The Widow (Federal Hellions Book 1)

by Gray Gardner

  “More pain meds,” Nurse Flores smiled, clicking a button and tapping an IV.

  The dark and calm came again, along with Conrad Thomas in an expensive suit stupidly hunting down drug lords. When George opened her eyes, the doctor was back in the room. “It’s good to see those blue eyes,” she smiled.

  George immediately thought of Conrad Thomas. Where was he? Was he okay? Would he come and visit her? “I’m Dr. Grace. I don’t know what you remember, but you were found a little over a week ago on the rocks at the harbor. You’ve been in a coma and we’ve been heavily sedating you. You have very extensive injuries. Nod if you understand, my darling.”

  George nodded as Conrad’s face appeared for a moment, smiling that handsome smile and calling her darling as he poured her a glass of wine. She wanted to ask a question but couldn’t move her mouth.

  “Do you know your name?”

  George tried to reply and became frustrated as she mumbled.

  “Sorry,” Dr. Grace said, holding up a pad of paper. “Your second, third, fourth, and fifth metacarpals are broken on your right hand so it’s in a cast, and your mandible, your jaw, is also broken so we had to wire it shut. We encourage you not to try and open your mouth right now. Here, I’m placing a pen in your left hand. See if you can…”

  George had already scribbled her name and requested the use of the nearest phone.

  “Who can I call for you, Ms. Smith?” Dr. Grace asked, looking at the pad.

  She shook her head. If anyone was listening in to the hospital’s calls, they’d know a DEA agent was there and they’d really finish her off this time. She’d need to call the DOJ to get a secure line, and then get Director Nelson.

  “You mother? Father?” Dr. Grace asked.

  George shook her head. Oh yeah, wherever the hell she was she’d washed up on shore in a half-burned school uniform. They had every right to think she was just a kid.

  “I’m giving you more pain meds and then I’ll come back tomorrow,” she smiled. “We’ll talk more about getting you home then. Someone is missing you.”

  George violently shook her head, but soon the dark and calm washed over her.

  The lights weren’t so bright the next time she opened her eyes. She pressed a button and the bed slowly sat her in an upright position. No one was rushing through the halls outside her door. After hours.

  She pulled the covers gently back and braced herself for the worst. Well, it was bad, but not that bad. A bullet wound in her side was nicely treated. Her ribs were wrapped tightly. The cast on her right arm was heavy and restricted her fingers. She’d have to fix that later. There were burn marks on her right arm, too. There was a long brace Velcroed on her left leg, from her tibia up to her femur—felt like a knee injury. Then, of course, the bandage on her head covered up several small cuts as well as her swollen eye.

  She carefully swung her legs to the side, her entire body protesting, and pushed up to her feet. Shuffling over to the bathroom, she knew she’d have to get this part over with. The IV tower rolled behind her. The light flickered as she stared at her face. Actually, she’d been in much worse shape before, so she felt a little better. What sucked was the fact that she couldn’t open her mouth.

  A television mounted above the nurses’ station buzzed in the hallway. She caught a little about a missing heiress and knew without looking at the screen that Ashton hadn’t made it back. Byrd was such a piece of shit. She would really enjoy peeling his skin off piece by piece.

  “Oh! Jane! You shouldn’t get out of bed without our help!” Nurse Flores said, setting food down and hurrying over to hold George’s good arm. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

  George complied simply because she wanted to get back to the pen and paper. She wrote something down and held it out.

  “Why, you’re in Charleston, of course. Why? Where are you from, sweetness?”

  Charleston? As in South Carolina? How far had the ship gone? How far had she drifted after it had exploded?

  Nurse Flores looked back down as George scribbled more. “No, you can’t have a phone. You absolutely can’t open your mouth right now. Your jaw.”

  George nodded and tossed the pad on the floor

  “Aw, don’t pout. I’m just going to get this food to Mr. Collins next door, then I’ll come back and make sure you get some sleep,” she smiled, clicking the IV.

