The doctor walked out of my room and the nurse followed. She returned moments later by my side with papers on a clipboard.
“Mr. Marina, this first paper you have to sign is going over what we treated you for.”
“Which was?” I asked.
“You received an impalement to your lower abdomen, from a two-inch nail that came from the pipe bomb. We administered a tetanus shot. We have sent over your prescriptions to the closest pharmacy for an antibiotic and a low-dose Vicodin for pain.”
She handed me the clipboard and the pen. I signed.
“I probably won’t need the Vicodin.”
She gave me a smirk. “Just wait until you try to sit up. It’ll feel like you’ve done a thousand crunches.”
“Great…”
“These next couple pages are regarding your insurance, and the last one you are signing is for us to release you.”
When I finished, I handed it back to her and she organized them neatly, putting them beneath the silver clamp.
“I’m going to get the doctor,” the nurse began. Her eyes turned cold, and her expression troublesome. “Between us, you need to go see your friend, Cole, as soon as you can.”
My stomach turned at her words. She was disconnecting the IV and heart-rate monitor, but before she did I heard my heart speed up.
“Hurry then, please.”
She nodded, her lips pursed and tense. She hurriedly walked out of the room, and I sat up in the bed. As I did so, I felt the same sharp, stabbing pain I did when I awoke. The nurse wasn’t joking. It felt as if someone had punched me in the gut with all of their strength. I stood up and stretched out, coughing as I did so. My throat and lungs felt dry and irritated every time I took a breath. I guess it was from the fumes of the bombs.
Bombs…
The word entered my mind like a strange foreign body would enter my blood. I wanted to rid myself of the thought.
I couldn’t come to grasp with what happened last night. It played from my memory like a blur—the screams, the smoke, and the terror in people’s faces. The final debate before the election and now this happened. Who could have done such a thing? How did pipe bombs get past security?
Questions manifested so rapidly it was almost dizzying. I inhaled deeply to calm myself down. I heard two quick raps on the door.
“Mr. Marina, are you ready?” asked the doctor.
“Yes.”
“Please, follow me.”
Sore and stiff, I trailed him down the corridor. His white gown flowed behind his legs like a cape.
I heard the ding from the elevator as the doctor pressed the button. When the doors opened, I stepped in behind him. Cole was on the fourth floor. The smooth hum, which I have heard so many times using the elevator at my apartment, didn’t make me feel relaxed as it always did. This humming noise made me sick, as if behind the elevator doors there would be something waiting for me, something terrifying, when they opened. Cole Pavich is in critical condition…
I pushed air out of my nose and shook my head in an attempt to forget those words.
When the doors opened I followed the doctor. Within fifty feet, he stopped and turned to face a room on the left.
The top half of the wall was made of glass and allowed me to see inside. My heart fluttered, as I saw Cole with more tubing, gauze, and monitors than any person should have at one time. I clutched my mouth as I saw him and winced in pain as my forehead scrunched, fully-flexed. The only things that were recognizable above the disarray of equipment were his gray hair and his face. Doctors and surgeons surrounded him.
I imagined if he was awake, he would swat away at all of these prodding doctors and immediately demand his wife to bring him a drink.
His wife… “Doc, where is his wife Carla?”
“She is in a nearby room out of surgery. If everything remains stable, she will be removed from the ICU before noon.”
I felt a slight wave of relief as he said that. If Cole woke up to his wife dead, I couldn’t imagine how he would continue on. He had been with her since his college years.
“Mr. Marina,” the doctor began hesitantly. “I know how much you don’t want to hear this, but…don’t get too attached to the idea that Mr. Pavich will make it through. He has lost a lot of blood and received lacerations to major arteries. Overnight, while you were still unconscious, he was undergoing cardiovascular surgery. We were surprised he made it this far. It didn’t help that he had alcohol in his blood, which thinned it.”
