Hard Landing Page 19

  "Blood pressure is seventy over thirty-eight," announced the nurse on the other side.

  "He needs more oxygen. Sandy, help me with the endotracheal tube so we can ventilate with an ambu bag. April, cut away his shirt and get him hooked up to the EKG. Rebecca, draw his labs. I want to know what's in him within five minutes flat," the doctor stated.

  "Yes, sir." She stepped toward the cabinet to raid it for the necessary supplies.

  The emergency tech peeked through the curtain, holding out a chart. "His friend is here. I got as much information as I could."

  April, the nurse's aide, took the clipboard from her and scanned it. She turned toward the doctor. "His name is Adams."

  The catheter in Rebecca's hands clattered onto the countertop as fear shrink-wrapped her heart.

  "Can you hear me, Mr. Adams?" the doctor asked.

  Adams is a common name, Rebecca told herself. But she knew in her heart that it was Brant. Very slowly, she turned to look at him.

  He lay with his face and hair caked the blood still oozing from the gash on his cheek. April had cut his shirt up both sleeves and down the torso, peeling back the two halves to reveal the muscle-plated chest that had been Rebecca's playground.

  With no response from Brant and with Sandy's help, the doctor proceeded to insert the endotracheal tube through the laryngoscope into his mouth, tipping back Brant's head to get the tube down his throat. His chin stubble glinted under the bright lights. Rebecca rocked back on her heels, and the room went into a slow spin.

  "There's a bruise here with a tiny puncture mark," Dr. Edmonds noted, frowning at a welt on his right anterior deltoid. "I wonder if he injected the drugs or swallowed them."

  "He's not a junkie." Rebecca's voice sounded alien to her own ears. "He's a Navy SEAL. Someone did this to him."

  Both the doctor and the aide looked over at her. "You know him?" the doctor guessed.

  "Yes." Icy pinpricks stabbed the tips of her fingers and the top of her scalp. Max. Max had gone after Bronco already!

  He eyed her with concern. "I need another nurse in here!" he called through the door. "Have a seat, Rebecca, before you faint."

  "I'm not going to faint." She clung to the counter behind her as shock drove the strength from her legs.

  "Sandy, get that catheter in him and draw his labs for her," he said to the other nurse. "You can take them down the hall as soon as she's done," he added to Rebecca.

  Relinquishing the paraphernalia to Sandy, Rebecca watched with a sense of surrealism as Sandy first catheterized Bronco then moved to his side to draw his blood.

  "April, give him a saline bolus," the doctor instructed the aide on Brant's other side. Adjusting the pads on the electrocardiograph, he frowned at the intermittent hills that represented his slow heartbeats. "He'll need .5 mgs of Atropine every five minutes until his heart rate comes up to sixty."

  Sandy filled two vials of blood. Stoppering them, she sealed a cup of urine next and handed them all to Rebecca to rush to the laboratory.

  This has to be a nightmare. I'll wake up soon.

  Rushing out the door to deliver the warm fluids to the lab, she collided with a tall figure in BDUs hovering just outside.

  "Bullfrog," she exclaimed, startled to see him. "What happened?"

  He shook his head. "He never came home last night. I found him outside of our apartment building. Someone must have attacked him."

  "There's a puncture wound on his arm," she relayed.

  His widening gaze locked onto hers. Neither one of them spoke aloud what they were thinking.

  "I'm taking his labs down the hall," she added, with a quick glance over her shoulder. "Walk with me." Visitors weren't allowed in the ER, let alone back in the laboratory.

  They moved down the hall in stunned silence. Bullfrog's hand, placed against the small of her back, helped to steady her. She left the blood and urine with the technician telling him to run a toxicology screen immediately. "Dr. Edmonds said five minutes," she told him. "I'll be right back for the results." Turning to Bullfrog, she added, "I need you to do something for me."

  "Sure."

  She led him to the break room. Retrieving Maya Schultz's business card from her purse, she pressed it into his palm. "Call this woman." Her shock abruptly gave way to helplessness. Tears swarmed her eyes. "Tell her what's happened to Bronco. Tell her we know who did this," she added, her composure eroding.

  Bullfrog looked up from the card. He sent her a pained nod, lifted a hand briefly to her cheek, and turned away, heading for the lobby.

  Rebecca raced back to the lab, running the last few yards to get there quickly.

  "Please hurry," she begged the technician. She fought to keep herself together. A crushing weight pressured her chest. How could Max do this to one of his own men? Tremors began to wrack her spine. Her legs wobbled. How could I have married such a monster and brought this upon Bronco?

