SYCAMORE BLUFF (Prequel to THE JACK REACHER FILES: ANNEX 1) (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 8)

by Jude Hardin

  From invisible speakers mounted somewhere in the ceiling, a very calm and pleasant female voice said, “Code blue, neuro, room three thirty-two. Initiate rapid response team. I repeat. Code blue, neuro, room three thirty-two.” Someone was always saying something over the speaker system, and it took a few seconds for the words to register in Colt’s mind. Code blue meant that someone was in severe distress. It meant that someone had stopped breathing.

  And 332 was Juliet’s room number.

  Colt didn’t bother with the elevator this time. He tossed the cane aside and limped as fast as he could to the door marked STAIRS. He gripped the steel railing and descended the first flight, and then the second. Fast. Frantic. He yanked open the gray metal door with the big red 3 painted on it. He’d never taken the stairs before, had never seen the third floor from this perspective. He looked around, disoriented, unsure of which way to go.

  There was an armed security guard and a woman in a white lab coat standing outside one of the rooms at the other end of the hall. The woman was holding a clipboard, writing something, and the man was just standing there. That was it. That was Juliet’s room. He ran toward it, fueled by adrenaline, no pain now, just the sinking feeling that he’d killed her, that the tainted NASA vitamin had stopped her heart somehow. He made it to the room, brushed past the guard and the woman, started to push the door open when a hand grabbed his wrist and a deep male voice said, “You can’t go in there.”

  Colt turned and faced the guard. “That’s my wife,” he said.

  “I understand that, sir. The doctors and nurses—”

  “You don’t understand anything,” Colt said, almost shouting now. “Get out of my way before I knock you down.”

  The woman in the white lab coat spoke up then: “Are you Mr. Colt?” she said.

  “Yes. Nicholas Colt. That’s my wife in there.”

  “My name is Margaret. I’m the nursing supervisor. Would you mind stepping over to the waiting area with me for a minute?”

  “I need to see my wife,” Colt said.

  “I can’t keep you from walking into that room, Mr. Colt, but I would advise against it. Your wife stopped breathing, and the team is doing everything they can to bring her back. I’m afraid you would only be in the way. Please.”

  “Go to hell,” Colt said.

  He forced his way through the door, and suddenly he was in another world, the world of a dedicated team of medical professionals in action. He’d never witnessed an actual resuscitation attempt, but he’d been around the hospital long enough to know about some of the equipment, and he knew the various disciplines of the staff members by the color of their scrubs. There was a respiratory therapist at the head of the bed, helping the doctor guide an endotracheal tube down Juliet’s throat. To the left, an ICU nurse stood beside the crash cart, monitoring the EKG display on the defibrillator, ready to deliver a shock or administer whatever medications the doctor called for. One of the neuro nurses was doing chest compressions while the PCA Colt had spoken to earlier manned the electronic blood pressure machine. A second neuro nurse held a clipboard and documented the proceedings on a preprinted form. A third neuro nurse and another PCA stood by, maybe to take over chest compressions when the current nurse became fatigued, maybe to run for supplies or equipment as needed. Everything orchestrated, everything moving very fast.

  Colt stood in the doorway, paralyzed, unable to fully process the drama unfolding before his eyes. He felt dizzy and short of breath. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel his pulse in his tongue.

  The doctor finished inserting the breathing tube, and the respiratory therapist started pumping oxygen into Juliet’s lungs with an ambu bag.

  “Let’s get some blood work,” the doctor said. “Has anyone done an Accu-Chek yet?”

  “Her sugar was one thirty-seven,” the PCA by the blood pressure machine said.

  “Okay. That’s fine. We got a rhythm yet?”

  “Still asystole,” the ICU nurse said.

  “Give her another dose of epi. Continue CPR.” The doctor looked up at Colt. “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m her husband. What happened?”

  “I can’t talk to you right now, sir. Would you mind stepping out of the room, please? I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  “Yes,” Colt said. “I would mind stepping out of the room. I want to know what’s going on. She was fine just a few minutes ago.”

  The doctor said something, and the nursing supervisor standing behind Colt said something, but none of it made any sense. It was all static now, and Colt started sinking into the floor, as if he were standing in quicksand.

  When he opened his eyes, he was in a different room, lying in bed, receiving IV fluids and oxygen therapy.

  Hours had passed, and he had no idea if Juliet was dead or alive.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Henry Parker, The Unnamed Man with Connections—Loco, as Sergio Del Chivo preferred to call him—was dead now, but he wasn’t the only traitor in the world. There were plenty more where he came from, and Del Chivo had more than enough money to find them whenever he needed them.

  Some of them were good for providing information, others for a variety of tasks and missions crucial to the cause, crucial to Del Chivo’s ultimate goal: the destruction of the United States of America.