“I’m not surprised. The man loves to drink,” I joked, trying to swallow the information I was just given. “He will make it through, I know it.”
I heard a pager go off. The doctor looked down at his waistband.
“Well, I must go. I am needed on another floor. Mr. Marina, I’m not saying he won’t pull through. I’m just saying you need to say a prayer…and also come to terms that this may be the last time you see him.”
He patted me on the back and disappeared.
I felt like a small piece of me had been torn away as he said that.
That reality he spoke of, one in which Cole Pavich, the co-founder, my mentor, and most importantly my friend—didn’t exist—was something I couldn’t handle. A reality I couldn’t face. If he died, that would leave me as the only founder of the Convergence Party left. We were a team. We both created the party. Neither one of us took the title as the creator. We were the two founders.
I neared the glass, and I put my hand up to it. I sniffled and tried my hardest to restrain tears from coming out, but regardless they became glassy. In that moment, I sent all the positive energy and thoughts within me through the glass to him.
Hang in there Cole. We both have to watch Goodman win. You still owe me those drinks at Smith Commons after too, you crazy bastard.
I took one last look at Cole and turned away. I reached the elevator and the doors opened. Inside, a younger, female nurse pressed the button for the third floor and glancing at me in my hospital gown, she pressed the lobby button for me.
“Thank you,” I said.
She smiled, “You’re welcome. It’s an honor to be in the same elevator as you, Mr. Marina.”
I shook my head smiling and turned to her. “Now, why is that?”
“Because you are brave. You and Cole both. I was in District 1, too. I remember seeing you and him sitting cross-legged in the grass during lunches. At the time, you were just strangers, but now, that memory is a fond one.”
“Why didn’t you come talk to us?” I asked playfully.
The elevator reached her floor, and as the door opened, she turned to face me.
“Because I knew I would be interrupting greatness. I will never forget the passion, the intensity, on both of your faces. I could tell you two weren’t just complaining about how shitty the Confinement was, like everyone else. You were plotting a solution.”
I was dumbfounded from her explanation. Such a sharp memory this nurse had. I didn’t even recognize her face. The doors began to close, and I quickly stuck my hand in front of the sensor to stop them.
“Thank you for everything you have done, Mr. Marina. Everyone in this hospital is on edge, worrying about the health of Mr. Pavich. We will do our best, I promise you that.”
“Thank you…” I said just as the doors closed, and I lost sight of the angel-faced nurse.
When I reached the ground floor, I smiled, thinking about the effect I have had on people I had never even met. That in itself was more valuable than any form of monetary wealth. It made me feel rich—richer in soul—a feeling no corporate billionaire has ever had the chance of knowing.
Chatter surrounded me. The bold, aromatic smell of coffee wafted in the air. I sat alone at a two-top table against the wall and fiddled with the remains of a spinach and feta quiche. I barely had an appetite. The pain pills were still wearing off. I clasped the ceramic handle gently and sipped my Café Au Lait. Its lukewarm contents helped revive me from the sluggish sedation I was in last night.
Every few seconds I felt the same, shooting pain in my abdomen. The left side of my jaw was swollen and bruised. I assumed I received that when the smoke from the bombs caused me to black out.
When I drove my bike away from the hospital, just a short while ago, I felt empty, like I was leaving behind strands of myself, and all I was left with was a pile of loose ends in my lap. My mind was still so jumbled. I was trying to piece together the recollection of last night’s events. The only things I could remember were the conversation with Veronica and Marc, and watching the debate. Then, I saw the unfamiliar man to my right. The bombs exploded before I could reach security and tell them. I wondered if he was the terrorist that planted the bombs.
The TV mounted in the corner of the shop was set to CNN. They were playing the same loop of footage from the cameras filming the debate when the bombs went off. I could barely stomach the sounds of the screams in sync with the explosions. It was horrifying to replay in my mind. I took another sip of coffee—my mug was empty.
