Takeoff

by Joseph Reid

  Without protest, she pulled it from one of the pockets in her hoodie and handed it to me. I deactivated it as well and tucked it away with mine.

  “Any others?” When she didn’t answer, I bent down to catch her eye. “Phones? Any other phones? They can track them off the cell towers. We need to turn them off.”

  She stared at me for a moment. Then, jamming her hands into her pockets, she shook her head.

  “Okay, good.” For the first time in several hours, I managed to crack a smile as I turned forward. “Thanks for coming to get us. Everyone should have a lawyer like you.”

  A pair of bright eyes popped up into the rearview mirror. “Client satisfaction, that’s my motto.”

  “Max, meet Dan Shen. He writes the patents on my inventions.”

  Her face showed the most emotion I’d seen since LAX. “A—a lawyer? That’s the best you could do to protect us?”

  “Shen here is no ambulance chaser. After Caltech, he spent two tours as an army MP in Iraqi villages you can’t even spell. Plus, as you can see, he’s an ardent supporter of the Second Amendment.”

  “God bless the USA,” Shen said.

  “Shen, this is Max Magic. She’s a—”

  “No way.” His eyes bobbed in and out of the mirror. “The Max Magic? Wow. It’s really, I mean . . . just . . . wow.”

  “You know her?”

  “Dude, her song? It’s like, the dance song these days. Brian’s gonna flip when we get home.”

  Shen sped out to the 405, then grabbed the 110 north, eventually passing the downtown skyscrapers—still lit like prime time—and heading up through Echo Park to Silver Lake.

  Max started nodding off the second we hit the freeway and slept the remainder of the drive, head against the door frame.

  By silent agreement, Shen and I didn’t talk, instead letting her sleep, but that was fine. I had plenty of thoughts to toss around in my head.

  Having listened to the entertainment articles about Max for a while now, I’d learned a lot. For starters, she was more than just the one-hit wonder Lavorgna had made her out to be. Although “Baby, I Love You” was easily her biggest hit, she’d released two albums before that. The first had just been an EP collection of four songs, covers of powerful singers like Mariah Carey and Christina Aguilera that had gotten her noticed. The next one contained a mix of covers and stuff Max had written herself. The covers—ballads or dance tunes—got most of the airplay, but critics seemed to prefer the more personal stuff. Especially after her latest album, whose songs had turned much darker, they’d described Max’s writing as “mature” and “well beyond her years.”

  I’d also discovered that Max apparently didn’t reserve her unique brand of charm exclusively for flight attendants and me. It seemed she’d managed to piss off almost everyone she’d come across in the entertainment industry at one point or another. Canceling a tour, dropping out of projects at the last minute. She’d even disappeared to the Caribbean for a month without telling anyone, although releasing her latest album shortly thereafter had earned her some forgiveness.

  And then there was gossip.

  Tons of it.

  The tabloids contained a lot of teen, angsty, “Who is she dating?” type stuff. There were questions about everything from eating disorders to drugs. Especially recently, she’d been photographed at parties and events in ways that made her seem drunk or high, but you could never tell if those were merely awkward moments. The trade papers wondered if she was getting along with her dad, if he was the right one to steer her career, and whether she’d flame out like so many other teen stars.

  Of course, absolutely none of this helped in the slightest when it came to answering the question I really cared about: Why was this crazy group of tattooed nightmares trying to kill her?

  We’d seen nine gunmen now—add in some drivers and you were talking at least a dozen men. Well armed. The way they coordinated their attacks and movements, they’d been well trained, too. The more I turned it over, the less sense it seemed to make. These guys ought to be off holding up an armored car somewhere, not trying to kill the girl at the top of the pop charts. That suggested someone had hired them, but who?

  I’d need to get Max’s take on that tomorrow.

  As we exited the freeway, I tried to push thoughts about the gang—or the militia, or whatever the hell they were—out of my head. We’d inflicted enough casualties; they’d probably spend the rest of tonight licking their wounds and regrouping. And although they’d found my house, I was pretty confident there was no way they’d find out about Shen’s place.

