do us all a favor: be smart and stop trying to push past me.”
The woman stepped between the two, “Come on, Bones, let’s go,” and put an arm on his shoulder, a hand on his chest to move him away from the guard.
Scared children with snotty noses and tear‑streaked faces wailed at their moms’ knees, while eighteen future gangsters between the ages of six and eleven lined either side of the waiting room—ten on one wall, eight on the other—glaring at each other. Yesterday, they played hoops together. Not today.
The two men with non‑life‑threatening gunshot wounds lay on gurneys in separate corners.
Tucked into one corner, BamBam, who’d been shot in the leg, came in, cuffed to a gurney. A cop stood close by, while another cop posted‑up inside the front doors and a third took a position next to the hospital security staff by the ER entrance.
In the other corner, G‑Baby, shot in the arm, relaxed on his gurney, eyes closed. A younger woman fussed over him.
The good news—nobody had died in the ER. Not yet, anyway.
Then bad news happened. A man, gut‑shot, showed up in his own car, pissed, strapped, hurting, and holding a blood‑soaked rag to his stomach.
He passed the cop at the front door and staggered into the waiting room. As he passed by, the cop responded to the gun handle sticking out of the man’s jacket pocket. He yanked out his own gun, aimed it at the man. “Freeze! Not another step!”
The man kept staggering toward the ER doors.
The other two cops drew their guns, shouting, “Freeze!” The man stopped. He looked up at the two officers pointing guns at him. He slowly raised his hands—but not very high.
“What the fuck?” His voice was low and pain‑filled. “I’m shot. I need a doctor.” He swayed on his feet for another few seconds, then sagged to his knees, and in what appeared to be slow motion, he folded over, pitching forward onto the floor. The cop standing by BamBam moved in, grabbed the gun out of his pocket.
“Get a doctor in here now!” another cop yelled at the receptionists.
Four more police swarmed in, trying to hold a lid on the wild scene.
Two male orderlies burst through the double doors with a gurney, and in a flash, things blew up to even worse.
Shonna, BamBam’s girlfriend, rushed through the entry doors just as the gut‑shot man fell on his face. Spotting BamBam, she ran over to where he rested and, hugging him during the confusion, slipped an old‑fashioned snub‑nosed .38 revolver into his free hand.
The cop returned to BamBam. “Ma’am, you need to step back.” She ignored him. “Ma’am, step back—now,” he ordered.
BamBam hid the .38 under a blanket.
“Huh, yeah, all right,” Shonna said, straightening and stepping back a half‑step.
“Step all the way back from this man. He’s a prisoner.”
“I know that, you moron.” And she stepped back another step. “Jeeze, brain‑dead po‑po. Go fuck yourself.”
While Shonna argued with the cop, D’andre walked through the front door of the waiting room.
“D’andre, you muthafucka!” BamBam yelled, and he pulled out the .38 revolver, fired one shot—BLAM!
He missed.
Officer Mitchell reacted first and faster than anyone thought was possible, putting three rounds into BamBam in less than a single heartbeat—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
BamBam’s gun dropped to the floor.
“Don’t!” Officer Mitchell commanded, his Glock aimed directly at Shonna when she came up with BamBam’s dropped gun. He stood to the side and slightly behind her.
After Officer Mitchell’s command, Shonna moved; like a slow‑motion movie scene, she brought up the .38 and spun toward D’andre, firing wide—BLAM!
She didn’t make it all the way around.
Officer Mitchell shot her with a perfect, police‑trained double tap, center mass—BLAM! BLAM!
She crumpled to her knees, sat back, then fell sideways to the floor, dying before anyone could reach her.
For a split second, everyone froze. In the quiet that commanded the room, gunpowder smoke mixed with the echoes of the shots.
Then pandemonium erupted.
“Don’t move! Freeze! Don’t move!” seven wild‑eyed police shouted, brandishing their guns.
Everyone ignored them—over half of the people in the room dove for the floor while others bodily covered their loved ones. Two women ran out the front entrance.
More cops came on the run.
*
With the reception counter the only thing between the waiting room and the ER, no wall deadened the noise; the shots were just as loud.
