[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  “Is he alive?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” the agent answered. “The medics are treating him. It’s very confusing right now. I only know what his aide, who was at the scene, told me.”

  “My god.”

  The Chief of Staff broke in and addressed the agent. “Get us an update, and report back as soon as possible, even if there’s no change.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man spun and left the room.

  “The man they said was coming for me?” the President quietly asked.

  “We don’t know yet, sir.”

  “But we’re assuming?”

  Charlie swallowed. “Yes.”

  They sank into chairs, and the President held his head in his hands.

  “We should have addressed this with more.”

  “More what, sir? They had already caught the man’s brother. We have the man identified. It was only a matter of time before he was caught.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, and the sound of a siren could be faintly heard through the thick bulletproof glass.

  “Sir, not to be obtuse, but if he dies . . .”

  “The crime bill dies with him,” The President finished the sentence for him. “Let’s not think about that right now. The man’s fighting for his life.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  • • •

  Jack had been feeling his way down the tunnel for some time when he tripped over an unseen object and fell flat on the damp concrete. Cursing himself for not grabbing a flashlight before he set out, he pushed himself to his feet. He could barely make out the entrance behind him, and had nothing but pitch black in front. He was ready to return for a flashlight when an idea struck.

  “Dumbass,” he labeled himself for not thinking of it sooner. He began feeling the borrowed vest. After testing every pocket, he found the item he needed in the upper right Velcro loop. He pulled the small Maglite free and twisted it on.

  The beam pierced the darkness and revealed the floor he had just left, covered in black water and trash. He cupped the end of the light to limit its glow and held it away from his body in the event it prompted a bullet sent his way. He switched hands, so the Hi-Power was back in his dominant hand, and proceeded down the tunnel. The noise from an occasional passing train allowed him to speed up his approach when he could. Again, the shoes were working against him. The hard soles echoed off the concrete floor, announcing his presence. He was even tempted to take them off, but the water and the temperature would have made his feet numb in short order. He just ignored it the noise and kept on.

  While his eyes and ears concentrated on the tunnel, his mind asked himself if he had been smart pursuing Sam. Maybe he should have gone around, as he had instructed the agents back at the hotel. He had no communication. No backup. All of which was against procedure. He knew the truth; he was just not willing to admit it: he wanted to stop Sam by himself.

  The noise of the last train was quite loud, so Jack turned off the light and waited for his eyes to adjust. A faint glow could be made out in the distance. He placed the flashlight back in its Velcro loop and slowly approached the light. Eventually, he came to the chain link gate. An overhead light in the adjoining tunnel lit the area. He stuck his head through the large hole and gazed up and down the tunnel. He was about to step out when a train approached. He ducked back in and shut his eyes against the wind and dust as the train passed. With a fifty-fifty chance, he chose to follow the train.

  Eventually, he came to a station, brightly lit with a crowd waiting. He pulled himself up the steps and pushed through the waist-high safety gate. He expected an alarm or something similar, but only got a few curious looks from the waiting commuters. After scanning the crowd, he followed the traffic from an arriving train up the steps and into the main terminal. It was a sprawling complex with multiple levels. Ticket counters competed with coffee shops and a news kiosk for space among the seemingly thousands of benches and chairs. He looked up at the overhead screens to check the departures. Too many to track down. Had he lost him?

  He was ready to call for help when he saw a group of Washington PD approaching. He waved them over. He saw the lead man holding one of the pictures from the hotel.

  “No sign of him, Mr. Randall. We have people at all the exits scanning the crowd as they leave. I’ve contacted the station chief’s office. He’s not there, and they won’t shut down unless they have a written order from him. We’re working on it; should only take a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes? He could be gone in a few minutes. How many men you have?” Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “About thirty—mostly at the exits. It’s a busy night in DC.”

  “Yeah, this guy is the reason! Never mind. Wait here a second.” Jack pulled the cell phone from his belt and speed-dialed Sydney. She answered on the first ring.

  “Jack, where are you!”

