Kill Shot - An Abram Kinkaid Thriller

by Blake, Cameron

  "You're bleeding!" she said.

  She grabbed his wrist and twist it. Abram flinched, but didn't say anything.

  "The bone may have broken the skin again. We need to get you a cast right away."

  The bone was still sub-skin, but Abram didn't correct her. He followed her to an open room.

  "Wait here," she said.

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  She scowled at him for that. He chuckled to himself as she left. Moments later she was back with a doctor.

  "Doctor Stevens is going to get you all fixed up. I'll be back to check on you in a little while."

  "Thank you," Abram said. "See you soon."

  Maybe, she mouthed as she walked away.

  "Let's see what we're working with," Doctor Stevens said.

  He removed the splint and the bandage. Abram's arm was swollen from the elbow to the wrist with a nasty black around the wound area.

  "You've got a pretty nasty break here," Doctor Stevens said. "I'll need to make sure the bone is in place before casting you."

  "Do what you got to do, doc," Abram said. He stared into the pale wall while the doctor pressed his fingers all around the wound and gave his arm a few sharp yanks. If the bone wasn't in place before, it definitely was now, or shattered. Abram closed his eyes to block out the spots. Doctor Stevens cut out what looked like long pantyhose from a blue box and slid it over Abram's arm. He then wrapped three layers of cast padding over the stockinette. The doctor filled a bowl with water and dipped the cast bandage into it, then wrapped the fiberglass material around Abram's arm as well.

  Not unfamiliar to the process, Abram watched as the doctor rolled three to four layers of fiberglass material over the cast padding. He smoothed out any wrinkles and cut away the excess stockinette before applying a final layer of fiberglass material.

  "You're all set. Don't apply pressure on the cast for the first hour and keep your arm elevated at all times. For the next four weeks, make sure you wiggle your fingers frequently and if you experience any numbness or bluing of the fingers, come in right away."

  "Understood," Abram said. The cast was smaller than any he had had before. This one only covered six inches of his forearm. He moved his fingers to help get the blood circulating.

  "I'll have Ms. Winters bring you a sling. Have a good evening."

  Doctor Stevens closed the door behind him. Abram thought about getting up and leaving, not wanting to be around when someone discovered the two dead bodies down the hall. But just as he had made up his mind to go, the door reopened. Abram stopped like a deer caught in the headlights.

  "Bailing already?" Ms. Winters said.

  "I was—I was just about to come looking for you, actually," Abram lied.

  "Mhm. I'm sure you were."

  She looked over the doctor's notes.

  "Your CT scans came in."

  Abram's heart stopped. Had they found the bodies? Abram didn't see any signs of tension on her face to lead to him believe they had.

  "While the CT scan only revealed the frontal lobe, there was still enough evidence of a minor concussion. We don’t feel as though additional testing is necessary. That hard head of yours might have just saved your life."

  "It usually just gets me into trouble," Abram said.

  She flipped the file closed and crossed her arms.

  "Well, you're all good to go. I'm sure the doctor instructed you not to put pressure on that?"

  He nodded.

  "You don't look like the type to wear a sling, but if you so choose..."

  She tossed a sling at his chest. He caught it with his free hand.

  "You're my hero. I've always wanted one of these," he said.

  "Shut and get out of my hospital," she said, giving him a quick nudge in the arm.

  "Ouch!" he exclaimed. "I may have to stay a bit longer to get my shoulder checked out now. There's this crazy woman running around punching handicapped men in the arms."

  "You're handicapped now?" she said.

  "Does it get me your number?" he said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  "If you're still around when I get off, we'll see. Now go."

  "Yes, Ma'am," he said again, offering her a salute.

  She kicked him in the butt as he left the room.

  "Exit's that way," she said, pointing in the opposite direction he was going.

  "Right."

  He winked as he passed her. She shook her head and headed back down the hall to another patient. She glanced back just as Abram was pushing the exit door open. He turned back, saw her staring, and waved. She rushed away immediately.

