“Of course not. I wouldn’t …” The pain began to dim, as did the sun.
* * *
JULIA CENOBIO HEARD A knock on the door of her hotel suite and was surprised to see Miguel Costa standing there with a small brown bag.
“Miguel. You’re not due to pick us up for another hour.” She and the kids had planned to visit the artificial lagoon and small zoo at Parque del Este.
“Yes, senora, I know. I had to pick up a few things from the store. I brought the children some treats.” He held up the bag but didn’t offer it to her.
“Treats?”
“Yes, but I do not wish to give them to the children without your first approving. I will take away what is not suitable. May I come in?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
Miguel entered the room and locked the door behind him.
CHAPTER 23
JOSE MEDINA STROLLED INTO the Clinica Caracas as though he had done so countless times. He wore a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt untucked, blue jeans, and sneakers. He looked like half the other men moving through the corridors of the five-story structure. The emergency room was at the back of the hospital, and Jose took his time making his way through the hallways. He could have parked in the back lot but chose the front entrance hoping that he would be able to blend in with the dozens of people who moved in and out of the building every minute.
A sign on the wall pointed the way to EMERGENCIA. It had taken him nearly thirty minutes to travel from the remote surveillance site to the hospital. It took all the willpower he had not to run red lights and scream past the ALTO signs.
A pair of double-hinged swinging doors with porthole-like windows separated the emergency room from the rest of the facility. Jose pushed through the doors.
Banks of fluorescent bulbs illuminated a highly polished vinyl floor and pale-green walls. The air was thick with odors of antiseptic cleaners and recycled air. Rows of standard hospital lobby chairs were filled with mothers holding crying children, a man with a bloody cloth wrapped around his left hand, a woman who stared at the floor and rocked back and forth in pain. Others looked drugged with discomfort. A tall, ebony-skinned man leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
“We have to stop meeting like this.” Jose whispered the words.
“You got that right. I’m glad you’re here. You come by yourself?”
Jose nodded. “Moyer thought it best if I came alone. Too many of us hanging about in one place isn’t good. He sent me because he thought my Spanish might be better than yours.”
“Ya think? My ten words of Spanish don’t go very far.”
Jose looked around the room. To his relief, no one was staring at them. “How is he?”
Rich shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. He went out about a minute or two after he was hit. I did a quick field survey. Best I can tell, there were no broken bones.”
“That’s good. Do you know if he hit his head?”
“No. I was in the passenger seat. I heard the driver hit the brakes and snapped my head around in time to see Pete roll over the top of the car. I think he jumped at the last moment. If he hadn’t, he might have gone under the sedan.” Rich looked away. “The guy didn’t even stop.”
“Was fluid coming out of his ears or nose?”
“His nose was bleeding.”
“Anything else? Any clear fluid.”
Rich shook his head. “Not that I saw. Is that important?”
“Sometimes in head trauma cerebrospinal fluid can leak out. It doesn’t mean he’s in good shape if you don’t see it, but it sure means trouble if you do.”
“You’re the doc. I’ll take your word for it.”
“You okay?”
“A little shook. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Let me see what I can find out.” Jose moved to the triage nurse’s station, nodded, and said in Spanish, “My name is Jose Isea, and I understand that one of my foreign consultants has been hit by a car. Do you have any word on his condition?” Jose felt relief that he had remembered to use his in-country name.
“Name?”
It took a second for Jose to recall Pete’s pseudonym. “Pete Tanner.”
She studied her computer monitor for a moment then said, “One moment please.” She rose and entered the treatment area of the ER. Jose glanced back at Rich but made no comment. The nurse, a stout, dour woman, emerged from the bowels of the ER, her expression no different than when she went in.
“They’re bringing him up from X-ray now. It will be another thirty minutes before you can see him.”
“Thank you. My friend and I will wait.”
She said nothing, and Jose walked back to Rich. “It’ll be another half hour before we know anything. Let’s grab a cup.”
The cafeteria was a wide-open, well-lit expanse of tables and chairs. Jose bought two cups of coffee. As a Master Sergeant, Rich outranked Jose, but the nature of the team allowed a freedom of communication not often experienced in other units. Because of this, Jose had no problem pressing Rich for more information.
“I told you all I know. We had just finished lunch at a Chinese joint a few blocks from the hotel. You know how Pete likes his Chinese food. Our car was a block away. He wanted to drive around a little, so I gave him the keys to the rental. Traffic was light. He stepped into the street, rounded the car. By that time I had already plopped down on the passenger seat. I heard tires squeal and looked up in time to see Pete go flying over the vehicle. Next thing I know, I’m kneeling in the street next to him.”
“Was he conscious the whole time?”
“Just some of it. He was conscious but confused. He didn’t seem to know what happened.”
“So you don’t know if he hit his head?” Jose took a sip of the strong coffee.
“I can’t be sure one way or the other. I didn’t see anything that looked like a head wound.”
“What about his eyes?”
Rich cupped his hands around the cup as if warming them. “Pupils were equal and looked normal.”
“Speech?”
