Lethal Lies

by Lara Lacombe

  The lead man squatted and pulled the scarf from Jim’s face. He cursed loudly, then stood and turned to his companions, shaking his head. The three men glanced around, one of them pointing in Alex’s direction.

  “No, you bastards,” Alex muttered, willing them to walk the other way. He had to get to Jim, to help the man before he bled out. Although...

  A new plan struck him while the gang debated their next move. Alex had no idea what to do for Jim from a medical perspective, but Jillian did. And he was willing to bet she’d seen the shooting from her spot at the café window. Although he hadn’t known her very long, he was certain she wouldn’t turn away from a person in need, and if he could draw the gang away from the scene, it would be safe for her to help Jim. As an added bonus, if the gang was chasing him, they would be certain to leave her alone.

  Decision made, Alex took a deep breath and stood, waving his arms for good measure. “Looking for someone, boys?” he called.

  The effect was immediate. The three men swung their guns to point at him and after a second’s hesitation, took off, running toward him with all the grace of deer on a frozen pond.

  Alex waited a few heartbeats, making sure they were committed to giving chase before he turned and started to run. His plan wouldn’t work if they gave up and returned to the scene to finish Jim off. He slipped and slid his way down the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched in anticipation of the bullet that was sure to hit him at any moment.

  The entrance to the Metro station was about fifty feet away. Alex headed for it with grim determination, his legs and lungs burning with the effort of running in the snow and ice. The sounds of labored breathing grew louder behind him, but he didn’t dare look back. Instead he put his head down and pushed himself to go faster. He saw the black metal pole of the Metro sign race by in his peripheral vision. Almost there...

  About ten feet from the station entrance, his foot hit a slippery patch and he twisted, wrenching his knee and ankle hard as he flailed to keep from going down. Don’t fall, don’t fall! No way would he be able to recover from that.

  By some miracle he managed to stay on his feet, but he wound up facing his pursuers.

  The man in the middle met his eyes, his lips twisting in a cruel grin. “Got you now!” he shouted. He kept moving forward, while the guy on the left slowed, raising his gun and bracing himself to fire.

  Alex didn’t wait to see what the third man was up to. He turned and hobbled toward the escalator, half running, half hopping to accommodate his injured leg. Ignoring the pain, he hit the escalators and began swinging down, placing his hands on the railings and pushing his legs out to land several steps ahead. He was a sitting duck while riding the escalator—any fool could fire in a straight line.

  He hit the bottom with a jolt that made him see stars. Plowing ahead, he narrowly avoided barreling into two men heading toward him.

  “Whoa, buddy. Slow down there.”

  Alex glanced up and nearly laughed in relief. A DC patrol cop had his hand up and was frowning, as though trying to decide if Alex was going to be trouble.

  You don’t know the half of it, mister, he thought.

  The cop looked him up and down, his eyes narrowing as he took in Alex’s bizarre appearance. “What’s your hurry?”

  “I’m being chased by three men with guns. They shot a guy at the African American Civil War Memorial.” The words came out in a breathless rush, but the cops understood him well enough.

  “Stay here,” one of them said. They both drew their weapons and approached the escalators warily, leaving Alex behind. While he wanted nothing more than to watch the bad guys get what they deserved, he’d settle for the highlight reel on the nightly news.

  He approached the turnstiles and hiked first one leg then the other over the automated divider. Fortunately the attendant station was empty, so there was no one to protest his actions. He swung down a second, shorter escalator and made it to the platform just as a train came rolling into the station. The cars were mostly empty, so he was able to board as soon as the doors opened. He settled onto a bench by the door and tugged his cap down, sighing heavily when the train began to move.

  Pressing his back up against the window, he stretched his injured leg out on the seat, ignoring the twinges of pain that accompanied the movement. His knee and ankle felt tight and hot; it was just a matter of time before the joints froze up completely, which would make it nearly impossible for him to move. Fortunately, Jillian’s apartment wasn’t terribly far away.