  See you later, he said to himself.

  Chapter 21

  The waiting room was empty when Abram came whistling out of the hall.

  "What are you all giddy about? You look like a boy who just got his first kiss."

  Abram stopped dead in his tracks. It was Sandra.

  "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

  "You're alive," he breathed."

  "Good job, Captain Obvious."

  "I—I thought you—"

  "You thought what? That I was dead? It touches me here"—she placed her hand over her heart—"that you care."

  "What are you doing here? How did you find me?" he asked.

  "Looking for you. There're only a few hospitals within a ten-mile radius of Ottawa International. And it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out which one was receiving patients at such a late hour."

  "So you called," he said.

  "I called. But that's beside the point."

  "How are you not hurt? You were standing right where the missile struck the plane."

  She stepped closer and lowered her voice.

  "Crash," she corrected. "Has anyone tried to talk to you or get a statement?"

  "Just one of the EMT’s on site."

  "What did you tell him?" Her voice was ice.

  "That I couldn't remember."

  "Did he believe you?"

  "He had no choice. It's kind of hard not to believe someone with a concussion found in the middle of burning runway and the wreckage of the jet they were flying on. He seemed too interested so I told him I remembered making our descent when the plane banked suddenly and we crashed."

  She couldn't hide the relief on her face.

  "I saw the missile. How did they know we were coming?" he said.

  She looked to the left as if the magazine rack on the table would give her the answers she needed.

  "I don't know," she said. "But someone tried to have us killed. We need to find out who."

  Abram thought back to the dead man he had strangled a few rooms over. Worried would be an understatement. Concerned, maybe. Pissed, definitely. Abram flexed his right hand. It still had a red crease through the palm where he had wrapped the cord. He could still feel it, feel the life leave the man who had tried to kill him. Abram wasn't angry that the man had tried to kill him. He was just another professional doing his job. It wasn't personal. But for some reason, something was different in him. Abram had killed people before, but never up close. It was different from behind the scope. Taking a life from a mile out was almost as if you were passing through dimensions, like exhaling. But when you hold the scale of life and death in your bare hands, feel the struggle, watch the panic and fear in their face, and experience the end; that—that’s breathtaking.

  Abram wasn't disturbed that he had killed the operative. What bothered him was that he enjoyed it. The sensation scared him, and at the same time, he couldn't wait to feel it again. His heart quickened as he recounted the final seventy-two seconds. It was arousing.

  "I killed one of them," Abram said, seeing the dead man's face staring up at him from the tile floor, his body entangled like a pretzel in the Radiology control room.

  Sandra stopped midway through her next thought.

  "You what?"

  She glanced around and dragged Abram to the nearest wall.

  "When did this happen?"

  "Abo
ut an hour ago. He's...in the west wing. Don't worry. I hid the body. It'll be the morning before anyone finds them."

  "Them? How many of them were there?"

  "Just one. He impersonated one of the doctors here. The other body—"

  "Ok, ok. I got it. This is worse than I thought. How could they have possibly known we were coming? They must have sent scouts to every nearby hospital just in case any of us survived."

  Sandra looked panicked, her stoic facade quickly crumbling. Abram touched her forearm lightly.

  "They made a terrible mistake," he said.

  She was confused.

  "They failed to kill us. But we won't make the same mistake."

  Abram's eyes clouded over as he lost himself in the memory of the kill again. The Emergency Room and the red linen chairs that were too red for the pale walls, and the whining grind of the AC, and the hiss of the doors opening and closing, all faded away.

  "Where's Scott?" he asked.

  "He's waiting for us."

  "Is he?"

  "He's fine too. Our guys here in Ottawa found him washed up on the Rideau River a mile from the crash under one of the seats. I was two hundred meters north of him. It's a miracle either of us is alive. I guess the ballistic and space armor paid off. They must have protected us from the initial blast before the plane was ripped apart by sheer inertia."

