Likely Suspects

by G. K. Parks

  Pressing my body against the wall, I turned the doorknob and crossed to the other side of the doorway before nudging it open with my foot. My gun was leveled in front of me. As I entered, I came face to face with the business end of a shotgun. Martin and I were frozen momentarily, guns raised, as the realization dawned on us.

  “Thank god.” He sighed, lowering the shotgun as I lowered my handgun. “I heard all those shots.”

  Checking the room, I wondered what caused the noise I heard. “I got one of them, and I have one tied up downstairs. But I don’t know if he’s still there.” I approached the window, intent on looking to see if reinforcements were preparing to storm the castle. Where the hell were the cops? “There could be more, I heard–”

  Something threw me full force into the wall. My head swam for a minute, and I blinked away the blackness that crept into my vision. My gun was already out and aimed at a third mercenary, who was firing into the office from the hallway.

  I knocked the desk over in one quick move to provide cover. Had I been shot? Where was Martin? I returned fire and looked around. The mercenary had taken refuge in an alcove.

  “Oh my god.” The words escaped my lips without my permission.

  Martin lay on the ground, and blood soaked through his shirt alarmingly fast. I shoved the sideways desk over to provide as much cover for him as possible. More shots were fired into the room, and I ducked my head as they whizzed past. I had no vantage point.

  The blood pumped out of his body with every beat of his heart. My only desire was to help him, to try to stop the bleeding. But right now, I had to prioritize. If I didn’t take down this mercenary, we’d both be dead in a matter of minutes. I saw the shotgun laying discarded on the floor just beyond the desk.

  “Hang on,” I told the unconscious Martin as I crawled over him toward the edge of the desk.

  Rolling from my cover position, I picked up the shotgun and pressed myself against the wall, out of sight of the mercenary who was still firing at the desk. Edging toward the doorway, I waited for the burst of bullets to stop, and then I broke cover and fired both barrels. The shotgun bucked, but I held my position. The blast knocked the mercenary back, and I reloaded as quickly as possible, firing again.

  During his return fire, bullets hit my vest, and I landed on my back hard, knocking the wind from my lungs. I reached for my holstered handgun as I lay on the ground, unsure if the shots punctured my vest. The man emerged from the alcove and walked over to me. I gasped for air, and with each breath I took, my ribcage threatened to explode. He stood over me with his gun raised.

  “Nothing personal,” he said coldly, aiming his weapon.

  I lifted my head and without a moment’s hesitation brought my handgun up and fired. The bullet impacted between his eyes, and he went down. I lay back against the ground, unable to move.

  Get up, Parker, the voice in my head screamed. The pain was intense, almost unbearable, as I pulled the Velcro loose and got the vest off. Carefully, I felt around my chest and abdomen. No blood. I forced myself into a seated position. Despite having the vest on, it felt like I had been hit by a speeding car. Even the smallest movement sent shooting, agonizing pain throughout my body. My breathing was ragged, but at least my lungs were semi-functional again. I crawled slowly back into the office. I had to get to Martin.

  “Martin.” I leaned over him, ripping at the Velcro straps, so I could assess the damage. “Martin.” I kept repeating his name, hoping he’d open his eyes.

  After getting his vest off, it was apparent he had been shot at an angle. The bullet didn’t go through the vest; it had gone underneath it and sliced diagonally from his shoulder toward his clavicle and downward. I didn’t see an exit wound.

  The point of entry was on his right side, just below the clavicle and shoulder joint. Blood poured out, and I feared the damage was too extensive. My first responder training was limited, but an artery or worse must have been hit. If he had any chance of surviving, I needed to slow the bleeding.

  I reached down and grabbed his belt buckle, undoing it as quickly as I could. “Martin… James. Open your eyes. Look at me, dammit!”

  I got his belt off and glanced around the room, searching for a shirt or towel, anything to press against the gaping hole to try to staunch the bleeding. There was a small pile of microfiber towels folded on the corner of another desk, likely meant for cleaning the electronic equipment and monitors. I grabbed the towels and folded one, pushing it against the wound. Then I looped his belt around it and tightened it as best I could to hold it in place.