  George waited for her to exit, then quickly yanked the IV out of her wrist. She closed her eyes and sat perfectly still, patiently waiting for the sounds of the nurse checking on her. When all was clear, she shot out of bed and hobbled to the door.

  Skeleton crew. It must have been the middle of the night. The pain was excruciating as she staggered down the hallway, but she really didn’t have a choice. Nelson needed info and she had to make sure Ashton was all right. She ducked into a locker room and found a white coat and Nikes on a bench, a shower running in the next room. She hurriedly kicked her feet into the old tennis shoes and wrapped the white coat around her, wincing as the pain was almost too much to bear. She downed four Tylenol she found in an open locker.

  Now came the next phase. She peeled the white bandage off of her head. There weren’t as many stitches as she’d thought, but her eye was swollen and the part that was supposed to be white was blood red. Awesome.

  She shuffled back out into the hallway, her greasy red hair hanging over her face, grabbed someone’s cell phone off of the counter at the nurse’s station, and walked out the front door. Well, it was more of a step with one foot and dragging the other.

  “This is Nelson.”

  George mumbled loudly into the black phone as she hobbled into the night. Christ, she could barely talk or text. How was she supposed to do this? She tried speaking slowly.

  “Who is this? How did you get this number?” Nelson asked, her words sounding awfully slurred.

  “Whodafuckdayatinkitish!” she hollered, stumbling down the sidewalk in the cool, damp air and growing frustrated that she couldn’t enunciate.

  Nelson hung up and George cursed loudly as she called Cramer’s phone.

  “You got Cramer.”

  “Danthangup!” she quickly mumbled. “Itshane!”

  “Shane? Dude, sleep it off.”

  “Whadafuck! Ish…Szchaeene…Szchorge!”

  “Who?”

  “Cuh-ramer!”

  “That’s me.”

  “I eed he-ulp!”

  “What?”

  “Esh-O-Esh!”

  “Do you need help?”

  George squeezed the phone with her left hand and nearly broke it. “Yesh. I eed he-ulp.”

  “If this is an emergency, you should call 911.”

  “I’m galling tshoo kick yer fucking ash!”

  “What? Shane, is that you?”

  George hung up on him and threw the phone onto the ground in anger when she came upon an empty police cruiser in a dark parking lot. The copy must have been getting coffee or something. George took the opportunity to ‘borrow’ the car.

  Luckily, the city of Charleston had issued brand new hybrids to all of the police force, so she sped north on the highway at a cool 100 mph, the sirens going so people would clear the way. And she wouldn’t even have to stop for gas.

  She had two questions: Did Ashton make it safely back? And more importantly, did someone nail Howard and Byrd before they hurt anymore kids or fled the country?

  She tried dialing Burton and Darby several times on the Bluetooth, but since their work was in espionage they frequently would screen unknown callers. She didn’t bother leaving a message. It’s not like they’d understand her, anyway.

  She did awkwardly text them that she was coming back to Virginia and going straight to the school to nail Howard and Byrd, but she doubted they’d even know what she was saying. Texting was not easy with the left hand. This was a time she really wished she and Conrad had exchanged numbers. It would really have helped to have someone at the school on the same page when she arrived.
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br />   Her radio buzzed and she heard the call about a stolen police cruiser, but when she picked up the receiver on the CB radio she realized that if no one could understand her on digital communication devices, no one would on a radio frequency, either. She tried typing in St. Patrick’s address on the computer in the console, but her right arm was heavy from the awkward cast and she fumbled with the touchscreen. She finally settled on pulling up a map and clicking the cursor on a spot just west of DC. If any of these police forces communicated, they’d track the car’s GPS there and help her find Ashton, Howard, and that snake Dr. Byrd.

  The meeting was tense and uncomfortable. Dr. Byrd had invited the faculty and administration into the large conference area attached to his even larger office, and had coffee and cookies out on the finest china. No one felt like socializing, though, so he decided to call the meeting to order. People sat around on couches, wing-back chairs, and a rectangular table. He wanted to create a calming atmosphere, and everyone appreciated that, but nothing could really help the feeling of losing three students in one semester.