  LA is so developed, all cars and concrete, that twisting up through the tree-lined hills to Shen and Brian’s house always feels slightly magical. The structure itself bends around a small patio and pool—they like to entertain out there—and compared to the rat’s nest of my neighborhood, it’s such a pleasant change to be outside and not hear anything or see anyone.

  Shen’s headlights were the only source of light for the final quarter mile of the drive, and I felt my own eyelids starting to sag. Drained completely of adrenaline now, I urged myself to hang on just a little longer. Get Max inside, get her safe. Then I could collapse.

  She didn’t stir, not even when we pulled into the garage and Shen silenced the car. I’d intended to carry her inside, but when I saw Shen had already scooped her into his oversize arms, I was relieved. Circling back around the passenger’s side, I maneuvered ahead of him to open the door to the house.

  No sooner had I entered than Shen’s partner, Brian, stepped into view.

  When he saw me, his hand flew to his mouth. “Oh my God, Seth. Get yourself into the powder room—I’ll be in there in a second.”

  I hesitated a moment, but a glare from Brian sent me limping off to the small black-and-white bathroom off their entryway.

  It’s funny. As a couple, Shen and Brian couldn’t be any more different. On first inspection, Shen’s the imposing one: my height, with close-cropped military hair and enough muscle his shirts always seem too small. Brian’s smaller, thinner, and moves with a kind of quickness that makes you think his bones are hollow or something. But he also has a force of will. When his mouth sets underneath that crimson beard of his, you don’t question whatever he’s telling you to do, no matter how many pounds or inches you’ve got on him.

  I was surprised at what I saw in the mirror when I reached the powder room. My face looked pale and ragged, my entire sleeve now rusty brown. My pants were even worse, the ripped right leg soaked several shades darker than the left.

  Brian appeared in the doorway with a small canvas pouch and winced when he saw my jeans. “Do I even want to know?”

  “It looks worse than it is,” I said. And in terms of pain, I wasn’t lying—the shoulder injury from the trellis hurt way worse than the leg. I hadn’t even bothered to check it during the drive.

  “Okay, well, get them off so we can have a look.”

  I complied, unbuckling, then easing the pants down.

  “I can’t promise you’ll ever get those stains out, but—” Brian winced again, and I glanced down. A jagged shard of glass, two or three inches wide, protruded from the side of my thigh, which was weeping red in small pulses.

  “I—that’s . . . way beyond me and this little medical kit,” he said, dangling the bag slightly.

  Shen appeared behind him. “Everything okay in here?”

  “How’s Max?” I asked.

  “Asleep. Never even stirred. How’re you?”

  Brian turned and said over his shoulder, “We need to get him to the emergency room.”

  Shen raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”

  I couldn’t see Brian’s face, but from Shen’s reaction, I could imagine the look he was giving him. “Guys,” I said, “no hospitals. The people who did this found us at my house—at a hospital, Max will be a sitting duck.”

  Brian’s head turned slowly around, wearing an expression even grimmer and more determined than I’d imagin
ed. “You’ve lost a ton of blood. I think you’re damn lucky that glass didn’t hit the artery; otherwise you wouldn’t even be sitting here. But if we don’t get you treated, you could still bleed to death. Bad guys or no bad guys—”

  “What about Anjali?” Shen asked.

  Brian didn’t turn around, so I asked, “Who?”

  “Orthopedist from UCLA, lives two houses over. I know it’s the middle of the night, but . . .”

  Brian squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “All right, run over there. But tell her how bad it is, and if she says we’ve got to go in . . .”

  Shen grinned and winked at me over Brian’s shoulder. Then he dashed away.

  Sighing, Brian turned to my other shoulder and said, “Let’s see if I can do anything for this while we wait.”

  Like I’d thought, Brian found the shoulder wound from the gunfire superficial. Although it stung like hell, he cleaned and bandaged it, no problem. I volunteered to stay in the powder room so as not to spread blood through the house, so Brian brought me a blanket to help keep me warm as I sat on the tile floor.