  That was good enough for Abram. He wasn't sure he believed it. There was definitely something Sandra wasn't telling him. She didn't have a scratch on her. Ballistic armor or not, no one could survive a direct hit and a mile-long fling without so much as a scratch or a cut. She had neither. Her skin was as clear as porcelain."

  "Take me to Scott," he said. He needed some answers.

  A black Escalade drove up the moment they exited the ER. The side door swung open. Sandra and Abram jumped in. The SUV sped down John Sutherland Drive then banked right onto Route 36 N. The Ottawa River came into view on the left as the driver merged onto the Trans-Canada Highway heading east. Even in the late night, boats could be seen sailing the channel. They passed several docks full of sailboats and yachts, their owners sitting out on the deck enjoying the warm summer evening. The water called to Abram. It had been years since he had set foot in any pool of water more than a puddle. They followed the river north on Vanier Parkway N.

  They passed through Hurdman's Bridge with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police headquarters on their left and Saints Peter and Paul Church not too far off. The three blue domes with mounted crosses condemned him as they passed.

  Forgive me for the sins I have committed and the ones yet to come. Amen.

  The driver exited onto Montreal Road. They passed a Burger King on the left. Even here, mighty capitalism reigned. The SUV turned left on Olmstead Street and parked in the lot in the back.

  "I'll get us a room," Sandra said.

  She slammed the door behind her before Abram had a chance to refute. The driver kept the SUV running.

  "Crazy night," Abram said.

  The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. Abram thought he heard the man grunt. Not so friendly are we. Sandra opened Abram's door fifteen minutes later.

  "Alright, I've got us two rooms." She handed him his room key. Room 3.

  He stashed the key in his pocket and closed the door behind him. The SUV sped off.

  "What are we doing here?" he said. "Shouldn't we be trying to figure out who tried to kill us?"

  "We are, but for now, we need to lay low and plan our next move. We don't know how much of our plan has been compromised."

  They rounded the corner. Scotia Bank was on the left and Super Food Market and Cash Street were to the right of their home for the night. At least they'd be able to get something to eat. Abram was famished.

  "Do you have any cash?" he asked.

  He flicked his head at the market. Sandra rolled her eyes and handed him a roll of bills.

  "Be quick. We want to go as unnoticed as possible."

  He nodded.

  "And Abram," he glanced back, "avoid cameras."

  She entered through the hotel lobby entrance while Abram made his way into the market. The door dinged as he entered. Bright fluorescent lights burned overhead. Abram squinted from the sudden glare. He went about his business quickly. He grabbed two bags of Peppered Beef Jerky, some Corn Nuts, two one-liter bottles of Evian, and some hot pockets from the freezer.

  He laid out his wares onto the counter. The clerk came over and began ringing him up.

  "Are these fresh?" Abram asked.

  Abram didn't bother waiting for the clerk's response. The man’s eyes were way too bloodshot to care. He'd go back to the bottle he was drowning himself in once Abram left. He probably hardly got any customers at this hour other than drunks or punk kids. Abram wondered what that made him. He grabbed a turkey with cheese and two hot dogs. The tin foil was still warm. That was a good sign. Who knew how long they had been sitting there. Abram didn't care at this point. He had eaten far worse than ground-up pig intestine sitting out all day. He tossed a bag of chips and two Snickers onto the counter as well.

  "Is that all?" the clerk asked. His disdain for Abram forcing him to do his job permeated the air.

  "Yeah, actually," Abram said. He shuffled through the shirt rack to the right. He managed to find a turquoise one his size. He pulled two off the rack and a black baseball hat.

  "These too," he said.

  The clerk rolled his eyes. The clerk moved at a snail's pace. If he went any slower, Abram thought his eyes might fall out. He finally rang up the last item.

  "$52.44," he said.

  Abram unrolled a $100 from the wad. He slammed it on the counter.

  "Keep the change."