I stood up and went to the counter. Today was definitely a two-cup kind of morning.
“How can I help you?” the barista asked.
“I’ll have another Café Au Lait, please.”
“Cold or steamed milk?”
“Cold, thank you.”
She turned around and prepared my drink. I tried to focus on the sounds of the liquid and ignore the newscast playing behind me.
When she returned, she pushed the drink towards me.
“That will be $2.88, please.”
I reached for my wallet and pulled out the money to hand her.
“You look familiar. I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before,” the barista mentioned and narrowed her eyes with a flirty grin.
“You have,” I answered with a chuckle and returned her smile.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue…”
“I’m Owen Marina, co-founder of the Convergence Party.”
Her eyes widened and her smile vanished.
“Is that why you’re all beat up?” she asked, pointing to the TV.
My smile disappeared too. “Yes, I was there.”
“I’m glad you made it out all right,” she said with concern.
“I am too. I just hope my friend pulls through.”
“I hope he does too,” she replied and nodded solemnly.
“Thank you again,” I tipped the mug in her direction.
“Of course, it’s my pleasure.”
I returned to my seat. I had my iPhone plugged into the outlet. It was finally powered on from being dead most of the night. The little red bubbles read 67 messages and 11 voicemails.
Holy shit…
I began scrolling through and reading some of the messages. There were dozens from my colleagues, a couple friends, and some of the funders that had survived last night’s attack. They all sent messages regarding prayers and thoughts to the situation. One of the first voicemails I had received only minutes after the attack was from my dad. I could tell by the time he had called.
I checked my email. There were already requests from the Washington Post, Huffington Post, and others to do an interview on my experience during the debate. I shook my head. I always disliked how quick they were to make a buck off of someone’s story.
“…This just in…” I heard the sharp tone of a female anchor on the TV. I glanced up with interest. “…The CIA has released the two suspects involved in last night’s horrific terrorist attack at Georgetown University’s Gaston Hall…”
I sipped my coffee and stared intently at the TV.
“…The first suspect, now deceased from his injuries, was Russian-born Alexei Malchikov. Authorities have mentioned the possibility of him being tied to Black Monday’s Viktor Ivankov. This now brings into question further Russian involvement with the US. He was twenty-nine years old. Here is his picture entering last night’s debate…”
I almost spit my coffee out. I coughed, choking on the hot liquid.
It was him. The blond, European-looking man who I was so suspicious of. He was the culprit. He was wearing our colors. Damn, that wouldn’t look good to the press. Why the hell would a terrorist don our colors and then lose his life in the process?
“…The second suspect, who was deemed wanted by the CIA just minutes ago, was caught on camera standing and then climbing the steps just seconds before the explosives went off…”
My stomach dropped. My fingers clasped the ceramic handle so hard that I thought I might break it. I couldn’t breathe.
“…Owen Marina, Convergence Party co-founder, is wanted for involvement in plotting of the attack. It is believed by officials that Alexei planted the bombs, and Owen helped create them. An alumni of Georgetown, in the years before he became the founder of the Convergence Party, he was a field chemist for the EPA and also had a bachelor’s in chemistry. Were they trying to send the existing government a threat? A message? The feds are still gathering more informa…”
The anchor’s words began to sound distorted. I felt my heart racing out of my chest, almost unbearable it was going so fast. Sweat dripped down my forehead, and I felt dizzy and sick.
The shop became silent. I looked around at all the faces, and they were staring back at me. No one said a word. They just stared. Their eyes frightened and nervous. They analyzed me as if I were some sort of monster. I saw a woman slowly pick up her cell phone and dial a number.
This isn’t happening. This must be some sort of mistake.
I stood up, and a couple people gasped in fright from my sudden movement. My forehead was creased in stress and anger.
“Hello…I, uh, I’d like to report a wanted fugitive.” I heard the woman on her phone struggling to whisper as if I wouldn’t hear. I decided to ignore her. What use would it be trying to stop her? I was wanted, but yet I’d done nothing wrong. This was a fuck up.
