Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1)

by Pat Patterson

“Right. So, sir,” Lance chimed in. “What’s the plan?”

  Rico handed out a map illustrating the approach to the grill, along with a separate illustration showing its basic layout. “You’ll be able to recognize it by the Harleys parked out front.”

  “How do we go in?”

  “Team Alpha—you and you—you’ll take the front door of the grill. Team Bravo—” Rico pointed at Jimmy Little and one of the other officers, a retired Marine sniper with two tours of duty in Iraq. “You two take the side. Little will be ours eyes. No one moves until he’s taken a look inside. Corporal Albright will be coming with me. We’re Team Delta. Some of those biker boys might try running out the back.”

  “Now I understand why they call you Backdoor,” the newest team member said.

  “Yeah—” A devilish grin spread across Rico’s face. “I want to see their faces when they realize they’re busted.”

  Chapter 26

  “Oh, no—”

  Jim felt his stomach turn as EB-7 rounded the corner of Canal Street and started up Jackson. It wasn’t the crowd that bothered him, or the dreadful expressions he saw painted on the faces of the bystanders, or even the fact that the firefighters from Engine-3 were performing chest compressions on the victim—it was the pair of small bare feet he saw protruding from behind one of the rescuer’s boots. Jim felt kicked in the stomach.

  “It’s a child.”

  “Oh, man,” Sharon murmured. “Not a kid.”

  Jim lifted the microphone and keyed up on the dispatch channel. “Medic-seven,” he said, forcing an unnaturally cool tone. “Put us out with Engine-three.”

  “Ten-four,” the dispatcher acknowledged. “Medic-seven on scene.”

  Jim replaced the mike and grabbed a pair of gloves as Sharon pulled behind the fire truck and set the brake.

  “Go on over,” she said. “I’ll get the bags.”

  Jim climbed from the ambulance and walked over, praying silently as he approached the scene.

  “Excuse me,” he said, pushing through the crowd. “Excuse me. Por favor. Please!”

  The crowd parted. A panicky Hispanic man stepped forward and grabbed Jim’s arm.

  “My son. Help my son,” he said in broken English. “Please!”

  Jim couldn’t make out another word the man said, but as he caught his first full glimpse of the child, he understood the reason for the man’s panic. The boy appeared dead. Limp and pale. His lips were the color of a purple Popsicle.

  Firefighter Larry Purdue knelt at the little boy’s side pushing down vigorously against the center of his chest. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” he said. He paused and glanced at his teammate. Captain David Elder pushed the resuscitator mask against the boy’s face and tried to squeeze the Ambu-bag. He couldn’t. He glanced up at Jim and shook his head. “It’s no good, Jim. His airway’s tighter than a plugged pipe. We can’t clear it for nothing.”

  “Did you reposition his head?”

  “Of course. Twice.”

  “Okay, guys. Larry, continue with compressions please. Where’s Sharon?” Jim turned to look for his partner. “Excuse me,” he heard her say. “Out of the way,” she shouted. “Move!” A hole opened in the crowd. Sharon pushed through with an angry but determined expression on her face. “What do we have?”

  “Obstructed airway. Get the Magill’s.”

  Sharon dropped the equipment, unzipped the pediatric bag, and started fishing around. Jim knelt next to Elder and opened the boy’s mouth for a look. It appeared to be clear. Whatever it is, he thought, it must be deep. “Have you seen anything at all? A piece of food? Gum?”

  “Nothing,” Elder said. “There’s nothing there.”

  “Here, Jim.”

  Jim glanced to his right. Sharon handed him a laryngoscope and a pair of long silver forceps with blunt blades bent in the shape of a curved L. Jim clicked the laryngoscope blade to the open position. “Help me,” he said tilting the boy’s head back. Elder forced the boy’s jaw open with his fingers. Jim inserted the laryngoscope blade and lifted. The child’s tongue, abnormally large as if having been pumped up with air, slid off the blade and fell to the right side of his mouth. Jim tried again. It slid to the left. He felt as if he were trying to pick up a slippery fish with a butter knife. It seemed impossible. Finally he managed to keep the tongue on the flat part of the blade as he lifted. The entire upper airway came into view. “Hmm, that’s strange.”