  Although he kept glancing nervously at my leg, my other shoulder worried me more. It looked weird in the mirror, like the deltoid had crumpled or something. Trying to move it at all sent sharp jolts of pain thundering down my arm and into my chest.

  The only good thing about the pain was that it kept me awake. Shen was seemingly taking forever, but I reminded myself houses were a lot farther apart up here, and he’d probably had to wake the poor woman up. Still, when Brian started checking his watch more frequently, I knew my sense of timing was right.

  Finally, Shen reappeared, trailed by a dark-haired woman in a sweat suit carrying a small gym bag.

  “Sorry that took so long,” he said. “We made a quick supply run. Seth Walker, meet Dr. Anjali Enjeti. She treats three of the Lakers.”

  “Thanks so much for coming, Doctor.” The words felt like an effort, which concerned me a bit.

  Enjeti slipped between the guys and squatted next to me. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. Although the bags around them suggested she could use a cup or two of coffee, her eyes twinkled in a reassuring way. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Retracting the blanket, she said in an offhand, almost casual tone, “Oh. Well.” She unzipped the bag and started rummaging through it. “Your shoulder’s dislocated. I’ll need to reduce that. But the bleeding’s the more immediate concern.”

  Enjeti pulled on gloves and took out a needle and an IV bag filled with clear liquid. Then she looked me squarely in the eye. “Mr. Walker, before I do anything, I’m going to warn you, I’d be better off treating you at a hospital. I know my malpractice carrier would feel better about it.”

  I shook my head. “Treating me here is a law-enforcement necessity, I promise you. The federal government will make sure no one gets mad at you, even if you kill me.” I cracked a small grin, hoping to get a rise out of her.

  It didn’t work. She calmly nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say. This is saline. It’ll help get your fluids back up.” After she plugged the bag into my arm and set it up above us on the vanity, Enjeti unwrapped a syringe and needle and filled it from a small vial. “This is a local anesthetic. I’m going to numb your leg a bit before—”

  “Lidocaine?”

  She glanced up at me. “No, but you’re close. Bupivacaine. They’re related. You know your drugs—are you allergic?”

  “I know lidocaine from a case I worked. But no, not allergic.”

  “Okay, then,” she said. “Here we go.”

  Needles have never bothered me much, obviously—I was never one of those kids scared to get his shots—but I tensed as the syringe neared my thigh. There was enough blood and muscle exposed, it looked more like raw steak than a leg, and I figured the needle was gonna kill.

  It didn’t, though. Enjeti must’ve stuck me forty times as she worked her way around the wound, but each time there was just a little prick, followed by lots of little popping tingles as she pushed the drug in.

  “Not too bad,” I said once she was done.

  She gave me a little smile. “Unfortunately, that was the easy part. We’ll give the bupivacaine a minute to work, but I’ve got to warn you, even that’s not going to make what we have to do next pain-free.”

  “Taking the glass out?”

  Enjeti nodded. “Can I get a flashlight?” she asked Shen and Brian, who both ran off and then returned with one. After carefully looking it over from different angles, she glanced up at me and said, “It’s wedged in so far, there’s not very much to hold on to. When I grab the glass, I need to be careful not to break it, otherwise we could be picking pieces out of there for a week. I need you to be still now. Are you with me?”

  I forced a swallow down and nodded.

  Enjeti brought out a wrapped package of long, tonglike metal forceps and tore them open. Then she glanced up at me. “Here we go.”

  I watched as she inserted the tips of the forceps on either side of the glass. They felt weird wriggling their way down into my leg, like being tickled, but on the inside. Enjeti’s fingers flexed, and I knew the bad part was coming. I squeezed my hands into tight fists and flexed every muscle I could to brace myself.

  At first she pulled and nothing happened. The glass didn’t budge, but there wasn’t much pain, either.