  The turncoats came from all walks of life: doctors, lawyers, politicians, bankers, teachers, engineers, technicians, cops.

  And even hospital nurses.

  Is it difficult to find a medical professional willing to squeeze a few drops of poison into a 50ml syringe, and then leave that syringe at the bedside for the next practitioner to use? Of course not. All it takes is money, and not even that much. A million dollars is nothing to a man like Sergio Del Chivo, but it can be life-changing to a floor nurse who works her butt off for fifty grand a year. And, with a patient who is probably going to die soon anyway, the persuasion is even easier. It’s simply a mercy killing with some dollar signs attached to it. The patient is no longer suffering, and the nurse is able to purchase a retirement condo in Costa Rica. Everybody happy.

  Well, maybe not everybody, Del Chivo thought, chuckling to himself.

  It hadn’t taken long to learn the true identity of the man, the freelance operative sent to Sycamore Bluff. The woman was a different story. She was shrouded in many layers of secrecy. But the man had been easy. His name was Nicholas Colt, and Del Chivo had many reasons to hate him.

  Many reasons to bring heartache and misery to his house before killing him.

  Colt was a United States citizen, working for the United States government. That in itself was enough, but there was more. Much more. Colt had been involved in killing Loco, and the helicopter pilot, and the other loyal soldiers Del Chivo had sent to Sycamore Bluff.

  That was strike two against Señor Colt.

  And, a couple of years ago, Colt had been instrumental in taking down one of Del Chivo’s best film producers, a man named Malden Zephauser, and that had ended up costing Del Chivo a hefty amount of current and future revenue.

  Strike three, Señor Colt. You’re out!

  More than anything, Del Chivo hated losing money, because it was money that would take him where he wanted to go.

  So Colt would have to die, but not before Del Chivo had a little fun with him. Killing the gringo’s wife was only the beginning. There was so much more to come, and Del Chivo looked forward to every minute of it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Juliet made it. The team had been successful in resuscitating her.

  She was awake, alert, and oriented.

  It was a miracle. All the doctors and nurses said so.

  A week later, the day Colt was supposed to bring her and Jesse home from the hospital, he sat down with a pen and a piece of paper and wrote a letter:

  Dear Jesse,

  When you read this letter, many years from now, I probably won’t be around. I hope I am, but I probably won’t be. I’ll probably d
ie before then. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, on this wonderful day, the day I’m bringing you home, how much I love you, and how much I love your mother. It was touch-and-go there for a while, kiddo. Your mom was in a coma almost the entire time she was pregnant, and the doctors weren’t expecting her to survive.

  Okay, so here we go. I’ve never told this to anyone, but I think you should know that I gave her something, a drug called U-3 that was developed by a scientist named Leonard W. Daehl. It was this medication that brought her out of the coma, and supposedly it is useful in treating nearly every neurological and psychiatric condition in the book. The thing is, there was a huge risk involved in giving it to her. In the human trials, a small percentage of the recipients lost their minds. It was more than that, really. They turned into violent, raging, bloodthirsty cannibals. My partner and I called them sloffs. That was just our nickname for them. I know it sounds incredible, but I saw it with my own eyes.

  If you’re reading this, it probably means your mother never turned. I surely hope that’s the case. I’m enclosing one of the capsules in this envelope, and I hope that the scientists of the future will know what to do with it. Maybe you’ll even be one of those scientists! It’s a remarkable treatment, and it saved your mother’s life, and I hope they can find the solution to preventing the horrible side effects.

  Well, that’s all for now. This is a happy, happy day, my son, because soon I will bring you and your mother home.

  Oh, and of course the day you read this will be very special as well. Happy Birthday! If I’m still around, I’ll buy you your first beer.

  All my love,

  Dad

  Colt wrote For Jesse, to be opened on your twenty-first birthday on the outside of an envelope. He folded the letter, slid it in, dropped the gray capsule in and sealed the flap. He walked to the bathroom and flushed the remaining pills down the toilet.

  Colt was standing at the front edge of the foyer, staring out at nothing, when Brittney pulled into the driveway. She started to get out of her car.

  Colt opened the storm door. “I’m coming,” he said.

  He locked the house, walked out and climbed into the passenger’s side of Brittney’s Camry.

  “Seatbelt,” she said.

  Colt buckled up. “I need to stop at the bank,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  Colt figured his safety deposit box would be the best place to stash the letter to Jesse. The box had been empty for years, and now it would finally be put to good use.

  Brittney backed out of the driveway, drove to the first stop sign and took a left.

  “Well, today’s the big day,” she said, smiling.

  “I know. I can’t wait to get them home.”

  “You called the nanny I told you about, right?”

  “Yeah. She’s supposed to come over tomorrow. With you in Gainesville, and me at the studio half the time, your mom’s definitely going to need some help for a while.”

  “Definitely,” Brittney said.

