by Irene Hannon
Pulling out his BlackBerry, he jabbed in 911. As soon as the dispatcher answered, he gave her a rapid-fire download.
“This is Special Agent Mark Sanders with the FBI. I’m in Hardin Park in Oakdale, and I have an active shooter on the east perimeter in the woods. I’m not armed. I’ve taken cover behind an overturned bench, but I need backup as fast as you can get it here.”
“Is the shooter still firing?”
“Nothing since the first two shots.”
“Any casualties?”
In his automatic response to the gunshot, Mark had taken Emily down hard. On some instinctive level he’d tried to absorb the brunt of the fall, but he didn’t think he’d succeeded. Pressed close against her, he could feel her shuddering, and her breath was coming in shallow gasps. “My friend may need some assistance. Hang on.”
Taking one more sweeping survey of his surroundings, he shifted and spoke in her ear.
“Emily, are you okay?”
No response.
“Emily?”
Silence.
Scanning the deserted park and woods once more, Mark eased back as much as he dared. If the shooter was still out there, he would be waiting for an opportunity to take another shot. But in light of the approaching police sirens, Mark’s gut told him the man had already disappeared.
And he was certain it was a man. Most shooters of this type were.
Emily was curled into a ball on the asphalt, facing him. Her hair had come out of its elastic band to spill across her face, and with gentle fingers he brushed it aside. Her dazed eyes were open, and there was an abrasion on her cheek—a souvenir of her slide across the rough asphalt. But it was her pallor that alarmed him.
She blinked once, twice, and reached out a shaky hand toward his shirt.
“Blood.” The word came out in a weak whisper.
He looked down. She was right. The large, red stain on his gray T-shirt was blood.
But it wasn’t his.
His alarm escalating, Mark eased back another couple of inches and gave her a swift, comprehensive scan. She had a skinned knee, but that wouldn’t account for the blood on his shirt.
Setting the BlackBerry on the ground, he rolled her toward him to check behind her—and found the source of the blood.
As his breath hissed out between his teeth, he grabbed the phone.
“We do have a casualty. The woman I’m with has been hit.”
2
Nothing in Mark’s years of training and field experience prepared him for the panic that kicked in as he watched Emily bleed. He’d been in plenty of situations where people got hurt. He’d learned to steel himself against blood and terror. But he wasn’t used to feeling helpless. And he wasn’t used to having someone he cared about—or had once cared about—in the line of fire.
Punching the speaker button, he laid his BlackBerry beside him again and eased Emily onto her back, keeping his head low.
“How bad is it?” The dispatcher’s clipped voice came over the line.
He assessed the wound. It was on her left arm, halfway between her shoulder and elbow. The flow of blood was heavy and steady. Not good, but better than spurting from an artery.
“The bullet went all the way through her arm. I think it nicked a major vein.” He needed to stem the flow of blood. She was losing too much too fast, and they weren’t going anywhere for the next few minutes.
“I’ll alert the EMTs. You should be seeing some activity at the perimeter momentarily. There was a patrol car three minutes away.”
He took a quick look around as he stripped off his T-shirt, noting the flashing lights on the road bordering the park in the distance.
“I see the car. I also need you to contact Steve Preston at the St. Louis field office ASAP.” He recited Steve’s phone number.
“I copy that.”
Working in the restricted area behind the bench, Mark folded his T-shirt into a long strip and wrapped it around Emily’s arm, exerting as much steady pressure on the wound as his prone position allowed. It wasn’t his first choice for a dressing, but it was all he had.
When Emily drew a ragged breath, he touched her cheek.
The gesture was meant to comfort her, but instead it elevated his alarm. Her skin was cool and clammy. Her eyes, though open, were starting to glaze. And her breathing was becoming shallower. Classic signs of shock. She needed more help than he could provide.
“Hang in there, Em, okay?” He tucked her hair behind her ear, maintaining the pressure he was exerting on the wound with his other hand.
“W-what happened?”
“Someone decided to use us for target practice.”
“Are you hurt?”
She’s bleeding to death and she wants to know if I’m hurt.
He had to swallow past the lump in his throat before he could speak. “No.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to miss that cold drink with you.”
Her voice was fading.
“I have Officer Fisher from Oakdale on the line, Agent Sanders. He was first on the scene. I’m going to patch him in.” There were a few clicks as the dispatcher connected the call. “Go ahead, Officer Fisher.”
“Agent Sanders, I’m on the south side of the park, and I have you in sight. We’re securing the perimeter, focusing on the wooded area on the east end where you pinpointed the shooter.
Have there been any additional shots?”
“No. I suspect he’s long gone. And I need medical assistance.
Now!”
“Understood. We’re preparing to send in two paramedics. In the meantime, we’re sweeping the perimeter of the woods, and a chopper is on the way to do a thermal scan.”
As the man spoke, Mark heard the thlump-thlump-thlump of rotors in the distance. The rapid response meant the helicopter must have been close by on a training mission or doing aerial photography. One lucky break, at least.
But they could use a few more. Emily’s blood had soaked through his shirt, and the flow wasn’t showing any signs of abating. Mark’s gut clenched, and he drew a shaky breath. For a brief instant he considered praying. He was that desperate. But in his twelve years with the FBI, he’d seen too much. Somewhere in the blood and gore and man’s inhumanity to man, he’d lost touch with the loving, compassionate God of his youth. Yet he’d never needed divine intervention more than at this moment.
As the seconds crept by with agonizing slowness, Mark was tempted to ignore the lay-low advice he would give to anyone else in his situation, pick up Emily, and run toward the flashing lights in the distance. But he’d been too well trained to take that chance. If the shooter was still in the woods, a rash action like that could be a death sentence for both of them. He had to follow protocol, no matter what his heart was telling him to do.
“Mark?”
Emily’s voice was growing weaker as she began to drift in and out of consciousness. When he touched her cheek, her eyelids flickered open, and she turned her head toward him.
He was close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes.
Close enough to feel her breath on his lips. Close enough for memories of their brief summertime romance to flow back. And to make him wonder why they’d ever lost touch.
“I’m here, Em.” He hated being powerless. He was trained to take charge of situations like this, to be in control, to solve problems. The role of victim didn’t suit him. A slow anger began to build inside him. He would find whoever did this and— “Remember Wren Lake?”
Emily’s unexpected comment jolted him. During her six-week visit to her grandmother’s house two decades ago in his Tennessee hometown, Wren Lake had been “their” place. A quiet spot for swimming, picnicking—and kissing. They’d done quite a bit of the latter during the summer of his seventeenth year. Enough to give them both a first, tentative taste of physical intimacy. Mark hadn’t thought about Wren Lake in years, but the memory was sweet now that she’d reminded him.
“Of course.”
“Everyone
should have a Wren Lake,” she whispered.
She was drifting now. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she let out a long breath. Fear gripped him, and he pressed his fingers against the carotid artery in her neck. A steady pulse tapped out a rhythm against his skin, but it wasn’t as strong as he’d like.
“Agent Sanders, we’re coming in.”
A quick look confirmed that help was on the way, and a surge of relief shuddered through him. A police car was moving across the grass toward them, protective vests jury-rigged over the far windows. It stopped a few feet away, providing additional cover between the bench and the woods. Two EMTs exited, crouched low, and ran toward Mark and Emily. Two officers with automatic rifles took up positions behind each end of the car, their weapons trained on the woods.
The EMTs dropped down to flank Mark as he rose to a kneeling position. While one of them wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Emily’s good arm, the other snapped on a pair of latex gloves and reached toward the bloody T-shirt.
“I can take over now.”
Mark eased his hand off the makeshift dressing as the EMT slid his in.
“I think the bullet hit a vein. She’s been bleeding steadily for seven or eight minutes,” Mark told him.
“Pressure’s low. She’s shocky.” As the other technician spoke, he prepared to start an IV line, sparing Emily’s injured arm a quick look as he addressed his partner. “You’ll need a pressure bandage on that.”
For several minutes Mark watched them work—until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“The thermal scan indicated the woods are clear.”
Turning, Mark wasn’t surprised to find that Steve had already arrived. The lean, mid-fortyish agent might have a few flecks of silver in his dark hair, but he showed no signs of slowing down.
As supervisor of the reactive squad, he was known for his rapid-response mentality—and he expected no less from the agents who reported to him.
“You got here fast.” Mark gave Emily one more look and stood.
“I was at a meeting in Clayton.” He inclined his head toward Emily. “I understand she’s a friend?”
“Yeah.” Mark took a deep breath. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Not exactly the way I would have planned a reunion.”
More EMTs arrived, with a gurney in tow. Steve and Mark stepped aside to give them room to work.
“You need to get that taken care of.” Steve nodded to Mark’s forearm.
Frowning, Mark examined the expanse of skin that had been scraped raw from his slide on the asphalt. “Later.”
“Now.” Steve caught the attention of one of the EMTs standing by the gurney. “We’ll talk while he works on you.”
It wasn’t worth arguing about, Mark decided. He turned his attention to his St. Louis boss as the EMT began treating his arm. “I take it the shooter got away?”
“For now. The chopper’s going to hang around and do some aerial shots, though. The ERT and the county CSI unit are on the way. We’ll sort things out when they get here.”
It didn’t surprise Mark that Steve had called in the FBI’s Evidence Response Team. The St. Louis County Crime Scene Investigation unit was good, but when one of their own was involved, Steve would want to use FBI resources. Once everything was “sorted out,” Mark suspected the ERT would take over the crime scene.
“Is the perimeter secure?”
“The tape and barricades were being put up as I arrived.”
Mark winced as the EMT cleaned a particularly sensitive area.
“Sorry. You’ve got a lot of dirt in there,” the man apologized. “It’s okay.” He’d endured far worse. And he’d learned how to distance himself from physical pain.
“I called the Bureau and talked to your boss in Quantico. He wants to set up a conference call as soon as possible. And we need you to debrief the team. We’re going to have to decide how to coordinate this with local law enforcement.”