  She gradually increased the force, though, and eventually the glass gave way. When it did, a pulse ripped through my leg, like she’d pulled out something that had been intentionally attached. As the glass moved outward, it seemed like I could feel every little millimeter of it sliding against the muscle on either side. It was like being stabbed, but in slow motion. I couldn’t watch anymore, and turned my eyes to the ceiling. My face burned, and sweat beads were popping out all over my neck and scalp. I ordered myself not to scream, but I couldn’t stop a low, guttural growl from erupting in my throat.

  My lungs begged for a breath, so I grabbed a quick one. Then another.

  “Halfway there,” she said.

  My stomach dropped at the words. I squeezed my eyes closed and could feel the tears that pressed out onto my cheeks. I started repeating “Almost there” to myself, faster and faster until the gap between the words disappeared, and they ran together.

  “Got it; it’s out.”

  With a giant heave, I pushed all the air from my lungs and pulled in a new, deep breath through my mouth. Thank Christ.

  “We’re not done,” she said.

  I opened my eyes, hoping she was kidding. Some kind of perverse doctor joke. But her face was deadly serious.

  “The glass was in extremely deep. You can see here.” She raised the bloody shard with the forceps like a piece of gruesome sushi and traced the edge with her finger. “It looks like some chunks are missing.” Sure enough, you could see several small, curved gaps in what was otherwise a straight edge. “Maybe it hit the bone, maybe it was pressure from you moving around. Anyway, I can’t leave those pieces in there. I’m going to have to fish them out.”

  I swallowed and nodded again.

  She asked Brian to shine the light for her, then spread the gap in my leg open with her fingers. I was just noticing how weird the cool air felt pressing against the interior of the muscle when she moved in with the forceps.

  Each time Enjeti went after a piece, the tips of the forceps would scrape bone in a way that reverberated through my whole spine. The pain wasn’t just in my leg anymore, it was everywhere, and despite all my efforts to control it, I screamed. Loud, angry screams with whatever air I could draw in on short, ragged breaths.

  After what seemed like several hours of that, she finally said, “That’s it. The worst part’s over.”

  “This next bit is going to feel a little weird,” Enjeti said later.

  She’d finished with the leg—stitches now held together both the muscle inside and skin outside—and I was taking quick, shallow breaths as she examined my shoulder.

  “Weirder
than you rummaging around inside my quad?”

  She smiled meekly. “Hopefully not that bad. The shoulder is a ball-and-socket joint.” She made a fist, then wrapped her other hand around it. Twisting her fist inside the hand, she said, “The ball turns in the socket, but we’ve got muscles and tendons and ligaments to keep it in place. You’ve got a dislocation, not all the way, just partially—that we call a subluxation.” She moved the knuckles of her fist hand out to the thumb of the covering hand. “I need to manipulate the shoulder to put it back in place. It’s going to feel much better once it’s back in—right now it’s pressing on things it shouldn’t be, and that’s what’s giving you the pain.”

  Taking two deeper breaths, I closed my eyes and said, “Okay.”

  “I’m just going to slowly move your arm out here,” she said, rotating my hand away from my stomach, “and then when we get to thirty-five degrees, I’m going to raise it . . .”

  As she started to lift the arm, the pain started. Not a stabbing feeling, like with the glass, but a burning, hot fire that spread down into my lungs and up into my neck. Suddenly, I felt something shift inside with a jerk, and everything cooled. Opening my eyes, I saw Enjeti’s smiling face. “That’s it. Done.”

  I let out a huge sigh. Although my skin was drenched in sweat, I felt suddenly cold and shivered slightly. “Thank—thank you.”

  Enjeti patted my knee. “You won’t be saying that in a couple of weeks when the rehab starts, but I appreciate it for now. I brought you a sling—keep your arm immobilized until we can get you into a hospital for some tests.” She cocked her head and looked sideways at me, reminding me of Loretta. “And I mean immobilized, got me? Everything in there is torn up, so if you go moving it, you can do a lot more damage, and it’s likely to pop out again. Understand?”

  I nodded. The gang probably wouldn’t mind me fighting one-handed.

  “And whatever national emergency this is, you need to promise it’s going to end in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, okay? You need to come into the hospital and let us test you, let us see exactly what’s going on inside there. Promise?”