“Good, but as I said, he was confused about what happened.”
“Not unusual. I’ve heard of accident victims who were unable to recall anything about the event.”
“Sounds like a blessing to me.”
“I suppose so. Did the ambulance crew seem to know what they were doing?”
“They impressed me.” Rich looked up from his coffee. “You’re the medic—what happens next?”
“It all depends on how badly hurt he is. The first concern is his brain. The fact that his pupils were equal is good, but that could change. If he hit his head hard enough, he may have more than a concussion. There might be bleeding in the brain. Another concern is internal bleeding. How fast was the car going when it struck Pete?”
“Fast enough to make his tires squeal, but I can’t say how fast he was going when he hit Pete.”
Jose frowned. “This isn’t good. Not good at all. Even if he’s just a tad banged up, we got problems to deal with. The police will want some answers.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. The cops showed up about the same time as the ambulance. I told them what I knew. Of course, they checked my ID and stuff. They let me follow the ambulance to the hospital, but not before telling me they’re going to want to interview Pete.”
“We can do without that. I’m also concerned what he might say under anesthesia.”
Rich narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s say they have to operate. It’s possible that Pete could say something he shouldn’t while going under or coming out. Or depending on the kind of surgery and his condition, they may not even use a general anesthesia. I had a hernia surgery a few years back and all they used was a spinal block and a med to make me not care about what was going on.”
“We may have another problem.” Rich rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t want to hear this do I?”
“No, and I’m pretty sure Moyer
won’t want to hear it either.” Rich straightened as if doing so would make the telling of it easier. “Pete came out of the shower this morning. I was still kicking it in bed. Maybe he thought I was asleep. He still has the tattoo.”
Jose closed his eyes and wished he could close his ears. Before joining Special Ops Pete had been regular Army. Proud of his service, he did what many soldiers had through the decades: got a tattoo. That was not unusual in of itself. It was Pete’s choice of tattoo that created the problem. On his upper shoulder the tattooist drew a pair of dog tags in indelible ink. One had the name of his father, a Vietnam vet; the other bore his own name. Moyer told Pete to get rid of it.
He didn’t.
“Moyer’s gonna choke him with his bare hands.”
Rich shook his head. “I’m assistant team leader; I should have followed up with Pete. It just never occurred to me.”
Jose stared at Rich for a moment.
“What?”
“I’m hoping you won’t order me to tell Moyer.”
“Nah, I’ll do it.” He rose. “If I’m not back in ten minutes then know that Moyer found a way to kill me over the phone.”
* * *
“NOT THROUGH THE LOBBY. Take the hall to your right.”
Julia Cenobio didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Not with her two children by her side. Not with the gun Costa flashed. He walked behind her. She kept the children in front in a useless but brave effort to provide a shield between them and their abductor.
At the end of the hall stood a man with thin features and a beak-like nose. He wore casual dress. He stepped into the middle of the hall and removed a shiny rectangular object from his coat pocket and raised it to his face.
“Smile.” The small digital camera flashed.
“Through the doors and into the van.”
Julia placed a hand on each of the children’s shoulders and tried not to cry.
CHAPTER 24
PETE RASOR LAY IN one of two hospital beds in room 201. The other bed was empty. Rich walked in with Jose and felt an immediate sense of relief that his partner was sitting up and had no tubes protruding from his nose or anyplace else. That relief melted at the sight of the dog tags tattoo poking out from beneath the sleeve of the hospital gown.
“How are you feeling, Junior?” Rich kept his voice low.
“I’m fine. Good to go.”
“What about pain?” Jose asked.
“The only place I hurt is my head, neck, back, hips, legs, and arms. My eyelids however are pain free.”
“That’s good to hear, buddy.” Rich stepped close to the bed and watched Jose move to the other side so he could keep an eye on the door. “Any idea what the docs say?”
“Yeah, the ER doctor speaks great English—told me he studied in San Francisco. He said I’m a lucky man. No broken bones, no internal bleeding, nothing but some bruises the size of Delaware.”
“Did he say when you would be released?” Rich asked.
Pete shook his head then winced at the motion. “He said he wants to keep me a few hours for observation. He’s worried about my head, which is strange. I’m sure I didn’t hit my head.”
Rich exchanged glances with Jose. “Did he or anyone comment on your tattoo?”
“My tattoo … oh, no.” The color drained from Pete’s face. “I know I was told to get rid of it. I even had a doctor’s appointment set up for next month. You know how the military medical complex works. Like everything else, it’s hurry up and wait.”
Jose ran a hand through his dark hair. “They may be keeping him for more than observation.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Oh, man. It’s not bad enough that I let myself get hit by a car, but I may have blown our cover.”
“When did you come to?” Jose asked.
“In the ambulance. I remember Rich kneeling beside me. Then things went dark, but I woke up before they put me on the gurney.”
“That’s good. At any time did they give you anesthesia?”
“No, I’ve been conscious the whole time.”
Rich looked around the room. “We can’t stay here. The doctor may have reported that an American with a dog tags tattoo just came through his ER.”