  He grabbed one of the plastic bags and slid all of his loot into it before the clerk had a chance to finish asking if he wanted it bagged. “Useless,” Abram breathed the moment the door closed behind him. How do people like that even function? He watched the clerk head to the back of the store, just as Abram thought.

  He placed the cap on and ripped the tin foil off one of the hot dogs. He bit down and chewed. It had definitely been sitting there awhile. Abram forced the overcooked dog down his throat and tossed the balled-up foil into the wastebasket. He entered the main lobby of the hotel. The front counter was empty. Good. He didn't know if he could handle another drug-infused imbecile tonight. He kept his gaze down, allowing the bill of the hat to block his face in case there were any cameras in the lobby. The lobby had brown and beige marble and white walls. It was much nicer than he anticipated it to be. A sign read All rooms on the second floor. Use elevator. He walked past the counter to the left and right by the elevator to the stairs. He pushed the door open and climbed the two flights two-at-a-time. His room was three doors down from the stairwell. The hall had an ugly gray carpet that stretched from end-to-end. It was covered in dark stains. Abram passed room six. Light filtered underneath the door. It was the only one that apparently had any occupant. He assumed it was Sandra's.

  He stood by the door wondering if he should knock. He raised his closed fist and knocked three times. He heard a woman curse and shuffle to the door. Sandra's disdain for him spewed forth the moment she opened the door and saw it was him who had disturbed her.

  "What do you want?" she said. She stood with the door cracked, her arm blocking it.

  Abram held up the plastic box with the turkey and cheese.

  "I thought you might be hungry," he said.

  A split second of appreciation showed on her face before the veil of contempt returned. She snatched it out of his hands.

  "Thanks," she mumbled and slammed the door in his face.

  He stood there staring at the door. He knew she was looking through the peephole. He sighed and headed to his own room. He flashed his room key along the security box and buzzed. He pushed the door open and latched it behind him. A single queen bed sat to the right; a small white nightstand next to it. The room had a white desk with a matching dresser. A welcome broch
ure lay on the desk near the phone. Complimentary Wi-Fi. That was about all the place had going for it. The small fridge and microwave were a plus. He unwrapped the second hot dog from the foil and nuked it for ten seconds. The heat didn't really make the meat taste any better but at least the bun was softer. He forced the last bite in and chased it with two gulps of Evian. He ripped open one of the hot pocket wrappers and placed the crust sandwich in its nuclear sheath. He set the microwave to a minute and a half. He didn't bother waiting for it to cool when the timer dinged. He stuffed the other pockets into the fridge's freezer slit and left the packages of Beef Jerky and water on the table.

  He fell onto the bed. The mattress sagged with his weight. He had just closed his eyes when a tap came on his door. His first thought was immediately that they had found him. He glanced around the room for something he could use as a weapon. He ripped the lamp out of the socket and held it like a cudgel. He peeked through the peephole, then relaxed and opened the door.

  He opened his mouth to say, "What do you want?" but never got the chance.

  "Shut up," Sandra said, and pushed her way in.

  She had her lips firmly pressed against his before the door closed. Her hands were already pulling his shirt off. He tried to latch the door.

  "Leave it," she said, fire in her voice.

  She was like a wild tiger on the prowl. She shoved Abram toward the bed onto his back.

  She pulled her shirt over her head and removed her skirt. Her petite breasts bulged over her white bra. Her stomach was tight and her thighs solid muscle. The hunger inside Abram flared to life. He grabbed her violently and tossed her on her back. He quickly removed his own pants and boxers and tore her panties off. He stood there a tower of power and lust as she gazed up at him with longing eyes, begging him to have his way with her. She crawled backward to the center of the bed and pulled the sheets over her. She flicked her finger for him to come to her.

  He slid under the sheets and climbed onto her. He kissed her neck and worked his way down her curved abdomen to her legs. Her breathing became labored and she gasped. She grabbed his hair and pulled him back to her lips. Her tongue danced with his. Her neck was hot with sweat. She dug her nails into his back, holding him tight with her thighs.