Minutes seem to drag as traffic roars by, the occasional tractor-trailer truck buffeting the Ford.
What’s taking her so long?
“Mr. Sanchez, you say you’re a special agent? With the US Army?”
“That’s right,” he says. “Hold on, I’ll show you my identification.”
He opens his leather wallet with the badge and identification, and she gives it a quick glance. Her eyes seem to darken, and she bites her lower lip.
“Well, I’ll be,” she says. “You sure are an agent, then. A special agent.”
Sanchez takes back his identification and says, “Yes, ma’am. And please…would you consider giving me an escort to Memorial Health?”
“I clocked you going at one hundred miles an hour, Mr. Sanchez. You think I could do better?”
His hands squeeze the steering wheel. “Ma’am, I—”
“That group in the Army,” she says. “Known as CIS or something, right?”
“United States Army Criminal Investigation Division,” he says, trying very hard not to lose his temper.
“Ah, that’s right,” she says, smiling. “I remember now. You see, my boy, Troy, he was an E-4 in the Army, in the 173rd Airborne, stationed over there in Italy. He had a nice Italian girlfriend, but she kept it on the down low, and when her Eye-tie family found out that their blond princess was dating an American black fellow, they freaked. Got the locals to arrest him for rape. And the Army was supposed to protect him…and you know what happened?”
Sanchez grits his teeth. “Ma’am, I’m quite sorry for what happened to your son, but—”
Her voice is louder. “That Army CID over there in Italy and the rest of the Army, they made the rape case go away, by forcing my Troy out of the Army. That’s what happened.”
“Ma’am, I—”
“You hold your ass right in place till I check you out.”
She turns around and goes back to her cruiser, the blue lights on the roof’s light bar still flashing. The officer seems to take her time getting back into the cruiser.
Shit, he thinks.
He’s done this before, back on the job in LA, showing a suspect or a driver or a pain-in-the-ass civilian who’s really in charge.
Now it’s this trooper’s turn.
Shit, he thinks again.
And…
All right. Suppose she checks through the GCIC system here, looking at his driver’s license status. Everything is fine—no outstanding warrants or violations, of course—but suppose Colonel Broderick up at Quantico…could he be so angry at his calls being ignored that he flagged his license?
Meaning that trooper could bring him into custody?
Sanchez looks back at the cruiser, and the traffic.
There’s an opening behind him, with two tractor-trailer trucks in the distance, traveling side by side, heading in his direction.
He starts up the Ford’s engine, puts the car into drive, and slams the accelerator with his foot, pulling out in front of the approaching trucks.
Chapter 77
NINETEEN MINUTES LATER and after screeching the Ford into a space in the parking lot nearest the main entrance, Sanchez barrels his way through the hospital’s complex until he finds the facility’s Trauma ICU.
The place is pleasant-looking enough, with light wood cabinets and white ceilings and soft overhead lights, but Sanchez is in a hurry, not sure how far that Georgia State Patrol officer will go in tracking him down. Entry into the Trauma ICU looks to be controlled by a big guy at an exterior reception desk. When he buzzes in two hospital personnel, Sanchez follows them inside.
At the nearest nurses’ station, he shows his badge, and almost out of breath from running here, he says, “Special Agent Manuel Sanchez, US Army CID. You have a CID agent here, Connie York. Where is she?”
The male nurse is in light-blue scrubs and looks at him with suspicion. After staring at his badge and identification, he says, “She’s in trauma room 2, but I don’t think visitors—”
“Thanks,” Sanchez says, moving on. The place is quiet, but nurses and doctors bustle around him, and down the hallway is a series of sliding-glass doors with handles.
The nurse yells out, “Hey!” but Sanchez ignores him.
There.
Room 2.
He slides the door open, surprising two nurses—one male, the other female—at their work.
The woman says, “Excuse me, who are you?”
He shows his badge and identification. “I’m Special Agent Manuel Sanchez, Army CID. How is she?”
The male nurse slips out, and the woman says, “Have you registered up front?”
“No,” he says.
“You need to.”
Sanchez snaps, “How is she, damn it?”
“Critical,” she says. “Look, you need to—”
“Ma’am, all due respect, you can get the hell out. I’m not going anywhere.”
She leaves and Sanchez steps forward, thinking there’s been a mistake, a serious mistake, because that’s not Connie in that bed, hooked up to IV tubes, wires, and other sensors.
The poor woman there is heavily bandaged about her head, the head mostly shaved, and she’s breathing through a tube stuck down her throat. Her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are puffed out.
It can’t be Connie.
Can’t.
But there’s a whiteboard near her bed, and sure enough, in careful block lettering above her vital signs and the names of the doctors and nurses taking care of her, it states, CONSTANCE YORK.
The door slides open. He turns.
A large man is there, dark hair, wearing black trousers, black sneakers, and a black vest over a light-blue shirt, the vest with bright-yellow letters saying SECURITY. Sanchez looks him over, notes the handcuffs, the expandable baton, and another weapon with a bright-yellow handle, denoting a Taser.
“Sir, you need to leave,” the man says.
“I want to see this woman’s doctor.”