  “What?” Elder said. “Do you see something?”

  “Nothing.” Jim stared at the two white slivers marking the child’s tracheal opening. He had expected to see a piece of food, a toy, or even some blood, but the airway looked clear. “There’s nothing there.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Well there’s something down there. Whatever it is, it must be on the other side of the cords.” Jim held out his hand without shifting his view. He snapped his fingers. He could feel his heart beating. He felt as if he were involved in a bloody battle, one he was about to lose. He wasn’t nervous, he was terrified. He felt the tube touch his hand. He grabbed it, gently inserted its beveled end into the child’s mouth, and slid it through the cords hoping to pass it easily into the trachea, but the tube stopped short. “Bummer. It won’t pass.” He withdrew the tube and tried again with the same result. “Nope.”

  Larry delivered five chest compressions. Jim made another attempt to intubate but as before the tube wouldn’t pass. He felt a hard knot begin to grow in his stomach. He looked at Larry…saw concern in his eyes. He glanced at the crowd…saw panic in theirs. He realized he better do something and fast. God, he thought, what am I going to do?

  “Maybe we should just get him out of here,” Larry said.

  “Good idea.” Jim nodded and scooped the boy up in his arms. “Let’s go, Sharon, we’ll try again en route. Captain?” he said turning to Elder. “I’m going to need Larry to come with us.”

  “No problem.”

  “Okay then, let’s go. Code-three.”

  “You got it.”

  “Come on, Larry.”

  Jim jumped into the back of the truck with Larry on his heels. The side door opened and Sharon climbed in. After laying the boy on the stretcher and strapping him down Jim took a seat in the captain’s chair and positioned himself for another intubation attempt. His whole world seemed to shift into high speed. He heard the doors slam, heard Sharon calling the ER on the radio, felt the rig begin to move, saw Larry out of the corner of his eye getting himself into position. He focused on the boy’s airway and inserted the laryngoscope and tube. The tube made it through the cords again, but still it wouldn’t pass.

  “What’s down there!”

  “Move.” Sharon slid over and bumped up next to him. “Let me try.” Jim moved aside and watched Sharon try to pass the tube. He saw her grimace. Watched her shake her head. “You’re right, something’s blocking it.”

  “Maybe we should try an emergency trake.”

  “On a kid? Jim, have you lost your mind? That’s not in our protocols.”

  “He’s gonna die, Sharon!”

  “Then you better start praying, dude!”

  Jim glanced at Larry. Larry shrugged. Jim grabbed the laryngoscope from Sharon, pushed her aside and reinserted the blade. He lifted the tongue. Got the target in sight. His hands shook uncontrollably. “Hand me the tube.”

  It’s your last try, he thought. Get it or this kid dies. He felt the tube touch his fingertips. He grabbed it.

  “Okay,” he said, “I see the cords.”

  He felt his chest begin to pound.

  “Now…I’m passing the tube.”

  He felt his arms begin to tremble.

  “I’m going through…I’m going through.”

  The tube stopped.

  “No!”

  He pushed harder but the tube wouldn’t pass. He felt the onset of panic. A child’s life was slipping away and there was nothing he could do about it. He threw the laryngoscope aside and shouted, �
�Jesus, I can’t do this. Please help me!”

  Suddenly, as if they’d hit a pothole—the deep kind, deep enough to throw the truck’s entire frame out of alignment—the rear end of the truck dropped and then jumped into the air. Jim felt his feet slip out from under him. The truck crashed back down. He fell backwards and hit the floor with a teeth-jarring crash. Stars came out and encircled his head. “Jim!” He looked up and saw a blurry Sharon Duncan leaning over him. “Are you okay?” For a moment he wasn’t sure—he didn’t know where he was or what had happened—but then he heard a voice, an ecstatic voice somewhere in the back of his mind.

  “I see it,” the voice exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “There it is!”

  Jim sat up and rubbed his head. His vision quickly cleared and he saw a lanky Larry Purdue leaning over the stretcher with a huge grin on his narrow face, a sparkling twinkle in his eyes. He held a small rubber ball between his fingers.

  Jim felt so excited he barely noticed the numbness in his right elbow or the nasty bump growing on the back of his head. He jumped up, grabbed the Ambu-bag, and gave his patient five rapid bursts of air. The boy coughed once and then cried out and began breathing on his own.