  “Martin.” My hands were covered in his blood, and tears formed in my eyes. “Martin.” I grabbed another towel and placed it under his head. He grunted. “Open your eyes,” I pleaded. I saw the telltale green irises flash in front of me.

  “Alex?” He tried to move, but his eyes weren’t focusing.

  “Stay still. I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. Just stay awake.” My voice shook. I didn’t know what else to do.

  “Are you okay?” He sounded distant.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  There was gunfire in the distance, but I had no fight left. He tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

  “Good.” His eyes closed, and my palms pressed more urgently against the blood-soaked towel.

  I expected to be taken out by a bullet at any moment, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore as I stared at the lifeless James Martin.

  “Parker.” Someone called my name, and I looked up. O’Connell and two tactical support guys stood in the doorway.

  “Help,” I implored as they entered the room.

  O’Connell radioed for the paramedics. They must have been right outside because instantly they were up the stairs. The paramedics pushed me out of the way, and O’Connell grabbed my shoulders and hauled me to my feet. I didn’t think I could stand on my own, and he seemed to sense this because he lifted me into his arms and carried me from the room and down the steps.

  “You’re in shock,” O’Connell stated, attempting to calm me down. “You’ll be fine. Just relax.”

  I sat in the back of an ambulance while the paramedics assessed my bruises. But I couldn’t stop shaking as I stared at my hands, caked in Martin’s blood.

  “Looks like some bruised, maybe fractured ribs,” the EMT said, “but other than that, there are no other obvious injuries. She needs more extensive tests to rule out internal bleeding and soft tissue damage.” He shined a flashlight in my eyes and continued to check my pulse. “We should take her to the ER, just to be on the safe side.”

  “No,” my breathing was erratic, “I’m fine.” The EMT protested, but O’Connell waved him off.

  “Not yet,” he told the guy.

  “Martin?” I was afraid of the answer.

  “They’re getting him stabilized, so they can move him. We’ll do our best.” I swallowed uneasily. He sat next to me, picking up a blanket and wrapping it tightly around my body to minimize my trembling. “It looks like you had your hands full,” O’Connell commented, and I forced the lump down my throat as the gurney came down the stairs and out the front door.

  “I want to go with him.” I was determined not to leave Martin.

  “Okay.” O’Connell helped me into the ambulance. “Jerry, let’s get this show on the road,” he called to the EMT.

  Despite protocol, the EMT left me on one of the benches while O’Connell sat quietly beside me, and we followed Martin’s ambulance to the hospital.

  Thirty-five

  Through sheer willpower, I managed to stand up and walk out of the ambulance and down the hall, following the gurney to a trauma room in the ER. The nurses blocked my way, and I was left waiting in the hallway. O’Connell followed me and stood close enough so our shoulders touched.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” a nurse asked, and I wondered how long she had been there.

  “I’m fine.” I wanted to see what was going on in the trauma room. The door opened, and a
group of nurses, doctors, and whoever else whisked the gurney with Martin quickly down the hallway. I wanted to follow, but a woman emerged and approached us. “What’s going on?” I asked, watching as the group disappeared down the corridor. O’Connell flashed a badge, and the woman decided she could answer the question.

  “He’s going into surgery now. We won’t know how extensive the damage is until we get him opened up.” I swayed slightly but remained standing as she continued after them.

  “Ma’am, are you sure you’re okay?” The original nurse remained in front of me. I didn’t even notice she was still there. She examined my appearance, and I looked down. My hands and shirt were covered in Martin’s blood, and I felt nauseous.

  “It’s not my blood.” I swallowed.

  O’Connell looked from the nurse to me and made a decision. “Where can she get cleaned up?” he asked. The nurse led us to a restroom, and O’Connell thanked her. “Wash up. I’ll get you something else to wear, so stay here.”