“Lots of people have tattoos.” Pete spoke in a tone that said he didn’t believe himself.
“That’s not our only problem,” Rich said. “The cops said they had more questions. They could arrive any minute.”
“Can you walk?” Jose asked.
“I said I’m good to go, Doc. Walk? I’m ready to dance.” He scooted up in the bed and moaned. “Okay, maybe I’m a little stiff.”
“I’ll get a wheelchair,” Rich said. “See if there’s a robe in the closet.”
Rich found a wheelchair at the end of the hall. He also noted that the second floor nurse’s station had only one nurse behind the counter and assumed the others must be about their duties with patients. A pegboard mounted to the wall held several white lab coats. The phone at the nurse’s station rang and the nurse snapped up the handset. Rich snatched one of the doctors’ coats.
Back in the room he tossed the lab coat to Jose. “Put this on. I’m pretty sure it won’t fit me.” Pete was on his feet like a man standing on marbles. Rich pushed the wheelchair close, and Pete lowered himself onto the seat. He made no complaints, but Rich could see the pain on the man’s face.
“We should avoid the ER where we might be recognized.”
“My rental is in the front lot. Let’s get him to the car. I’ll drive around back and drop you off. You can follow us to the hotel.”
“Let’s do this,” Rich said.
“That brown bag on the seat is my clothes. Get it. I don’t want to walk into the hotel wearing a robe.”
Rich grabbed the bag and set it in on Pete’s lap.
“You push him,” Jose said. “I’ll walk alongside.”
“One problem,” Rich said. “The elevator is the other side of the nurse’s station. Someone might want to know what we’re doing with the new guy.”
“That could be a problem,” Jose said, “but what are our options?”
Rich stepped to the open door and moved it so he could study the emergency plaque on the back. “There’s a stairwell at each end of the corridor. Nothing but rooms along the way.”
“I could change clothes in the stairwell,” Pete said. “That way I’ll be less conspicuous.”
Rich thought for a moment. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“ANYTHING?” MOYER ENTERED THE panel truck; Martin Caraway followed behind and quickly shut the back door. Getting in and out of the truck without raising suspicions was tricky, but they chose their spot carefully, parking in the lot next to an abandoned industrial business.
“Not a thing.” J.J. yawned. He had been up most of the night and only grabbed a couple hours of sleep before being dragged from his bed and put back on surveillance duty while Moyer retrieved Caraway from the hotel. Jose’s mission to the hospital had left Caraway twiddling his thumbs in the hotel room. “The guard changed again, but there is still just one.”
“Okay, you and Caraway keep up the surveillance. Got word from Shaq that they sprung Pete from the hospital and that he’s going to be fine. Judging by Shaq’s tone, he didn’t check Pete out through normal channels.”
“Sounds like him,” Caraway said.
“Keep me posted.”
Moyer exited the vehicle, and a moment later J.J. heard him drive off.
Caraway took the empty metal folding chair and sat. “So, do you think Boss will kill Junior with his bare hands or use a weapon?”
“You mean because of the tattoo thing?” J.J. shook his head. “I can tell you he was not a happy camper.”
“Rasor could have killed the whole mission.” Caraway tilted back in the chair.
“Thank God the car didn’t kill him.”
“You thank him if you want, just leave me out of it.”
J.J. sighed. “That didn’t t
ake long.”
“What?”
“Whenever we’re alone you start ragging on my beliefs.”
Caraway raised his hands. “Sorry, pal. Didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
“You can’t bait me into an argument. We have a job to do.”
“Most people who avoid arguments do so because they know they’re going to lose.”
“What’s your real problem, Caraway? I don’t get in your face. I give you all the room you need.”
“My problem? You really want to know? You’re weak, and that makes you a danger to the team.”
“I went through the same training as you. I’ve been on just as many missions, so how am I weak?”
Caraway leaned forward and lowered his voice as if someone were trying to listen in. “It’s all this Jesus nonsense. If you believe it too much, it makes you slow to act, to pull the trigger when necessary. That may get me killed.”
“Nonsense.”
“I saw the way you looked at those dead shepherds in Afghanistan. Some of us know that ancillary casualties are part of what we do. Can’t be helped.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Someone does. Somehow you’ve got the boss’s ear. He’s taken a shine to you.”
“He doesn’t treat me any different than he treats you.” J.J. refused to look Caraway in the eyes.
“Yeah, whatever. Keep lying to yourself, but you know I’m right.”
J.J. turned to face his accuser. “You’ve been aching to say this for a long time.”
“You got that right. You gonna run to Moyer and tell him I talked mean to you?”
“This is how it lays out, Caraway. My faith is part of me. You’re not going to change that. Not even death can change that. I’m not responsible for your wife leaving you. The fact that she’s a person of faith now is what eats at you, not me.”
“You’re all alike. And leave my wife out of this!”
J.J. pointed a finger. “Oh no, you don’t. You don’t get to waltz in here and chew my fanny and expect me to sit and take it. If you think that’s how Christians respond, then you know even less about what we believe than I thought.”
Certain Jeopardy Page 11