The first one rang out—BLAM!—and three quick shots immediately answered—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Silence followed for a couple of heartbeats while no one breathed. One word—“Don’t!”—a single shot—BLAM!—and a staccato double tap—BLAM! BLAM!—and then, silence.
“What the hell was that?” cried several of the ER staff.
The doctor in ER Bay One yelled, “Shit, they’re shooting out there!”
“Focus, people!” the nurse in Bay Three shouted. At the sound of the shots, everyone but the doctor looked up and stopped working.
“Jesus H. Christ! They’re bringing their war in here,” said an intern in Bay Four.
“People, stay with the patient,” the doctor in Bay Two said. “I need suction here . . .”
“All right, she’s stabilized for now,” said the doctor in Bay One. “This type of concussion always causes too much swelling in the brain. She’ll need her skull opened to relieve the pressure. Call Dr. Boyd. Tell her the patient’s on her way up to the operating room.”
The doctor in Bay Five checked the time on the large wall clock. “Time of death is 18:43. Unhook him, move him out. Make room for Charlie’s team. And someone find out what those shots were.” Not waiting for an answer, the doctor rushed to assist with another patient.
“Tom, take this guy down to the morgue,” an ER nurse told the orderly. “Don’t park him anywhere close to the ER or in the halls. Move fast. Go out the back way so nobody in the waiting room notices you leave. For God’s sake, keep him covered, no matter what. Don’t let anyone lift the sheet. All hell could break loose if the wrong person sees him.”
In less than fifteen seconds, the ER death count went from zero to three.
*
Upstairs in the scrub room for operating room C, a team prepared for surgery.
“What do we have?” Dr. Stephanie Boyd asked as she read Taye’s chart.
“Her name is Taye Harris.” The OR room nurse replied. “Female, eighteen years old. Dr. Tobias down in ER induced a coma. She came in the ambulance with a Miss Joyce Johnson, same age. Both women appear to be victims of a beating; they came in at the same time as the others from the shoot‑out causing all the chaos downstairs. The police listed her as a part of that insanity, but I don’t think so. This beating took some privacy. It’s not the sort of thing that happens when the shooting starts. When bullets start flying, people hit the floor, not each other.”
“Family consent?” the doctor asked.
“Yes. Her older
sister, Miss Nikky Harris, came in a couple minutes ago. She signed the releases.” The nurse shook her head. “One hell of a mess down there.”
“I heard someone was shot in the ER. That true?” the doctor asked.
“Yeah, a cop shot two people. Both died.”
“Well, let’s get scrubbed in. We have a young woman’s life to save.”
Nine: ER Coma
MICHELLE RAN UP to the receptionist at the information booth of Centinela Hospital. “I’m here to find Taye Harris,” she shouted. “She was brought into emergency.”
“Are you a family member?”
“No. I’m a longtime friend of the family.”
“What was the name again?”
“Taye Harris.”
“You’re not family, right?”
“I just said I’m a longtime friend.”
“Yes, you did. I’m sorry, it’s been so crazy here with the cops shooting people and everyone going mental. I’m a little scattered. Can you spell the name?”
“Taye Harris. Taye—T. A. Y. E. Harris—H. A. R. R. I. S. Taye Harris.”
“And your name?
“Michelle Angelique.”
“Yes, Miss Angelique. Sorry, but I have to ask: can I see some ID, please?”
“Oh good God! Yeah, here.” Michelle shoved her open wallet at the woman.
“Thank you. The police asked me to check everyone’s ID today,” the receptionist said as she entered the information on her keyboard.
“Where is my friend?” Michelle growled.
“She’s on her way to surgery. I think her sister’s already up in the surgery waiting room. Go to the nurse’s station on the fourth floor; they can tell you where it is. Take those elevators across the way,” the woman told Michelle’s back.
Michelle ran toward an already‑open elevator. “Hold the door!” she yelled.
On the fourth floor, Michelle followed the signs, running around the corner and down the hall to the waiting room. Before entering, she slowed herself down and more calmly than she felt, stepped through the door. She immediately made eye contact with Nikky.
Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin) Page 6