  In the back of the workroom, the printer spat out a sheet of paper. The technician quickly scanned it then passed it through the window to her. "Opioids," he stated. "They're interacting with the alcohol sugars in his bloodstream."

  Rebecca hurried back to the room with her report. Handing it to the doctor, she noted that Bronco was still being ventilated. His vitals hadn't improved. If anything, they looked worse.

  "I'll need another .4 mgs of Narcan," the doctor barked, adding the lab report to the clipboard. "Sandy, call ICU and give them a heads-up. We're transferring him upstairs before he goes into cardiac arrest on me."

  Rebecca's thoughts flew to the homeless man who'd died only two rooms over, a couple of weeks ago. A cry of denial tore from her throat. Not Bronco!

  Reaching for his limp hand, she squeezed his ice-cold fingers and willed him to respond. But he lay as still as death, his heart beating so slowly that it was painful to listen to the telltale bleeps coming from the EKG.

  White-hot rage rose from her chest to brand her consciousness. Through eyes that burned with banked tears, she watched Sandy administer the injection of Narcan via the IV. Seconds ticked by. Brant's blood pressure dropped to sixty-three over thirty-five.

  Dr. Edmond's shook his head. "Another dose of Atropine. Once he's stabilized, we'll transfer him to ICU."

  Chapter 15

  The door separating ICU from its private lobby swung open. Rebecca's heart jumped up her throat as a gaunt doctor stepped through it, followed by a plump nurse. Dread ran in a cold river through her veins as the doctor took in the size of the throng awaiting word on Bronco's situation. She pushed to the edge of her seat, hopeful of news.

  They'd been waiting four hours for word of Bronco's fate. Excused from her work, Rebecca had been the first to join Bullfrog up in ICU. Then several SEALs from the task unit had trickled in, including Sam Sasseville and Master Chief Kuzinsky. Later Haiku, Halliday, Hack, Teddy, Carl Wolfe, and Austin Collins arrived to keep vigil. Even Maddy had put in a brief appearance, bringing her baby, who'd provided a badly needed distraction.

  Max, however, remained notably absent. It was all Rebecca could do to keep her accusations in check when Kuzinsky had passed on Max's regrets. As soon as Maya Schultz and her partner arrived, however, Rebecca had pulled them into the hall to share her suspicions. To her profound relief, they'd taken her more seriously than at their last encounter.

  "You're all here for Brantley Adams?" the doctor asked to the room in general. He moved into their midst, clearing his throat before making his announcement. "The patient is presently stable. While we remain optimistic, his condition could deteriorate. It all depends on the strength of his heart and the extent of the damage to his brain."

  Rebecca's lungs ached as she continued to hold her breath.

  "We're monitoring him closely, but there's not likely to be any change soon. If you'd like to leave, simply relay your name and number to Nurse Kelly here—" He nodded at the middle-aged nurse—"and she'll call you in four hours with an update."

  Four more hours! Relief congealed into desp
air. Rebecca dropped her face into her hands and exhaled painfully. If only the prognosis were more encouraging. Bullfrog laid a hand on her shoulder and she turned toward him wordlessly, receiving the comfort she so badly needed.

  "He'll pull through," he promised, not for the first time.

  The sound of high heels crossing the linoleum had her glancing up. Investigator Maya Schultz had beckoned the doctor off to one side, where she flashed her badge and introduced herself. The doctor's blue gaze sharpened. Ben Metier joined them also, blocking Rebecca's view of the exchange.

  "Would you like to go?" Bullfrog inquired.

  "Wait one second."

  She strained to hear Maya Schultz's words, but the other conversations taking place muddled her reception. Was Maya asking whether Rebecca's suspicions might be founded—that Bronco could have been intentionally drugged? The doctor opened the door behind them and invited the investigators to join him in ICU.

  Encouraged, she left her name and number with Nurse Kelly and let Bronco's best friend take her to lunch.

  * * *

  Dr. Peterson divided an intrigued gaze between the two investigators sitting on the other side of his office desk. Ms. Schultz's pointed question had stirred his imagination.

  Is there anything about the patient's condition that suggests he might have been attacked and deliberately drugged?

  On the one hand, if he replied that there was, these two investigators would be up his butt wanting copies of all the related paperwork. On the other hand, HIPPA laws did not protect patient medical records from law enforcement. He was required to hand them over, even without a warrant. The thought of defending it in court dismayed him. However, he owed his medical degree to the Navy, and he'd watched every episode of NCIS that had ever aired on television. There was nothing like a good mystery to enliven his humdrum existence.