  They’d agreed to meet back at her place if anything went wrong. He stuck his hand in his pocket, relieved when his fingers hit the metal of her spare key. He’d half expected to find that it had fallen out while he was running.

  Score one for the good guys.

  He closed his eyes and relaxed into the rocking rhythm of the train as it rolled along the tracks. He flashed back to his last glimpse of Jim, lying in the snow with his hands pressed to his gut. A wave of nausea hit him, along with the chilling realization that if Jim died, no one in the FBI would believe Dan was the double agent.

  Please, Jillian. She had to save him. He didn’t think he could handle one more death on his conscience.

  He thought back to her actions yesterday, treating Tony in the dimly lit motel room. She’d been calm and collected, her movements controlled and strangely beautiful to watch. It made sense that she would be the same with Jim. Although Jim’s injuries seemed worse than Tony’s single gunshot wound, Alex’s confidence in her abilities didn’t waver.

  He just hoped his faith in her would be enough to save Jim.

  Chapter 10

  Jillian stared out the window of the café, her mouth open in a silent scream as the carnage unfolded in front of her.

  She’d almost thrown up when the gang enforcers had arrived. But after they’d emerged from Ben’s Chili Bowl empty-handed, she’d thought they would just leave. She should have known they wouldn’t give up so easily.

  From her spot at the window, she could see Alex crouched behind a trash can, out of sight of the gang members. “Get out of there,” she muttered, willing him to sneak away with every bit of energy she possessed. The shooters were going to start looking around soon, and a trash can wasn’t exactly a great hiding place. If he left now, his head start might keep the gang from finding him...

  Keeping her eyes on him, she pulled the phone from her pocket and dialed 9-1-1 to report the shooting. The operator asked her to stay on the line, but she hung up. As soon as the gang left, she was heading out there to help Jim, and she’d need both hands free.

  “Oh, my God, what’s happening out there?” One of the baristas appeared by her side, staring out the window with a kind of eager, horrified fascination.

  “A man was shot,” Jillian replied absently. The young woman pulled out her phone, but rather than using it to call for help, she held it up and began recording the scene.

  “No way. This is the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Look at all that blood—it’s so gross! I think I’m gonna throw up. Is that guy dead?” The girl kept up this running commentary, pressing closer to the window to get a better view.

  Jillian wanted to scream at her, but was distracted by a sudden flash of movement.

  Alex stepped out from behind the trash can, waving his arms to attract the attention of the gang. Time slowed to a crawl and she saw the exact moment each of the three enforcers recognized Alex—the subtle jerk of realization, the jolt of energy and anticipation traveling along their limbs, the eager light sparking to life in their eyes when they glimpsed their prey. Their shouts were drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears and the scene in front of her grew blurry when Alex turned and ran, the men hot on his trail.

  “Did you see that guy? Where’d he come from?”

  Paralyzing despair clawed at Jillian, keeping her feet rooted to
the floor of the café. What had he done? She brushed impatiently at her tears, rubbing her eyes clear. The answer was simple—he’d tried to save his friend. If she’d harbored any doubts about his innocence, his actions had just proved that he was one of the good guys.

  Please be safe, please be safe, please be safe...

  Alex had done his part to help Jim. Now it was her turn.

  She turned and headed for the door, grabbing the bar towel off the shoulder of the still-filming girl as she walked past. Ignoring the girl’s startled yelp, Jillian pushed out into the cold and made her way over to Jim, crunching through the snow and ice as quickly as possible.

  He was ominously quiet as she approached. Most of the gunshot victims she treated were very vocal about their pain, yelling and screaming for all the hospital to hear. In her years as an ER doctor, she’d developed a kind of mental triage for patients—the louder they were, the less serious their injuries tended to be. It was the quiet ones she worried about. If her patients couldn’t make noise, they were in dire straits indeed.