  “I’m in the damn train station. Listen. This place is a zoo and I have minimal manpower. Have you found anything that indicates if he’s getting on one of these trains? Anything at all?”

  “Hold on; Eric’s looking.” There was a pause and Eric’s voice came on the line. She must be holding it to his ear, Jack thought, as he could hear the keyboard clicking as he spoke.

  “Jack? It’s Eric. So far all I’ve found are schedules with a lot of east coast destinations, both north and south of here.”

  “Read them off to me,” Jack replied. He motioned for a pen and grabbed a discarded newspaper out of the trash. He wrote down seven destinations on the paper. The lead officer watched over his shoulder and as each one became apparent, assigned an officer who consulted the overhead screen before sprinting off to find the appropriate ramp.

  “Okay,” Jack said. “Is that it?”

  Sydney was back on the line. “That’s it, Jack. We don’t have anything else. Obviously, they’ve put a lot of extra info in here, just like in the maps, in case we got hold of it. But what part is true and what’s just here to throw us off?

  “I don’t know, Syd. I don’t know. They teach us to hide our tracks in school. Sam was an instructor. He planned well.”

  “How did he know when he was going to be at the station? I mean—they have trains coming and going all the time? We ran the credit cards we found, and there aren’t any multiple purchases on the same number. The computer at the station isn’t showing any buys like that for tonight either. I’m at a loss.”

  Jack paced the floor with the officer watching. Pacing helped Jack think. He didn’t want to know how Eric had gotten access to a major transportation hub’s computer.

  “Syd, which train leaves the most? I mean—which train comes and goes very regularly?”

  “Hold on.” He heard her repeat the question to Eric, and Jack tapped his wet feet while waiting.

  “Looks like the shuttle to Dulles and the New York shuttle. Eric says you can buy a multi-pass for either one.”

  “He wouldn’t go to Dulles . . . I’ll call you back.” Jack hung up and spun around to face the cop. He had been joined by a station security officer.

  “The ramp to the New York shuttle?”

  The man raised his arm and pointed. “Leaving in about four minutes.”

  “You’re with me—both of you.” Jack turned and sprinted for the indicated ramp. The overweight cops struggled to keep up.

  The state of Washington holds 16,148 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 10,819 are repeat offenders.

  —FORTY-SEVEN—

  “Damn it. Why does he do that!” Sydney stared at the dead phone in her hand. “I swear I’m going to kill him if his buddy doesn’t do it first!”

  “Calm down, Sydney,” Larry spoke from across the table. “Jack’s a busy man right now.”

  She looked at him and immediately felt embarrassed for her outburst. Larry was often her voice of reason. “I know. I just hate it when he does that.”

  “Best we can do is work on helping him. Let’s call Greg and get him
updated. DC police, too. Eric, you have anything more?”

  “Negative, but I only have a few files left to crack. Soon, we’ll have seen everything.” Eric rubbed his eyes and cracked his knuckles before returning to the keyboard.

  “I’ll tell them. You take a break,” Larry told him as he headed for the stairs. The list of trains was in his hand, written in his own shorthand.

  “Just sitting by the phone,” Sydney groused. “Feels like the prom’s night.”

  • • •

  Sam, too, was waiting. He had found a comfortable position with his back to a post where he could see the entrance stairs at one end of the ramp, and the gate leading onto the tracks on the other. He didn’t like his position. The gate only led to the tracks that then led to the surface. The stairs would be the most likely approach of anyone pursuing him. No doubt the entrances to the station were all guarded by now. The streets would be crawling with cops. The airports were out of the question. He needed the train, and he needed it soon.

  He casually swung the empty briefcase against his leg, and held the folded paper up as he pretended to read it. Blend in, he told himself. Resist the urge to watch the entrance. Just give it a glance once in a while. Be ready to move when the train gets here. Get a standing spot near the door. Be ready to exit as soon as you clear the DC area, he coached himself as he waited.

  The pain came back without warning, nearly doubling him over. He fought it hard, but the cramping was like it hadn’t ever been. He used the pole for support and held on, determined not to call attention to himself. He felt the sweat break out on his face and his skin go clammy. He forced some deep measured breaths. After a full minute, the pain subsided enough for him to stand upright. He glanced at his fellow commuters, but everyone was too engrossed in their own little life on the ramp to have noticed.

  He reached in his coat’s pocket and retrieved the pills. Palming one, he tossed it back and managed to get it down without water. Some further breathing, and the pain became tolerable, but didn’t fully leave. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket containing the gun, careful not to snag the hammer and pull it free, also. The sweat was mopped from his forehead, and the glasses, which did nothing to correct his vision, were also cleaned before being placed back on his nose.

  He had just adjusted the glasses on his nose when he caught some activity on the entrance stairs. An officer slowed to a walk as he reached the bottom. He began scanning faces as he walked toward Sam. Sam estimated only a minute or so before he got to him. The paper came back up to his face, and he watched over the top as the cop stopped and asked a young man a few questions. He referred the man to the picture in his hand. The man just shrugged and shook his head. Sam was so engrossed in watching the cop working his way closer that he failed to see Jack walk down the steps. Sam finally spotted Jack when he stopped halfway down and began scanning the crowded ramp. The sound of his train approaching could be heard. The one on the opposite side opened its doors, and the population of the ramp began to decrease. Sam struggled to keep track of both the cop and Jack’s scanning gaze.

  It was only a matter of time.

  • • •

  The needle struck the edge of the clavicle as intended, before Ron guided it around. As he worked it deeper, he was careful to maintain the proper angle and began applying negative pressure to the syringe. It made for an awkward hand position, but it was the tried and true method for placing a central line in the field. As the needle passed the two-inch mark, Ron felt a moment of resistance followed by a flash of dark blood in the syringe. He immediately froze his hands, and advanced his index finger, sliding the catheter over the needle and into the senator’s right subclavian vein. When the catheter hub touched the skin, he pulled the needle from the catheter and placed his thumb, coated with Betadine, over the opening.

  “Janice, hand me that tubing.” Ron pointed with his chin.

  Janice quickly snapped out of her awe at what she had just seen and grabbed the IV tubing from the senator’s chest. Ron took it in his right hand and pulled the blue cover off with his teeth. As fast as he could, he uncovered the catheter and attached the tubing. The object was to get as little air as possible in the line. The senator didn’t need an air embolism on top of his gunshot wound.

  Ron looked at the tape strips he had stuck to the cot, but the movement of the ambulance had stuck them all down. He made a face: Stan saw the problem. With one hand still bagging, he reached into the IV kit and grabbed a fresh roll. He saw Ron had tabbed the end out of habit. Getting the first piece off was a bitch with gloves on: you needed your fingernails. Stan handed the roll to Janice.

  “Three pieces, about four inches long,” he instructed. “That was very nice, Ron. I’m impressed.”

  Ron watched the drip rate. Just short of a steady stream, it was just what he wanted.

  “Thanks. Just wish I had some O-neg to give him.”

  “They can hang it as soon as we get there now.”

  Janice was busily taping the lines down where Ron indicated. She noticed him checking the drip chamber with every strip. She was learning. He must be checking that it doesn’t kink, she thought. But he had just stuck a sword in this guy’s chest, and the chief thinks that’s a good thing? She would have to ask later.

  “Still hard to bag, Ron,” the chief prompted.

  “I’m on it,” he replied, pulling his stethoscope from his neck and twisting it around so it was in his ears correctly. He placed the bell over the left chest. The bubbling was much more diminished from what he had heard earlier. He cocked his head to check the depth of the breathing tube. Twenty-three centimeters—should be perfect. The man’s lung was collapsing. There was air, blood, or both, in the chest cavity, so Ron had to release the pressure building up on the lung so it could expand. He pulled the scope from his ears and looked for the 14-gauge catheters he had discarded earlier. He found them on the cot between the man’s arm and his body. He opened two and laid them back on the chest. As he turned to dig in his IV kit again, he heard the beat of the monitor skip. There was no bump in the road to coincide with it.

  “Better hurry,” Stan urged.

  “It’s coming,” Ron said. “Janice, I need you to move to the other side.” She quickly grabbed the overhead rail with both hands and stepped over the senator. A sudden lurch to the side threw her into the seat. Her head struck the padded edge of the cabinet. She felt the welt start over her eye.

  “Ya all right?” Stan questioned.

  “Yeah, I’ll live.”

  “They pad ’em for a reason. Grab this bag for a second—one every three. We’ll check your head later.”

  She grasped the bag in both hands and gave it a squeeze. She just naturally watched the man’s chest and was surprised when only the right-half rose. It startled her so much she almost stopped bagging. She noted the chief placing the wastebasket from the door bracket between the cot and the bench. The medic was pulling out another one of those swords. This one was a little shorter, but just as big and still intimidating.

  Ron pawed through the inventory in the kit until he located a three-way stopcock. He made sure it was closed and ready to fix to the end of the catheter. This time, he remembered to speak before he stuck the Betadine swab in his mouth.

  “Let’s dance again,” he instructed Stan.

  They both rose and switched places. Stan retrieved the bag from Janice and resumed the pace. The monitor began beeping more irregularly, as if urging them on by itself.

  Ron straddled the trash can and placed it between his knees, holding it up to the left side of the chest. He paused to zip up his jacket. He pulled the man’s left arm up and over his head, where Stan held it with his forearm. With Janice watching, his fingers probed the man’s ribs until he found what he wanted. Ron ripped open the swab with his teeth, this time getting a taste which he spat out. Janice leaned in to see what he was going to do.

  “Don’t lean in,” Ron warned. “This might be messy.”

  Before sh
e could get all the way back, Ron stabbed the needle straight in just over the fifth rib. He felt the pop as he punched through the chest wall. The catheter flashed red. Holding it with his thumb and index finger, he removed the needle. A jet of air and blood shot out and coated the wall of the wastebasket. Its force was enough to splash out and onto the front of Ron’s jacket. The jet slowly reduced to a trickle, at which point Ron attached the valve.

  “Better,” Stan reported after squeezing the bag.

  Ron nodded as he listened to the chest again. Still sounded like crap, but at least the pressure was off the lung and major vessels. He pulled the stethoscope away in time to hear Danielle cussing the traffic in front of her. This was followed by the brakes and a couple of swerves, punctuated by the air horn.

  “Time, Danny?” Ron yelled.

  “About ten!” she replied.

  “Too damn long,” Ron complained. “Push that button marked NIBP on the bottom left of the screen for me,” he instructed Janice. She searched the face of the heart monitor until she found it. The machine began pumping air into the blood pressure cuff again. Ron doubted that he’d get an accurate reading with all the bumps they were hitting, but he had to try. He couldn’t feel a pulse at the wrist. Ron stripped off his second set of bloody gloves and pulled on a third. He then reached around Stan for the radio. Flipping it on, he dialed in the proper frequency for the hospital emergency room. He looked at the IV bag. 700cc’s in and no radial pulses. Heartbeat was getting erratic. Oxygen saturation was still low. A pressure reading popped up on the screen: 76/42. The man was bleeding out somewhere internally.

  “Stan, talk her through another bag of ringers, and this time use the infuser.”

  He keyed the mic as Stan began instructing Janice with his teaching voice.

  “George Washington-Medic 11.”

  • • •

  The train pulled into the station with the customary rush of wind and squeal of the brakes. It stopped just slightly off the loading positions marked in yellow on the concrete. People gathered their belongings all around him, and began gravitating toward the doors. The crowd thinned. Sam stood his ground and watched Jack. He was slowly scanning faces, but he was quite some distance away. As the number of people between them thinned, Sam began to move toward the doors. He hovered on the edge of the gaggle of commuters slowly boarding. There was no way around them without calling attention to himself, so he waited patiently, dividing his attention between Jack and the strolling security officer.