  “Larry—” Jim grabbed a long clear tube attached to the wall mounted suction unit. “Would you give me some suction please?”

  Larry pushed a wall switch and the unit began to whir. Jim had a feeling of exultation sweep over him as he inserted the tip of the plastic catheter into the boy’s mouth. He’s going to live. He placed his index finger over the port. My God, he’s actually going to live. The hose began to suck. Creamy saliva inched its way up the tube and into the catch basin. Jim slowly withdrew the catheter, clearing the throat and mouth of slippery goo as he backed it out of the airway.

  “Okay,” he said barely able to contain himself. “This is good. Now,” he said putting his stethoscope to his ears. “Give him some O-2, Sharon.” Sharon placed a hissing oxygen mask over the boy’s face as Jim listened to his chest. The breathing sounded deep and clear. Perfect. He glanced at the boy’s hands. The once blue skin had turned a rosy shade of pink. He pinched one the small fingertips and then released it. It quickly regained its color.

  “Look,” Larry exclaimed, pointing at the little boy’s face. “He’s awake.” Jim looked at the boy’s eyes and saw them flutter and open. He felt his jaw go slack. He glanced at Sharon, looked at Larry. Larry’s eyes were wide with delight, his short blond hair soaked with sweat. “And look,” Larry said, wiping the tiny airway obstruction with a towel. “It’s not a ball.”

  Jim took the small round object and rolled it in his fingers.

  “It’s a grape.”

  A doctor, two nurses, and a respiratory therapist were waiting in the Pediatric Emergency Department when Medic-7 rolled through the doors. Jim grinned proudly as the doctor studied his patient, a healthy looking four year-old boy with only a hint of fatigue. The doctor frowned and looked at Jim as if he were wearing a clown suit.

  “What’s this?” she said. “I thought you were bringing us a respiratory arrest.”

  “We were.” Jim held out the grape. The doctor took it, frowned, and then handed it back and turned her attention to the child. Jim stood by and watched the examination. Lung sounds. Heart tones. Eyes, ears, nose and throat. A full set of vital signs—all within normal limits. The doctor ordered a full set of arterial blood gases and then turned back to Jim.

  “How long did he go without breathing?”

  Jim shrugged. “Eight, ten minutes maybe.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe longer, doc. He was gone.”

  “It’s a miracle he’s in such great shape then.” The doctor gave Jim a wink. “Hang around a few minutes…you may want to see the lab results.” The doctor pulled open the curtain just as a young couple came rushing into the room. The woman grabbed her son and hugged him tightly, kissing him repeatedly and stroking his face and hair. “Gracias,” she said, turning to face Jim. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, gracias.”

  “Thank you,” the father said in broken English. “You…you save our son.”

  “No,” Jim said shaking the man’s hand and pointing toward the ceiling. “Um…I think God saved your son, sir…not me.”

  Jim and Sharon pushed the stretcher through the exit doors and broke into wild laughter. Jim patted her on the back and gave her a high-five. “Man, that was awesome. I thought he was a goner.”

  “He was.”

  Sharon stopped laughing and looked down at the grape in her hand. She rolled it around a few times as a curious expression came over her face. Her left eyebrow rose. She gave Jim a wink. “I believe we just witnessed a miracle, partner.”

  Chapter 27

  Rico Rivetti got an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach as his team spread out to prepare for the raid. The section of Lakeland Avenue from Reservoir Street to the dead-end was a long hopeless stretch of potholed dirt road with some of the most clannish and meanest people within a twenty-mile radius of Morehead City. Everyone knew that the families there—inbred, old town fishing families mostly—had little respect for the law, and Rico had no intention of testing their hospitality. His team would move in fast, take down the Posse, and then call in the eight unmarked police cars waiting in the wings for backup.

  The teams were in position awaiting his command. It was good plan. Strong. Similar in many ways to most of the raids performed by The Knight Squad since its inception. And Rico had confidence in his team. They were smart kids. Excellent marksmen. And he knew without doubt that they would follow his command to the letter. But still, as he peered at the old Northside grill, something gnawed at him.