  Colt stared out the window. For the first time in a long time, he wanted a cigarette. He didn’t know why, but he did. While he was waiting for the craving to pass, he felt a tingle between the fourth and fifth toes of his left foot. It startled him. Not now, he thought. Why did it have to be now?

  “I need you to stop at the studio,” he said.

  “Why? I thought you wanted to go to the bank.”

  “Just for a minute. Please.”

  Brittney sighed. She made a U-turn and gunned it in the other direction. She seemed aggravated. It didn’t matter. When Diana Dawkins called, Colt had to answer. Regardless of the time, day or night. Regardless of the circumstances. He had to answer.

  Brittney pulled into the strip mall and parked in front of the studio.

  “Are you okay, Dad? I mean, why do you have to stop here now?”

  “I’ll be right back,” Colt said.

  He climbed out of the car and walked into the studio, locking the door behind him. He opened the safe, took the phone out, dialed the number, went through the identification procedure.

  “How are you?” Diana said.

  “I was doing all right until now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m with my daughter, Di. We’re on our way to the hospital. Juliet and the baby are coming home.”

  There was a brief pause, and then Diana said, “I wanted you to know about some intelligence we received a few minutes ago.”

  Colt looked at his watch. “Okay,” he said.

  “You heard me talking to Henry Parker about a man named Sergio Del Chivo, right?”

  “I vaguely remember something about it.”

  “Del Chivo is the leader of a crime cartel called Los Bastardos Deseables. His home base is in El Salvador, but his reach stretches from the east coast of the United States all the way to the southern tip of South America. Unlike most of the kingpins we’ve known about from that region, he has more than just drugs and money on his mind. He would like to see the United States fall, and he’s using all of his power, and a great deal of his financial resources—which are substantial, to say the least—to chip away at the foundation one brick at a time.”

  “Are you saying the country’s in trouble?” Colt said.

  “No. Not yet, anyway. I’m saying you’re in trouble, Nicholas. We’re not sure how this happened, but Del Chivo knows who you are. We need to bring you in immediately.”

  “Bring me in? I’ve got a wife and a baby to take care of.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no other way. When you leave the studio, I want you to drive to the airport. There’s a private jet waiting for you.”

  “What about Juliet?” Colt said. “And Jesse, and Brittney? Does this Del Chivo character know about them too?”

  “Actually, yes. They’ll have to be processed separately. Again, I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.”

  Colt waited for that to sink in. “Processed,” he said. “This is insane.”

  “I know. It is. And I have something else to tell you, something that’s even more insane. Del Chivo was responsible for what happened at the hospital the other day, Nicholas. Del Chivo tried to kill your wife.”

  “How—”

  “I’ll tell you about it when you get off the plane. I need you to hang up now and get to the airport.”

  Colt couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “What did you say Del Chivo’s organization is called?” he said.

  “Los Bastardos Deseables,” Diana said.

  “Los what? Sorry, but my Spanish is a little rusty. What does that mean?”

  “Literally translated, it means the desirable bastards. But, when members of the cartel speak to each other in English, they use the word sexy. The Sexy Bastards.”

  “Say that one more time.”

  “The Sexy Bastards. You’ve heard of them?”

  Once again, Joe Crawford’s voice clawed its way into Colt’s consciousness: Find them, Nicholas. Find The Sexy Bastards and kill them all. Do it for me.

  “Yeah,” Colt said. “I’ve heard of them. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  He said goodbye.

  A hot blue arc of electric fury flowed through him in waves.

  He let it pass.

  He put the phone away and locked the studio. He climbed back into the Camry and told Brittney to take him to the airport. She asked him why, but he couldn’t tell her. He would never be able to tell her. He didn’t even know if he would ever see her again.

  But he knew he would see Sergio Del Chivo. He knew that for sure.

  THE END

  ALSO BY JUDE HARDIN

  Nicolas Colt Thrillers

  Racked (short story with J.A. Konrath)

  Colt

  Pocket 47

  Crosscut

  Snuff Tag 9

  Key Death

  Rattled (short story)

  Blood Tattoo

  Other Works

  Bad Nurse

  Ghost


  Fire and Ice (Dead Man #8 with Lee Goldberg)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jude Hardin is the author of the Nicholas Colt thriller series. He graduated from the University of Louisville in 1983 with an English degree, and currently lives and works in northeast Florida. When he’s not pounding away at the computer keyboard, Jude can be found pounding away on his drums, playing tennis, reading, or wandering the streets of Vegas in a sequined white jumpsuit.

  You can learn more about Jude and his books at

  http://judehardinbooks.com/

  For periodic updates and special offers,

  please sign up for Jude’s newsletter at

  http://eepurl.com/zn1XD

  SYCAMORE BLUFF

  Copyright © 2013 by Jude Hardin

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  November 2013

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen