[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  “V-fib!” Ron announced.

  To Janice’s horror, the chief balled up a fist and punched the senator in the chest.

  The state of Wisconsin holds 22,614 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 15,151 are repeat offenders.

  —FORTY-NINE—

  Jack quickly entered the car and moved to one side. He kept his gun low and to his side, but the body armor and jacket still drew the passengers’ attention. The blast of cold air also distracted a few travelers from their reading and laptop computers. Jack just nodded at them as he scanned faces. He was about to make his announcement when he caught a face at the front of the car looking back. The man slowly removed his glasses. It was Sam. They stared at each other for a long moment. Jack cocked his head in a silent question.

  Please, Sam?

  Sam frowned and shook his head—No.

  Jack watched as Sam disappeared from his view by sitting on the bench seat close to the door. Beyond it, he could see the train operator through heavy glass. He raised the pistol and adopted a two-hand grip.

  “FBI! I need everyone off this car now. Leave your things and move to the back of the train. Do it now!” Jack stepped up onto a chair in an attempt to see over the people all standing and exiting. He still couldn’t see Sam. An elderly man stood and seemed to be talking to him. A wall of thin sheet metal blocked his view. He could shoot through it if he had to, but he didn’t know if Sam was alone on the other side. He had no choice but to wait.

  • • •

  Sam sat calmly as the elderly couple stood. He offered an arm to aid her.

  “Aren’t you coming, young man?”

  “He’s here for me, ma’am. Please, do what he says. Everything will be all right.”

  “Are you sure, son? There are better ways,” the old man offered.

  “It’s okay, sir. It’s time for this to end. That man, he’s a friend.”

  The old man turned and calmly sized up the FBI agent. He took his time and studied Jack’s face. He had no fear of being between them, Sam saw. He had the calm of a man who had accepted death a long time ago.

  “A good friend?” he asked.

  “The best,” Sam replied.

  “Make sure you help him, too.” The woman shook a finger.

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.” Sam grinned.

  The couple turned and walked toward the FBI agent, her hand in his. Sam followed what could have been until they were out of sight. He felt a slight pang of envy. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the 9mm. He ejected the magazine into his hand and contemplated it. Feeling the train lurch as it slowed, he sat and listened as the door to the car opened and closed. He heard the old man say something to Jack that he couldn’t make out. Placing his hand in the coat pocket with the magazine, Sam began thumbing the rounds out. Stopping when it was empty, he then replaced it in the Browning. Thumbing the slide back, he ensured there was still one round in the chamber. He craned his neck around to look out the window. Looked like an industrial area. Smoke stacks and warehouses, lots of space. Good a spot as any.

  “Jack?”

  “I’m here, Sam.”

  “Don’t shoot yet, okay?”

  “Okay, but . . .”

  Sam pointed the gun at arm’s length at the glass, paused so Jack could see it, and fired.

  • • •

  Mary had been running the shuttle for over four years, and was puzzled by the order on her screen to slow down. Nevertheless, she did so immediately. She was not due to stop for some time, and slowing would throw her arrival time back, but there was probably someone blocking the tracks. She had quit looking through the rear glass years ago, and since the security door had been installed after 9-11, she had stopped worrying about her passengers entering the cockpit. She was just reaching for the microphone to call and ask why when the blast of the gun filled the car and she was showered in glass fragments. She jumped at the sound, but was held up short by her seatbelt. A deep breath was taken in preparation for a scream, when a voice cut her off. She found herself gripping the controls until her hands were pale.

  “Stop the train!” the voice commanded. “Now!”

  She obediently yanked back on the throttle and engaged the brakes for an emergency stop. The train lurched forward as the brakes caught and glass rained down from her hair and shoulders. She made herself as tiny as she could in the chair. Her world was suddenly very small. Encased in steel, with her only exit blocked, she had nowhere to go.

  She turned her head slowly as they came to a stop. She saw a large man alone on the bench seat behind her. He gave her an encouraging nod. She was about to ask him what was happening when she saw the gun in his hand. He put a finger to his lips in an order of silence. She nodded in silent compliance and pulled her head back into the cockpit where the smell of the brakes was making her eyes water. She stared out the front of the train, but saw only empty track. Forcing herself not to panic, she returned her breathing to normal. There was nowhere to go. Her eyes wandered over the controls of the train. She named them in her head to help stay in control of her emotions. Gauges, meters, lights, radio. Radio? She slowly moved her foot and felt for the transmit button on the floor. It was always set to its max volume to be heard over the noise. Convinced they would hear her and hopefully figure it out, she pushed the button and held it down. She didn’t dare speak. The man behind appeared to be talking to someone in the car. She hoped the microphone was sensitive enough to pick up the conversation. There was nothing left to do. The picture of her daughter she kept on the dash caught her attention. She studied her young face as she held down the switch and prayed.

  • • •

  “Where is he?” Sydney asked again.

  “My people have spotted him on the train,” Greg replied. “Jack’s removed everyone from the front and is on the first car with the driver and one man who matches the description of the shooter. The train has stopped, and I’m deploying people around it, but it will take a few minutes. I’ll keep you informed.” He hung up.

  “Screw this!” Sydney headed for the stairs. “Eric, you’re with me. Bring the laptop.”

  Eric scrambled to comply.

  “Sydney, don’t go up there mad,” Larry advised. “Greg will toss you out, and you know it.”

  “I know,” she answered. “I’ll cool off by the time I get there. He didn’t even give me a chance to tell him about the letter.” Sydney continued her march toward the stairs, but was stopped short by an image on the overhead television. The train could be seen stopped in the middle of what looked like an industrial area. As the helicopter circled the train, a smokestack occasionally flashed across the screen. Other helicopters could be seen, and a searchlight from the nose of one lit up the train, turning night to day.

  “Look at the front window. Is that a bullet hole?” Larry asked.

  Sydney strained her eyes to see, but couldn’t make it out as the picture angle changed. Larry changed the channel, and a different view popped up. This one showed a steady picture that slowly panned across the windows of the train. A man in a long dark coat could be seen sitting toward the front. Another man was at the rear of the car with a gun clearly seen in his hand. The man rotated his body and the letters on his jacket became visible.

  “It’s Jack,” Sydney voiced. “What the hell is he doing?”

  At that point, the picture was lost as the helicopter pulled away. An image of a State of Maryland police helicopter filled the screen briefly and then the image was gone. An announcer, seated behind the news desk, began to explain the scene to those who had just seen it. Evidently, the police had seized control of the airspace over the train.

  “Damn it!” Sydney yelled at the smiling woman on the screen. She spun on her heel and walked to the stairs. Again, Eric struggled to keep up.

  “Let her go,” Larry told the room of people once the door swung shut behind the two of them. “Not like anyone could stop her, anyway.”

  “Sir?”

&nb
sp; Larry turned to see one of the office crew holding a phone with her hand over it. She had a curious look on her face.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I have Transit Authority on the line. They say they can hear what’s happening on the train, and they want to know who they should connect with?”

  Larry’s eyes bugged out with the new information. How the hell . . . ? he thought. Never mind.

  “Me,” he said and quickly walked to the phone.

  • • •

  Ron stared at the screen, hoping to see a change. When nothing happened, he began programming the monitor. Janice let go of the IV lines when she heard the distinctive sound of the charging capacitor. She had seen enough television to know what that meant.

  When the numbers had finished scrolling up to one-hundred and twenty, Ron put his finger next to the button and turned his head to see if anyone was touching the senator. A quick scan showed Stan had his hands in the air, and Janice was holding onto the cabinets to keep her seat. The IV was swinging around as usual, but this couldn’t be helped. It was safe.

  “Clear?” he voiced.

  “Clear!” Stan echoed.

  Ron’s finger moved to the button and pressed it. As the senator’s body shivered on the stretcher, Ron’s eyes were on the screen. The large spike of the defibrillation was followed by a short period of flatline, before returning to V-Fib. He began programming again. The shrill sound of the charging capacitor was accompanied by more cursing of the traffic from the front end. Ron again placed his finger next to the button to avoid shocking his partners with an accidental defibrillation.

  “150. Get ready with that epi. Clear?”

  “Clear!” they both echoed this time.

  The senator shivered again and all eyes turned to the monitor screen. The spike was followed again by the flatline, only this time it stayed.

  “Damn it. Asystole. Start CPR and push that epi now.” Janice scrambled to catch the flying IV line, as Stan placed his hands on the chest and took up a steady rhythm. Ron placed two fingers on the left carotid artery and was rewarded with a faint pulse. He watched Janice push the drug into the port and release the pinched line. The chamber showed a steady stream.

  “Good pulse with the CPR, Stan. Janice, go ahead and push the atropine now. It’s the purple box.” Ron checked the chest as he continued to squeeze the bag. Good equal rise and fall still. Little harder than a minute ago, but that could just be his adrenaline pumping. He squeezed the bagged some more as Janice pushed the atropine. The monitor showed rhythmic spikes that were off the capacity of the screen. He waited to see a change, as the drugs made their way to the heart. He made a note of the time and forced himself to wait a full minute while Stan broke out in a sweat. CPR was hard work.

  “Stop for a sec, Stan.” Stan collapsed back onto the bench seat and looked at the monitor screen. Janice craned her head in an attempt to see the monitor, but the moving ambulance stopped her. She gave up and watched the chief pull his shirt out of his belt and wipe the sweat from his face. Ron changed the lead selection on the monitor, but found the same thing in all three.

  “Still flat. Back on the chest. Janice, check the clock and push another epi and atropine in one minute.”

  “Got it.” She deftly snagged the IV line out of the air and held it between her knees as she opened another box. Stan picked up the rhythm again on the chest. Sweat was already dripping off his brow onto the patient.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Ron shook his head. “Not sure, but my guess is he nicked something and he’s bleeding out somewhere. Chest rise is okay, so I’m not sure where it’s going. Abdomen maybe? Hard to tell since he’s so fat. Soon as she gets that round in, I’ll try to pace him.”

  “Okay. Getting a pulse with this?”

  Ron placed his fingers at the neck again.

  “Fainter.” He looked up at the bag. The drip chamber no longer showed a steady stream, the flow was now slower. It should be faster with the CPR. What the hell was going on?

  The state of Wyoming holds 1,872 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 1,254 are repeat offenders.

  —FIFTY—

  It had taken every ounce of self-control Jack had to not fire on Sam through the sheet metal partition. Sam had given him enough time to see the angle of the shot, and he’d determined that the window was the only thing in the way just as Sam had fired. The woman’s scream and the orders from Sam had Jack confused. Why was he stopping the train here? He had to know that they had police all around. Was he just choosing the time and place? Trying to stay in control as long as possible?

  The train became very quiet as it came to a full stop. The sounds of the helicopters overhead were distinguishable, and Jack was blinded by the occasional spotlight sweeping across the car. Fortunately, the lights stayed on inside the train and made them visible to the outside. He looked out the right side, only to see the vague outline of buildings and a few lights. Most was lost in the reflection of the interior of the car off the glass. He returned his gaze to the front of the car to see Sam still sitting quietly in the bench seat. The khaki clad knees and leather office shoes protruded from behind the partition. The silence was deafening.

  “Sam?”

  “I’m here, Jack.”

  “I’m sorry about Sara and Katie. I was out of the country, or I’d have been there.”

  “It’s okay, Jack. I’m sorry, too.”

  “You wanna get some coffee and talk about it?”

  Sam grinned to himself. “No, I’m good right here.”

  Jack’s mind raced for something to say. This was his friend. Why was this so hard?

  “Paulie’s in the Marine Barracks at Quantico. I didn’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “I appreciate that, Jack.”

  Another long pause. They both listened as the helicopters circled. The lights from some news cameras could be seen on a nearby bridge. Sam broke the silence.

  “When did you know it was me?”

  “I thought of you when I saw the Ping shoot. The range and elevation was the killer. But the check on all ex-military snipers was delayed. I should have known better.”

  “Yeah, that was a hell of a shot. Is the cop okay? Didn’t mean to do that.”

  “On a desk for a few weeks, then he’ll be back at it. Just like the army, remember?”

  “Motrin, light duty?” Sam stated.

  “Yeah, the cure-all.”

  They sat through another awkward pause. Jack felt for the radio before remembering it was gone. What now? The HRT team had to be in place by now. Jack shifted his position so the letters on the back of his jacket were easily visible. Keep him talking.

  “I talked to your doctor. Says you could still have a chance if you start treatment again.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Seemed like a nice guy. Spoke well of you,” Jack added.

  “Yeah . . . good guy.”

  “Sam, lemme take you out of here. They’ll put you in a nice federal country-club prison with a hospital. You can fight the cancer.”

  Sam smiled at his friend’s attempt to talk him out. “You need one of your fancy negotiators, Jack. You suck at this.” He laughed.

  “You think?” Jack couldn’t help but laugh with him. He was right. The more he laughed, the funnier it got, until they were both laughing loud and hard.

  • • •

  The sound of the laughter coming from the speaker made everyone in the room stop and listen.

  “What the hell is going on?” Sydney asked the room.

  “Sierra Three, are you in position?” Greg was busy surrounding the train with HRT members. A blown-up map of the area hit the table, and two agents ticked off the positions of the team surrounding the train. Sydney didn’t get an answer to her question.

  “I can only hear the guy Jack’s talking to,” Eric offered in a whisper. “Can you make any more out?”

  “No.” She bit her lip and pouted at
the overhead TV screen. Smaller than the one downstairs, she was having trouble seeing any details. Another monitor was carried in and set on the table. A green-tinted picture of the train could now be seen.

  The radio squawked. “Sierra Three in position. You should have our picture. We are camera-right with a clear view from the east. I can make out both parties.”

  Sydney took a step toward the phone in an effort to hear better, but was blocked by a passing agent toting a sub-machine gun. She let him pass before striding purposefully into the gap, snatching the phone off the cradle and holding it to her ear. She glared at the agent across the table, who wisely closed his mouth and looked at his boss.

  Greg just shook his head at the agent and waved him back to work. He keyed the mic to talk to Sierra Three. “Roger Sierra Three, do you have a clear shot?”

  “Affirmative. All three parties.”

  Greg held up a hand to silence Sydney before she could protest. “Understand Sierra Three. Be advised that one of the parties is FBI, and one is the driver of the train, a civilian. Acknowledge.”

  “I copy. One agent, one civilian. I can clearly see the driver. Black female. Thirties. Seated behind the wheel in the forward compartment. One white male, seated with his back to me. Blond hair, dark coat. Approximately three feet to the rear of the first party. Third party is white male, standing, black hair, dark jacket, handgun drawn. He’s standing about six feet from the back of the car facing forward. He’s turning. Subject is wearing an FBI jacket. That our boy?”

  “Affirm. Your target is the man seated in the dark coat. Basic rules of engagement apply. Do not fire unless you see a hostile threat. We have audio on the car. We’re going to give Jack a chance to bring him out. All teams acknowledge.”

  “Sierra Three, we copy.”

  “Sierra Two, west side of the train. We copy.”

  “Sierra Four, airborne, we copy.”

  Greg tossed the radio down in disgust. Now he had a bona fide hostage situation, a trapped subject with two hostages and unknown firearms. A fugitive on the run was dangerous enough. Once they were cornered, the danger only multiplied. And this man was a professional. That could work both ways: most pros in this business knew when they were beat. What bothered Greg was the cancer bit. If this guy had nothing to lose, this could get ugly.