  A splash of bright crimson marred the white perfection of the snow, lending an irrationally festive air to the gory scene. Jillian dropped to her knees beside him and yanked on his scarf, pressing her fingers to his exposed neck in search of a pulse. It was rapid and thready, but there.

  Jim moaned and stirred at her touch, moving his hands in a weak protest when she unbuttoned his coat. “Don’t move,” she told him, pulling the folds of his coat apart and pushing up his sweater to expose his belly.

  There were two entrance wounds, both in the upper right quadrant of his abdomen. She scowled, imagining the likely path of the bullets as they ripped through skin and muscle, passing through his liver on their journey through his tissues. There was no way to tell how bad his internal injuries were just by looking at him—his liver, intestines and even his kidney were all potentially damaged. It was also possible he would walk away relatively unscathed. Such were the vagaries of gunshot wounds.

  Still, until she knew for sure, she had to act under the assumption that the internal trauma was extensive. The bleeding of his entrance wounds had slowed to a trickle, but he could be hemorrhaging into his abdominal cavity. She placed the bar towel over the small, round holes, pleased to find that his abdomen yielded to the pressure of her fingertips. If the bullets had hit the hepatic or renal arteries, his abdomen would be filled with blood and rigid to the touch. She’d need a CT scan to confirm her hunch, but it seemed that Jim had been very lucky indeed.

  Outside of an emergency room, she couldn’t do anything more for Jim. He needed fluids, scans, surgery—all things she couldn’t provide. While she wanted to check for exit wounds, rolling him by herself was too risky. Better to leave him and let the doctors examine him fully once he arrived at the hospital. About the only treatment option left to her was to try to keep him warm. The frigid temperature may have helped to slow his bleeding, but it also made him more vulnerable to shock.

  Jillian tugged his sweater down and closed his coat, then pulled off her own coat and laid it over him. She tucked the ends under him as best she could, wishing in vain for a blanket.

  “Oh, my gosh, is he dead?”

  The girl from the café was back, her hand clapped over her mouth as she stared down at them with wide eyes. At least she wasn’t filming anymore.

  “No,” Jillian said shortly. “But I need your help. Bring me any coats from the store, and I need a box—about this big.” She held out her hands to demonstrate. The girl nodded, then turned and scrambled back to the café.

  Jillian knelt by Jim’s head, feeling for a pulse again. Fast, but getting stronger. “Hang in there,” she murmured.

  His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed. “Alex?” he croaked.

  “He’s fine,” Jillian assured him.

  “No. Not safe.” Jim struggled to move, so she put her hands on his shoulders and pressed gently to hold him down.

  “Stay still,” she said calmly.

  “Have to warn him. Dan...have to tell...” He was growing more distressed, which was troubling. Agitation was a common sign of early shock, and it didn’t take long for patients to slide into the full-blown, no-coming-back version. If the ambulance didn’t arrive soon, she might not be able to keep him stable for much longer.

  The young woman returned, carrying two coats and a cardboard box. Jillian placed the box under Jim’s feet, raising them about ten inches off the ground. She laid one of the coats across his torso, then rolled up the other and placed it under his head. His breathing and pulse were still steady, but for how much longer?

  “What else can I do?” The girl was swaying back and forth on her feet, her worried gaze cutting from Jim to Jillian and back again. Jim was still muttering about the gang and the traitor in the FBI, and although his voice was soft and his words indistinct, Jillian didn’t want to take a chance on the girl hearing something she shouldn’t.

  “Go stand at the curb and wave down the ambulance,” Jillian said. She could hear the faint sounds of sirens, and hoped with a fierce desperation that they were headed her way and not part of the normal symphony of city sounds.