  “The police and FBI agree,” he nodded, standing and leaning back on the edge of his large desk. “The school can be opened on Monday and the students whose parents wish for them to return may.”

  The teachers half-nodded as the administrators took notes. They had the most work to do: answering worried calls, getting in touch with colleges and universities where the seniors would be attending the following year, and canceling events.

  “And then there is the matter of the memorial.”

  Conrad looked up from his full coffee cup and frowned. They hadn’t had a memorial service for Ross Quinton. They’d hardly acknowledged his death at all. He cleared his throat.

  “Why?”

  Heads turned.

  “I beg your pardon?” Dr. Byrd asked, folding his arms casually across his chest.

  “Why are we having a memorial service?” he asked, setting his cup down with a shaking hand.

  “For closure.” Dr. Davis nodded, looking back at his friend from his place on a sofa. “The students need a way to say goodbye. And Ashton and Jane deserve at least that.”

  “Are there going to be news crews there?” Conrad asked, not taking his eyes off of Dr. Byrd.

  “This has become news,” the headmaster nodded. “Yes, I believe it will get some coverage.”

  “So, if Ashton and Jane had not disappeared on a Colombian ship and instead, say, ended up dead in Penway Pond, then they wouldn’t get a memorial?” He sneered, wringing his hands together. It was very hard for him to say her name without his voice cracking.

  Dr. Byrd turned his gaze outside and watched the sun disappear behind the perimeter wall of the school. All eyes were on him.

  “I thought we might celebrate all three lives that have been lost this year,” he sighed.

  Everyone grunted in agreement as Conrad rubbed his eyes and took a breath. He had been hostile towards everyone since Elizabeth and Baylor had delivered the news to him about Jane. He’d had a hunch something had gone wrong, though. A ship had exploded, so it was on all of the networks.

  He couldn’t escape it. And Ellie and Baylor looked white and sick when they showed up at his door. He wasn’t a fool.

  Dr. Davis put a friendly hand on his shoulder, as did Dr. McCarthy. They felt for him. Just like they’d seen him do with Jane, they too had become attached to many students. Losing someone you feel is your responsibility is never easy.

  They had no idea he was in love with her.

  “Shall we continue the meeting?” Dr. McCarthy said, looking around the room. “I think it would be best if we moved forward and decided how to bring the academic semester to a—”

  Muffled shouting came from outside the double doors.

  Dr. Byrd turned around and gasped as the doors slammed against the wood paneled walls of his office and a badly bruised red head in a white doctor’s coat and dirty tennis shoes limped in. It looked like a scene from a horror movie to everyone else, but for Dr. Byrd it was real. He felt the color drain from his face. It couldn’t be. Everyone had died, he was scot free. This wasn’t really happening.

  She paused as everyone stared. She wanted Byrd to look right in her eyes before she killed him.

  The pistol in his top desk drawer came to the forefront of Dr. Byrd’s mind as she stood breathing heavily in all her bandaged and bloody glory. No one would blame him for killing this crazed girl who’d barged into a private meeting.

  Everyone in the office caught their breath as the broken, bandaged, enraged person staggered into the room. She had a twelve-gauge shotgun in her left hand and a pistol crudely duct taped to a cast in her right hand. Her first metacarpal wasn’t broken. She could squeeze a trigger with her thumb if it came to it.

  “J-Jane?” Conrad asked, his stomach flipping as he watched her glaring at Dr. Byrd. He couldn’t trust what his eyes were seeing. She was alive? She looked terrible. Stitches across her swollen face, casts, braces, blood seeping through the white jacket. He quickly pulled his cell phone out of his jacket and dialed 911, leaving it open on the sofa seat as he stood slowly.

  She gave him a half nod, not saying anything as she limped across the silent room towards the desk. Why wouldn’t she talk to him? She seemed only interested in Dr. Byrd.

  People began to inch towards the door. He took a cautious step forward.

  “Oo muder fucker!” she tried to shout, looking fiercely at the headmaster as she waved her pistol around. Everyone stared helplessly between the two.