He shakes his head. “You can do that outside, once you register up front at the nurses’ station.”
“I don’t—”
The security officer takes two steps forward. “Sir, I know you’re upset and you’re concerned, but with the way you came in here, the staff and nurses, they’re also upset and concerned. Please, be a gentleman. All right? I bet you’ll be able to come back in just a few minutes. Please don’t make me escalate things, all right?”
Sanchez knows what he means by escalating. Maybe a quick shot from the Taser and then cuffing him on the floor. Then Sanchez will be out of action, and how will that help things?
“All right,” he says. “I’ll leave.”
The security guard smiles, slides the door open. “Thanks so much, sir. You won’t regret it.”
When the Army guy leaves, Bo Leighton can’t believe how much his luck is changing after that disastrous shoot-out at the Waffle House a few hours ago. But God must be riding shotgun, because after getting a good ream-out from his uncle about how he and Ricky screwed up the job, his uncle offered him redemption.
And look here, his second cousin Derek, the son of a bitch actually worked security here at this hospital, and his uniform actually fit, and like most places, if you look as if you belong, you get left alone.
Then his luck really kicked in when he got up to this Trauma ICU unit and found out that this Army agent was making a fuss in the bitch’s room, so that gave him the perfect excuse to casually walk down here and kick the guy out.
But no time to press his luck.
There’s a chair next to the big bed with the wounded agent—Christ, how the hell was she alive with a .45 jacketed round hitting her head?—and all those wires and tubes, and in the chair is a nice white pillow.
Bo walks over, picks up the pillow.
Just a few seconds and then it’ll be right.
And his cousin won’t have died in vain.
Bitch.
Chapter 78
AS HIS FELLOW squad mate Pierce makes the
turn into the crowded parking lot of the Ralston police station and jail, Lieutenant John Huang reaches a decision. Once this horror show of a case is settled, one way or another, he’s putting in his papers and resigning from the Army.
Because deep down, he’s just a psychiatrist, a head doctor, a shrink. Despite what the Army thinks and especially despite the uncomfortable feeling of the 9mm SIG Sauer digging into his waist, he’s not a soldier. He’s just a doc, and since he’s been here in Georgia, a lousy doc at that, with the bloody suicide of an Army Ranger on his hands and conscience.
His companion, Captain Allen Pierce, whistles and says, “John, I don’t see an empty space here. Damn it.”
“Then park illegally,” Huang replies, “over there by those picnic tables. If we’re fortunate, the cops here will be too busy to ticket us.”
Pierce smiles, but Huang is not in a joking mood. The lot is filled with cars, news vans, and satellite trucks, all waiting for word from within the jail, where the three surviving Ranger prisoners are being held.
They both get out of the car, and Pierce says, “John, just to give you a heads-up, I intend to sling a lot of legal bullshit in there.”
“What kind?” Huang asks.
“The kind I’m currently making up,” Pierce says. “All I ask is that you roll with me, give me backup.”
Huang wants to argue the point but lets it go. Why get the Army lawyer all spun up now? When this investigation is finished, poor Pierce will probably get disbarred anyway.
“Sure, Allen,” he says. “I’ll do that.”
A few minutes later, they are in the same reception area as before, with an angry Chief Richard Kane staring at them both.
“What?” he says. “You say you’re going to do what?”
Huang is impressed at how calm and professional Pierce is, facing down the police chief with nothing to back him up but his lawyer’s tongue.
“Like I said, Chief,” Pierce says, standing straight and firm, “I intend to spend the night here with Dr. Huang to ensure nothing happens to the three Army personnel before tomorrow’s court hearing. We don’t have to be in their cells or near their cells, but we will remain here, keeping track of jail staff and any visitors they may receive.”
The chief explodes with a series of obscenities and finally says, “What the hell gives you the right? You think I’m running a goddamn Motel 6 here or something? Why should I allow you two to stay here without a warrant?”
Huang admires Pierce for not giving an inch. “At this moment, Chief, a team from the FBI’s Civil Rights Unit is en route to investigate you, this facility, and your personnel.”
“Civil rights? What the hell are you talking about?”
Pierce gives the angry chief a tight smile. “Specialist Vinnie Tyler. The Ranger who allegedly killed himself in his cell? Have you forgotten him? We certainly haven’t. And neither has the Army. Among any other crimes you and your department may have committed, you most definitely violated the specialist’s civil rights.”
Huang sees exhaustion, anger, and confusion in the chief’s eyes.
It’s his turn.
Huang says, “In my professional opinion, Chief Kane, you and your personnel offered a hostile environment that adversely affected Specialist Tyler’s health. That means you and everyone else here is criminally liable.”
“You—”
Pierce jumps right back in. “But with us staying here, keeping watch and recording everyone coming in and out, ensuring nothing untoward happens to the three surviving Rangers, that may help mitigate the situation once the FBI arrives. It will put them in a…better frame of mind.”
Huang sees the chief’s head moving, looking at the JAG lawyer and then at him. Huang imagines what the chief is thinking. An arrest made in a major crime case involving multiple homicides should have been a wonderful publicity coup for a small town like this. Increased media attention, Well dones from his fellow cops, even the local mayor and council in a mood to increase the department’s budget next year.