“Ma’am,” I asked the barista as I reached the counter. She flinched as if I was going to jump over the counter and hurt her.
“Seriously? You were just flirting with me a minute ago.”
“That was before I knew you were a terrorist…and helped kill all of those innocent people,” she whimpered.
“You really believe that bullshit? I had nothing to do with that attack. I hope everybody in here hears that too!” I said, raising my voice.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, with tears filling the corners of her eyes.
“Just give me a pen, or actually, give me a Sharpie. Do you have one?”
She tossed the Sharpie on the counter and turned away from me. I grabbed it angrily and turned around to walk out of the shop.
Amazing how people are so quick to believe the media. I shook my head in distaste and adrenaline began to surge as I realized the situation I was being thrown into. What do I do?
I pulled out my phone and began writing down phone numbers on the inside of my forearm. Dad, Cole, my office, my ex. As popular of a figure I was in Washington, I had only four numbers worth keeping. Life as a workaholic was a lonely one.
I had to call someone. God forbid they caught me before I could make a statement. Maybe I should call the press? I wondered if they would believe me, that this was all a false conclusion. Alexei Malchikov was wearing our colors. The pit in my gut began to grow and constrict with tension. Why would a terrorist be wearing our colors? The thought kept resurfacing over and over again.
I quickly dialed the number to my office.
Ring…Ring…Ring…Ring…
A month before the election and they didn’t answer in three rings? They knew better than that.
“Convergence Party Headquarters, this is Nicolas.”
“Damn it, Nic, it’s about time you picked up! It’s Owen.”
“Owen! No shit, have you seen the news? There’s no way anyone in this office believed that’s true. Such bullshit, someone is out to get us. Are you all right?”
“Well, besides my injury, my second cup of coffee got interrupted by finding out I was a
wanted criminal.”
“Don’t worry, Owen. We are going to find a way to figure out what happened. Cole is still in the ICU, by the way.”
My heart sank from hearing his condition had not improved.
“I saw him through the glass, in the hospital this morning. It doesn’t look too good.”
“Yeah, it’s absolute chaos in here right now. The phones are going off the hook. People are wanting to know about your involvement with the attack.”
“What is your answer for that?” I pressed.
“That Owen Marina had nothing to do with the bombs. That this is some mistake.”
“Good,” I answered. “Stay strong, Nic.”
“I will, boss.”
The call disconnected. I suddenly saw three black Tahoes and two police Chargers screech around the corner of the street, maybe a half-mile away.
“No fucking way…” I murmured.
My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. I put on my helmet and sprinted to my bike. I hit the ignition switch and skidded out in front of the shop.
The sirens grew louder behind me.
I have to outrun them.
I turned right onto M Street, then immediately onto 30th St. NW. I glanced in my mirrors, and the Chargers were getting closer.
Accelerating in second gear, I approached K Street with frightening speed. Please don’t let me get hit. I whipped left onto K Street and an SUV blared their horn—I barely missed being clipped. I pulled the throttle. The torque threw me back into a wheelie and I balanced it all the way up the on-ramp onto Rock Creek Parkway. Glancing back again, I saw them merging on the Parkway.
Goodbye. I slammed back down on two wheels and shifted into higher gear. My speedometer quickly raced over one hundred, and I didn’t let off. There was also plenty of room for me to weave in and out of traffic. One lane change from a vehicle without using their signal could have been the end of my life. Then again, dying on my street bike, to me, was a preferred route, compared to rotting in a prison for a crime I didn’t commit.
Once I get on I-95 I can really lose them. I continued to speed, slaloming between the vehicles. The benefits of having my bike equipped with a turbo were undoubtedly the added speed, but also, the distinct sound allowed other motorists to hear me coming. It helped keep me safe.
The Gambit Page 4