  “Something’s not right,” he whispered, suddenly forgetting his voice-activated mike.

  “Ten-nine?” a whispered response came. “Repeat.”

  “Nothing,” Rico whispered. “Little, what’s your status?”

  “Can’t hear you, sarge. Dang music’s too loud.”

  “What’s your status?” Rico repeated, his voice louder.

  “In position, sir.”

  “Good. We’re set in back. When you’re ready, move in for surveillance.”

  “Ten-four, moving in.”

  “All units stand by,” Rico said. “Officer Little moving in.”

  Rico had no doubt he’d found the right place. Piles of antifreeze and drain cleaner containers littered the bushes behind the building. A half-dozen rusty propane tanks sat against the back wall with what looked like a worn out camp stove and a can of Coleman fuel. A hefty padlock hung from a latch on the back door. The rear windows were painted black, just as Little Dee had said. And the sweet aroma of acetone overpowered the odor of polluted mud and rotten oyster shells. It was a description right out of the training manual. The perfect setup for cooking crystal meth.

  Rico glanced at the odd collection of vehicles parked around the building. Three Harley-Davidson motorcycles sat close to the door, another to the side along with an old Ford pickup and a black Cadillac Escalade with low profile tires. He did the math and estimated the size of the opposing force at six, minimum. Maybe seven. He glanced at his teammate. Lance’s sharp green eyes appeared focused and ready. He looked like a warrior in a Kevlar suit, his gloved hand wrapped tight around the grip of his MP5. The safety had been removed.

  “All set?”

  “Ready and willing, sir.” Lance gave Rico a confident wink. “Say the bloody word.”

  Rico looked at the building. The music concerned him. It was too loud. He found himself wondering if it would hamper communications. He hoped not. Jimmy Little’s voice came over the headset in a whisper.

  “Sarge, I’m at the front corner…large room…I count five, I repeat, five personnel. Weapons are visible.”

  Rico took one more look at his teammate and nodded, then spoke quickly and precisely into his voice-activated microphone.

  “All teams listen up. We’re going in. Stick to the plan, and wait f
or my count.”

  Alpha and Bravo teams acknowledged their readiness. Rico removed the safety from his Smith & Wesson .45, wrapped his finger around the trigger guard, and then slowly moved into position at the back door of the building. Lance moved to his right, switched on the Surefire tactical flashlight mounted beneath his submachine gun’s barrel, and covered the beam with his hand.

  “Okay,” Rico whispered. “Knight Squad on three. Three, two, one.” He shouted, “Go!”

  Rico jumped onto the back porch, and charged the back door, slamming it with his shoulder and practically knocking it off the hinges.

  “Police!” he shouted running inside.

  Lance rushed in behind him and swept the muzzle of his weapon around the room. The flashlight burned into the shadows revealing a large commercial sink, a heavy blue hose, an assortment of dried mops and brushes, and a collection of large plastic drums that were stacked against the wall. They were standing in some kind of a washroom. There were no suspects in sight.

  “Clear,” Lance shouted. “Bloody move!”

  Rico hurried across the room and entered the hallway with Lance on his heels. Lance moved before him and swept the hall with his light.

  “Clear,” Lance shouted.

  “Keep moving.”

  Rico heard muffled shouting. “Down, down, down! Get down!”

  Who? What’s going on?

  He heard a loud boom.

  A handgun. Something big.

  And it felt close, too close, just on the other side of the wall. He heard more shouting, a woman’s panicked scream, the quick burst of an automatic weapon, and then something heavy, like a body hitting the other side of the wall.

  Rico heard the thudding sound of running feet. He braced himself. His team was in a fight, and it was quickly moving their way.

  “Lance,” he said. “They’re coming our way. Heads up!”

  “I’ve got your back, sir.”

  Rico dropped to one knee. He sensed his partner’s strong presence. It felt good to have him by his side. Together they were an impenetrable wall, a force to be reckoned with, and some bad guy was about to find out. He could feel his pulse increase as focused on the end of the hall. His fingertip touched the trigger. His heart moved into his throat. He raised his .45. The pounding sound grew louder, bare feet against the dirty tile floor, and then suddenly a fat, topless female appeared around the corner of the hallway and ran toward them, screaming madly and wildly swinging her fists.