  It was strange, sitting by a patient and having nothing to do. Normally she didn’t stop moving once someone came into her ER—she assessed injuries, ordered tests, probed, prodded and stitched as needed. But without the tools of her trade, she could do little more than offer moral support to Jim. It was unsettling; to be idle when she knew there was so much more that needed to be done for him. A kind of helpless anxiety stole over her, making her stomach churn queasily and her breathing hitch. She reached out to offer Jim a comforting pat, but pulled back when she saw how badly her hand was shaking.

  It’s the cold, she thought. Now that she had stopped working, she realized just how glacial it was outside without a coat to block the wind. The tremor of her hand extended up her arm, then took over her whole body in violent, racking shivers.

  It’s just the cold.

  But deep down she knew her reaction was due to more than just the arctic temperatures. The last time she’d felt so powerless in the face of a medical emergency was when her brother had overdosed. Seeing Jason lying on the floor, as unmoving as a corpse, had changed her. Something inside her had cracked, and now she could feel the fissure growing wider. Although Jim’s situation was nothing like Jason’s had been, the feeling of paralyzing frustration was the same.

  So was the fear.

  It was hard to understand Jim’s mumblings, but his overall tone seemed to be one of worry for Alex. That meant Alex must have convinced Jim of his innocence—an important first step in discovering the mole in the FBI. But if Jim died, Alex would be back to square one with no one to support his claims of a traitor. And what if that had been the plan all along?

  A chill that had nothing to do with the weather skittered down her spine at the thought. Alex had been so sure that the gang would find out about this meeting thanks to the mole—it was why he’d insisted on moving out of Ben’s Chili Bowl in the first place. She supposed Jim could have called them, but why would the thugs shoot him if he was their source in the organization?

  Perhaps they hadn’t recognized him, with his face obscured by the scarf and cap. But no, she mused, recalling the scene in her mind’s eye. Once the enforcers realized he wasn’t Alex, they hadn’t attempted to help him. If Jim was the mole, the gang wouldn’t have left him there to die. That meant they had to be working with someone else, someone who may have wanted them to kill Jim so he couldn’t help Alex clear his name.

  If Alex is even still alive, she thought bitterly.

  Seeing the gang members run after him had taken years off her life. How could one unarmed man hold up against three hardened killers? They’d already demonstrated a propensity to shoot first and ask questions later. They wouldn’t hesitate to gun down Alex, and she knew they wou
ldn’t stop at one shot, either. His earlier stunt had been like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and there was no way they would let him get away with something like that. And he’d let them get close before he’d started to run, deliberately taunting them in a foolish act of bravery. Jillian shook her head at the memory, her chest aching with a mix of pride and anguish over Alex’s selfless gesture.

  It all seemed so hopeless. The only person who could do anything to help Alex clear his name was lying next to her, dying by inches on the frozen ground while she buried him in coats in a futile attempt to keep him warm. Alex was gone, having served himself up as bait to draw the bad guys away from his friend and her. And she was next to useless, her efforts stymied by a lack of equipment and supplies.

  Some doctor you are.

  She wanted to give in to her despair, to collapse into a sniffling, crying heap on the ground, but she couldn’t do that to Jim. The need to keep him alive was her driving motivation right now. No matter what may have happened to Alex, she owed it to him to help his friend. Worst case scenario...she swallowed hard and blinked back tears, then took a deep, fortifying breath. If Alex had died, Jim would make sure his memory wasn’t tarnished by lies and that his killers were brought to justice. It wasn’t a very comforting thought, but she clutched it to her heart like a talisman.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she said, though she wasn’t really sure if she was talking to Jim, to Alex or to herself. All of the above, she supposed.

  “Hurts,” Jim said quietly. He opened his eyes and really focused on her for the first time since she’d started treating him. She offered him a smile while she hugged herself and rubbed her arms with her hands in a bid to conserve what little body heat she had left.

  “I hate to break it to you,” she said, teeth chattering. “But pain is good. Means you’re still alive.”

  His mouth twisted; an attempted smile that turned into a grimace. “You sound like...PT instructor...in the Academy.” His words were slow and slurred, but at least he was still conscious.