  Dr. Byrd looked terrified, though not for the reasons that his colleagues had thought. He stepped back and reached for the desk drawer.

  She shook the pistol and yelled, “Dant duh it!”

  He did it anyway. Leaning over, he pulled the top drawer open and yanked the small pistol out, pulling it up in enough time for Jane to shoot it out of his hand. He screamed in pain and fell to the floor as a few of the professors tried to stand up and come to his aid. She limped over and kicked the pistol across the hardwood floor as he writhed in pain, then turned her aim towards the room.

  “Shtay whur oo are!” she commanded, her arm shaking under the weight of the cast. She took a breath and closed her eyes for a split second to compose herself.

  No one moved except Conrad. He knew she wouldn’t shoot him. They’d already played that game. She aimed at him as he hurried across the room, though, and frowned as he knelt next to the Headmaster.

  “What?” he asked, as she suddenly pulled the shotgun up with her left hand and jerked her arm, loading the chamber with a loud double click that made a few people in the room wince.

  “Don’t kill him,” Conrad pleaded, still not sure what was going on. Was she crazy? Was this really the Jane he knew? For that matter, did he really know her at all?

  Instead of aiming the double barrels at him, though, she turned for the wall across the room. Shoving her shoulder against some bookshelves, everyone gasped as the fourteen foot wooden shelves swung open. On the other side, a door and a key pad. They watched intently as she stumbled to the door and pressed her ear against it. What was she doing? What was in there?

  “Shtand ba-cuk!” she shouted at the door. Then, stepping back herself, she aimed at the keypad, using her stomach as an anchor for the butt of the shotgun, and pulled the trigger. Half of the faculty pressed their hands to their ears, unable to peel their eyes away. A few ran out into the hallway. She fired again at the handle and with her braced leg, kicked the door open and staggered inside.

  “We should call the police,” Dr. Gibson loudly whispered when she disappeared from sight. Others agreed as they jumped out of their seats.

  “I already did,” Conrad replied, putting pressure on Dr. Byrd’s bloody forearm. Their eyes returned to the door and the dark void beyond it. What was happening here?

  “Oh my God!” Dr. McCarthy shrieked, lurching forward as Jane George stumbled out into the office, Ashton Wynn unconscious and pale in her arms. Sev
eral people rushed forward and paused, wanting to help but not sure how to approach the fully armed injured student holding the half-dead student.

  Conrad pulled his hands away and quit staring down at Dr. Byrd. He looked knowingly at Jane as she lost even more color in her face, exerting all of her energy to save that one young girl. His expression suddenly changed to pure anger as he glared back down at the bleeding man.

  “Wait,” Dr. Byrd choked, as Dr. Davis appeared next to him, the same scowl. “Wait, I didn’t know where she was. I didn’t even know that room was there!”

  George still had a pistol taped to her cast, and as she held Ashton in her arms, she placed her shaky finger next to the trigger. She didn’t know who she could trust in this room. She was weak, though, and suddenly found herself on top of Ashton. She felt hands everywhere: holding her face, brushing her hair back. And voices as she stared at the ceiling, telling her it was going to be okay, reassuring her that Dr. Byrd wouldn’t hurt her anymore. The police were coming. The ambulance was coming.

  Some distant voices began yelling about the room. It’s in the room. Come look in the room. The darkness began to come again, but not the calmness. Where was Ashton? She had to protect her. A hand pushed her down as she tried to sit up.

  Then he smiled at her and it was dark. And calm.

  “It wasn’t the biggest bust in history,” Director Nelson shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed in her black suit and open trench coat. “But, it was by far the most heroin apprehended by a single agent.”

  George smiled as she sipped orange juice out of a cup. They’d determined that her jaw was only slightly fissured and that wiring it shut was extreme, so that morning she was able to open it fully again for the first time in over two weeks.

  “You get a medal, Agent George,” Nelson grinned, patting her good leg.

  “Really?” George asked, looking confused. “But, I didn’t bring the suppliers to justice.”

  “You killed them,” Nelson stated, nodding. “Some would call that justice.”