Huang knows what the quick glance means from the chief.
He’s looking for a way out.
Huang says, “Chief, I know this is an intrusion. And you’ve got a lot going on with all that news media out there, and with the FBI arriving—”
“Tomorrow,” Pierce says. “The FBI will be here tomorrow.”
“But we won’t disturb you or your staff,” Huang goes on. “We’ll stay here in the reception area. We won’t bother or interact with anyone. We’ll just sit in place.”
The chief’s eyes are still glaring at them with anger, but Huang senses the man is giving up.
“All right,” he says, stepping back. “You two…you sit out here. You don’t move, ’cept if you’ve gotta take a piss. And you’re on your own. Don’t expect food, water, or a blanket. Got it?”
Pierce moves to a nearby orange plastic chair. “Got it, Chief.”
The chief opens the door leading to the department’s offices, making sure to slam it good and hard.
Huang sits down next to Pierce. “Good job,” he says to Pierce.
Pierce just nods, then points to a sign over the doorway leading into the jail.
ALL CONVERSATIONS SUBJECT TO AUDIO AND VIDEO RECORDING.
Huang nods in return, getting the message.
Then Pierce shifts in his chair, pulls out his 9mm SIG Sauer pistol, and slides it between his right leg and the chair.
Huang gets that message as well.
Chapter 79
SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ is walking to the nurses’ station at the entrance to the Trauma ICU when he stops and quickly looks back.
The security guard who chased him out of York’s room is still in there.
Why?
Bo Leighton spent a summer years back working as a volunteer EMT-firefighter for Sullivan County ’fore he was let go on suspicion of lifting some painkillers—which was true, though nobody could prove it—so he knows to disconnect the bitch’s breathing tube before putting the pillow over her to smother out her life.
There.
Pillow down.
The body is so banged up and hooked up it doesn’t even move as its airway is cut off.
There’s beeping, booping, and bleeping from various instruments, and then the door slides open with a hard slam!
He looks up in surprise, seeing that Army agent standing right in the doorway.
One hand still on the pillow, he goes for the borrowed utility belt…
Sanchez steps in and sees the security guard smothering York with a room pillow.
He snaps up his SIG Sauer as the guy reaches for his utility belt and—
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The man falls away and crumples to the floor.
Shouts and yells come from outside.
He steps over to Connie, sees the fake security guard splayed out on the ground like a clumsy starfish, the pillow torn up, and blood starting to pool on the tile. The guard’s skin is rapidly graying out.
Sanchez turns as a frightened-looking woman nurse peers in, her face pale in shock.
He holds up his pistol in his right hand, his badge and identification in the other.
“I’m a federal agent!” he calls out. “Special Agent Sanchez, United States Army. This man was trying to murder your patient! Please! I need help in here!”
The nurse ducks back. More yells, shouts out there. He can just imagine the chaos he’s caused with the shooting.
Sanchez yells, “Your patient is dying! The man here tried to smother her! Please…somebody come in and look at her! Again, I’m a federal agent!”
A strong woman’s voice says, “Put your pistol on the floor, then I’ll come in.”
Sanchez doesn’t want to disarm himself but decides there’s no other option. He steps forward, puts his SIG Sauer on the tile. “My weapon’s on the floor, so you can come in and fix things. Okay?”
A female nurse in light-green scrubs and white sneakers comes in, looks down at t
he pistol, and then goes right over to York’s bed and, in a series of quick, fluid movements, seems to get everything put back in place.
When she’s finished, she says, “All right, I’ve reattached her tube…The man on the floor?”
“Not a security guard, I’m sure.”
She starts to walk over. “His condition?”
“Most definitely dead,” Sanchez says, and then he scoots over, leans down, and picks up the man’s Desert Eagle.
The nurse steps back in shock. “You promised.”
“That I did,” he says. “So you could come in and fix things. Now you can leave.”
The nurse heads to the door. “Mister, you better be what you say you are, and that man better be an imposter. The ICU out there is filling up with every cop and SWAT team member between here and Atlanta.”
“I’m sure,” Sanchez says. “And if you get a moment, tell them I’m here, and I’m not leaving. The only people who get in and touch that woman will be two medical personnel at the same time, with full identification.”
The nurse says, “That must be some woman. Who is she?”
Sanchez looks over to the grievously wounded Connie York.
“She’s my boss,” he says.
Chapter 80
LIEUTENANT JOHN HUANG wakes up in the hard plastic chair, back aching, mouth dry, with Captain Allen Pierce tapping his shoulder and whispering in his ear.
“Somebody’s coming,” he says. “Wake up.”
The tone of voice from Pierce has definitely gotten Huang’s attention.
He sits up, rubbing at his eyes. The place is dimly lit. There are three closed doors: one leading to the jail cells, another going into the police department proper, and a glass one leading outside.
Shadows are moving out there.
“What’s going on?” Huang asks. “Reporters?”
“I wish,” Pierce says, standing up. “It’s two in the morning. You ever run into journalists at 2:00 a.m.? Most of the time they’re sleeping it off or getting drunk in a motel bar, complaining about their editors.”
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