In general, a shooting like this would be handled by the local cops. When a federal officer was involved, however, the FBI would play an integral role in the investigation. Mark assumed they’d consider it a joint investigation with the Oakdale PD, at least until they got a better handle on the target and motive.
In the meantime, his high-profile position and recent media exposure would mean serious involvement from the higher-ups back East.
As the EMT working on Mark’s arm taped a final strip of gauze in place, Mark’s roommate joined them. He tossed a T-shirt at Mark and shook his head. “And you thought St. Louis would be quieter than Quantico.”
Mark pulled the shirt over his head and scowled at Special Agent Nick Bradley. With his startling blue eyes, sandy hair, and lean, athletic build, he was the epitome of the all-American boy—and he’d taken plenty of ribbing for that at the academy, where he and Mark had been in the same new agent training class. When Nick had offered him a spare bedroom in his house for the duration of his St. Louis assignment, Mark had accepted without hesitation.
“They’re setting up a command center over there.” Steve indicated a cordoned-off area surrounded by emergency vehicles, shielded as much as possible from the media trucks already converging on the scene. “Let’s head over and get Quantico on the phone.”
“Give me a minute.”
Without waiting for a response, Mark turned toward Emily.
The EMTs had put her on the gurney and were preparing to transport.
“How is she?” He addressed his question to the closest technician. “The bleeding’s under control and she’s stable. But she lost a lot of blood.” The man took a look at Mark’s hands, withdrew a pack of sterile wipes from his kit, and held it out. “Some of it’s on you.”
For the first time, Mark noticed the burgundy stains on his skin. He took the pack and ripped it open, cleaning up as best he could. But it would take a thorough washing to remove the traces of Emily’s blood from his hands. And he had no idea how to wash away the taste of fear that lingered in his mouth.
“Is she conscious?”
“Barely.”
“Can I have thirty seconds?”
“No more.”
Moving beside her, Mark took her hand. She remained pale as death, and her tank top, pristine white half an hour ago, was soaked with blood on one side. Leaning close, he brushed the hair back from her forehead and spoke softly.
“Em?”
Her lashes fluttered, and she struggled to focus. “Mark?”
“Yeah. The EMTs are going to take you to the hospital now.
I’ll come by and see you later.”
“Give me a . . . rain check on that frappuccino, okay?” She tried to smile.
“You got it.”
The EMTs moved into place, and after an encouraging squeeze, Mark released her hand.
“You ready to try and find this guy?” Nick moved beside him as they watched Emily being wheeled away.
“Oh yeah.” Mark’s mouth settled into a grim line. “More than ready.”
The command center was teeming with activity when Mark and Nick ducked under the yellow police tape. Steve was already putting through the call to Quantico, and he placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Go ahead and pick up the other line, Mark. We’re both patched in.”
Mark took the phone from the communications specialist. A few seconds later, Les Coplin’s familiar, gruff voice came over the line. A one-time green beret and former HRT operator, he’d headed the Hostage Rescue Team for the past three years. His stocky build, close-cropped gray hair, and square jaw—plus his tenacious determination—had earned him the nickname Bulldog.
“You there, Mark?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Steve’s filled me in on the basics. What’s your take on this?”
The man’s clipped, cut-to-the-chase attitude reminded Mark that while he might be a victim in this incident, he was also expected to provide a professional assessment.
Shifting gears, he considered Les’s question. His initial theory ha
d been that the shooting was random, perpetrated by some nut who’d decided he’d had enough and wasn’t going to take it anymore. Someone who wanted to send a message to the world.
But that didn’t fit, Mark realized. Shooters who wanted to attract attention tended to seek crowded, very visible places to make their statement. Places where they could inflict the most amount of damage in the least amount of time. And in general they expected to be caught—or to take their own life rather than surrender.
Today’s shooter had chosen an isolated park on a quiet Saturday morning. Only two people had been in range when he’d opened fire. His aim had been sound. And he’d made a fast getaway.
That led to a very disturbing conclusion.
“I don’t think this was a random shooting,” Mark said slowly.
“Explain.”
When Mark provided his rationale, there was a moment of silence on the line before Les spoke. “Steve, what’s your take?”
“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions without some preliminary findings from the crime scene investigation. But I think Mark’s reasoning is sound.”
“So do I. We could be dealing with a sniper who has a very specific target. I’m going to brief the CIRG team as soon as I hang up.”
Again, Mark wasn’t surprised. The HRT was part of the FBI’s larger Critical Incident Response Group, which was charged with crisis management in large-scale, volatile situations. Some of the group’s resources would be tapped to assist with this investigation because of Mark’s involvement.
The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. Mark pictured Les squinting, as he often did in tense situations, his ever-present unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Until we get a better handle on this, I want security on Mark 24/7. I’ll send Coop out there to assist.”
Cringing, Mark imagined his teammate’s reaction to bodyguard duty. They’d worked a few dignitary protection details together through the years, and those had been among Coop’s least-favorite assignments. “I think we can handle this with existing manpower.”
“The decision’s not open to debate. You and Coop have worked together for four years. He knows you—and your habits—better than anyone. He’ll be there this afternoon.”