  I was grateful to have someone tell me what to do since I was lost and swimming through a sea of numbness and confusion. Scrubbing my hands in the sink, I watched as the clear water turned bright red before it ran down the drain. So much blood. How could anyone survive that? I finished washing my hands and bent to splash some water on my face. My ribs protested, and I grabbed the sink to steel myself against the onslaught. There was a knock on the door, and O’Connell came in. He had a police t-shirt in his hands that he must have taken from one of the cruisers outside.

  “Here, let me help.” He gently peeled the blood-soaked shirt off my body and over my head. Three large blue and red colored welts covered my torso.

  Assessing them in the mirror, I reached out and gingerly touched one. “Shit,” I grunted, taking only shallow breaths to keep from aggravating my ribs further.

  He helped me dress and watched me carefully. “You need to get checked out.” He was prepared for my protest. “Martin’s in surgery. It’s going to take a while. The only thing you’ll be doing is sitting in the waiting room, so go get a CT or x-ray or whatever, and then you can sit in the waiting room.” I didn’t have any fight left, and I quietly agreed. Apparently, O’Connell had conspired with the nurse from earlier, who waited outside the restroom with a wheelchair. “Is there anyone I should call for Martin or for you?” he asked as the nurse wheeled me back to the ER.

  I didn’t know. Even though I spent weeks with this man, I didn’t know anything about his family or who to contact in an emergency. “Call Mark, or try to call Mark. He’s somewhere working, but he’d know who to contact.” My voice shook again. I really wasn’t stable.

  “I’ll be waiting for you, once you’re cleared,” he promised.

  Over the course of the next hour and a half, I was poked, prodded, and scanned. I refused all drugs; my mind was already jumbled enough. The doctors were insistent on keeping me for overnight observation, but I was adamantly opposed to their recommendation. Finally, after being released against medical advice, I made my way out of the room and into the hallway. O’Connell was outside, waiting as promised.

  “Any news?” I asked as he led the way to the waiting room.

  “Nothing so far. How are you holding up?”

  “A little worse for wear, but nothing that’ll kill me anytime soon.” It was a callous remark, but I didn’t care. We sat in a couple of chairs, far away from everyone else.

  “I’ve ordered a protection detail for you and Martin. Thompson brought in Denton, but until we’re certain he ordered the hit, I don’t want to take any more chances.” Neither did I. “You’re both safe here.”

  “Unless he doesn’t make it,” I numbly replied. I couldn’t do this anymore. All emotion was turned off for the time being.

  “We don’t have to do this now, but do you want to tell me what happened?”

  I shut my eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Do you have a tape recorder?” I asked. “Because I don’t think I can do this more than once.”

  He pulled out the device and turned it on, giving the relevant information, and then I told him everything that happened from the time we were swimming in the pool until I was carried down the stairs. The pool seemed so far away. It had only been a couple of hours, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Or maybe it was only a story I once heard.

  During my recitation, it dawned on me what happened in the office. Martin had thrown me into the wall. Once I was finished and the tape recorder was shut off, I turned to the side and buried my head in my hand. Martin had shoved me out of the way of the bullet. He was in surgery, possibly dying, because of me. Not only did I fail to do my job and stop things from escalating to this point, but he saved me from taking a bullet to the brain.

  “Parker?” O’Connell asked anxiously. He touched my shoulder, and I forced the guilt, the fear, and the tears away. No emotions, I reminded myself.

  “I’m okay,” I lied, not making eye contact. He sat quietly. No more questions needed to be asked right now. “I heard gunfire. How many were there in total?” I had to be practical.

  “The two you got and three more. One guy was in the vehicle, and another was outside the house. The third was unconscious in the living room, so I assume you took care of him too.” I nodded. “We’re trying to get one of them to talk. Two are currently in custody. The third didn’t quite make it.” Before I could comment, his radio went off. He answered, and the next thing I knew, Mark was escorted in by a couple of patrolmen.

  “Alex.” I rarely saw Mark move with such purpose. He hurried over, kneeling on the ground in front of me. “Are you okay? Where’s Martin?”

  O’Connell excused himself and went to speak to the patrolmen.

  “He’s in surgery. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” I didn’t have any answers.

  Mark got up and sat in the vacant chair. “Are you okay?” he asked again. I was about to say I was fine, but he knew me better than that. “You don’t always have to be fine, you know.” I let out a derisive snort as I tried to find a more comfortable position. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

  “Me, too.” I thought for a moment. “O’Connell wanted to know who to call for Martin. I figured you would know.”

  Mark looked sadly at me. “You’re here. I’m here. He’ll be okay. He’s too damn stubborn not to be.” He squeezed my hand.

  Over the next few hours, O’Connell and Mark took turns pacing the waiting room while I sat uncomfortably in the chair. The longer I remained still, the worse I felt as my muscles stiffened. My back ached from dragging the mercenary up the stairs, and my ribs fought to hold my attention with every breath I took. Some patrolman brought coffee and sodas, but I didn’t feel like anything. Finally, a surgeon came to speak to us.

  “James Martin’s family?” he asked. I was sure he knew we weren’t family, but he sat down and gave us an update anyway. “We’ve moved him to the ICU. He’s lost a lot of blood, but we’ve transfused him and removed the bullet. There is some muscle and nerve damage to his right arm. We won’t know the full extent until the swelling goes down, and we run more tests. He’s very lucky. The projectile didn’t hit any organs and only nicked one of his arteries which we’ve repaired.”

  “Thank god,” Mark exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “When can we see him?”

  “Once we move him into recovery. We need to monitor him for the next few hours to make sure there are no complications. In the meantime, you might want to head home or get something to eat.” The doctor looked at me, probably afraid I’d be next on his table. “I’ll send someone to get you when you can go up.”

  Once the doctor left, O’Connell returned. “Good news?” he asked.

  I nodded, and he smiled.

  “Want to get out of here for a bit?” Mark asked me, but I shook my head. “At least get something to eat, you look like you’re about to drop dead.”

  I glared at him for the bad choice of words. “I’m not hungry.”

  O’Connell and Mark exchanged glanc
es. Obviously, they thought I needed a constant babysitter.

  “I’ll get some burgers in case you change your mind,” Mark offered. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He stood and rubbed my shoulder gently, and O’Connell sat in the chair Mark vacated. Apparently, we were in the midst of playing a very twisted version of musical chairs.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I told O’Connell.

  “Probably not. But maybe a priest, a doctor, and a pharmacist,” he said. I lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe that’s the beginning of a bad joke.” He spoke just for the hell of it, and I sighed, regretting it immediately.

  “I’m going to share something with you, but you aren’t going to hold it against me. Okay?” He tentatively agreed. “I can’t move.” He seemed confused by my statement. I winced, and he understood.

  “Oh.” He got up and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, lifting me out of the chair. I felt like a ninety-year-old woman. Once I was standing, things didn’t seem as bad. Movement helped reduce the stiffness in my back, and pacing was always a great go-to for stress relief. “You should probably take some of those meds they prescribed,” he suggested, eyeing the bottles of muscle relaxants and prescription grade ibuprofen the medical staff thrust upon me during my escape from the exam room.

  “We’ll see how things go,” I replied.

  Mark returned with the sandwiches, and I nibbled on one. Relenting, I popped two ibuprofen, feeling a little more in control and less frazzled. The initial shock was wearing off. Martin was out of surgery, so the worry was ebbing away. The only thing left was the desire for revenge on whoever was responsible.

  Hours later, a nurse came downstairs to tell us Martin was moved to another room. O’Connell helped me out of the chair, and Mark scrutinized the exchange.

  “Go on up,” O’Connell said. “I’ll talk to the hospital staff and get the details on the room, so I can have some guys posted outside his door.”

  Mark and I followed the nurse to the elevator and down a corridor to his room. Despite the IVs and various other tubes running to and from his body, Martin looked a million times better than when I last saw him.