  "Honestly," he said, measuring his answer with care, "there are several indications that he was forcibly subdued and drugged. First, he bears a number of cuts and bruises consistent with a struggle—but then he is a Navy SEAL. An older wound that had been close to healing on his face was torn wide open—we'll wait for his vitals to strengthen before we sew him up. Given the concentration of the opiate in his bloodstream, it's my opinion that he was injected with OxyContin dissolved in water, which concentrates it while making it easy to deliver in one powerful dose. It's downright lethal when mixed with alcohol."

  The woman cocked her head at him. "What makes you think he was injected?"

  "There's a bruise on his right anterior deltoid where his skin was punctured by what might have been a large hypodermic needle. Even if the patent were left handed, he wouldn't have injected his right deltoid so close to the bone. One, that would have hurt like hell. Two, he's got plenty of available muscle elsewhere on his arm."

  "Tell me more about OxyContin and what it does," she requested.

  "Once in the body, it breaks down, releasing a steady supply of oxycodone. Mixing oxycodone with alcohol depresses the central nervous system. Considering that his blood-alcohol level was .21, he should be dead right now. But he's in remarkable shape. His heart is strong, and that's what has kept him alive."

  The woman touched her fingertips to her lips. "We may need you to make this assertion in a court of law," she warned.

  Intrigued, he gave a nod.

  "It is imperative that we speak with the patient the minute he regains consciousness."

  "If he regains consciousness," he corrected her. "I must caution you, too, that he may have suffered brain damage. He may not make a very good witness."

  Her mouth firmed. "I understand. Still, we absolutely must speak to him the instant he awakens."

  "I'll see to it that Nurse Kelly calls you first," he agreed.

  "Thank you," she said, rising in advance of her companion. It was clear that, between the two of them, she was the one who called the shots. "We'll be in touch, doctor."

  * * *

  Max looked up from his desk at the Spec Ops building. It was all he could do to keep his mind on matters involving the task unit when he had yet to hear whether his effort to eliminate Chief Adams had succeeded. Then, too, the Scarpas were pressuring him via Google chat to hurry up and eliminate his next target.

  For the tenth time that day, he checked his silent cell phone, hoping for a message. Chief Adams should be dead already. Nearly five hours had passed since First Class Winters had left a message on his commander's voicemail explaining that Adams had been rushed to the hospital.

  Desirous of an update, Max dialed his master chief directly.

  Kuzinsky answered right away. "I'm on my way back to Spec Ops now, sir."

  Max's heart hammered. "What's the news?"

  After a split second's hesitation, the master chief responded, "He's hanging in there."

  Trepidation skidded through Max. Adams should be long dead by now. How the hell was he hanging in there considering the concentrated dose he'd been given?

  "Has he regained consciousness?" The fear that he'd wake up spewing accusations bathed him in a cold sweat.

  "No, sir. Doctor says he's still critical. I'll get a call if anything changes."

  "I see. You'll keep me informed?"

  "Of course, sir." Kuzinsky hung up on him.

  Max lowered his phone with a frown. Were the vibes he'd been getting lately from his right-hand man real or just a product of his imagination? Kuzinsky had no reason to suspect he had anything to do with Adams' overdose. They'd worked together tirelessly for going on two years. But what if Adams had conveyed Rebecca's suspicions to his master chief? Surely her suspicions alone wouldn't sway Kuzinsky's opinion of him.

  I'm imagining things, he assured himself.

  Swiping a hand over his clammy brow, he put his phone away. Adams was dead or as good as dead. It had to be that way. Max had bigger fish to fry, but he couldn't even begin working on a plan to off the FBI agent until he knew for certain that his efforts to clean house had succeeded.

  Plus, it was hard to strategize while Rebecca had possession of his laptop.

  "Not for long," he muttered to himself. The gangsters he had hired on Silk Road had promised to leave the laptop at the drop by midnight, where they'd collect the remainder of their payment.

  Clearing his mind, he sought to finish up his work related to the task unit. Retaining his reputation as a top-notch commander meant everything to him—yet, that was becoming increasingly difficult with all these loose ends that needed tying up.

  * * *

  "You sure you'll be okay? Maybe you should try to sleep."

  Bullfrog's concerned expression caused the tears Rebecca had repressed all day to surface suddenly. They'd gone out to a late lunch—early supper, really. Neither of them had eaten much. As weary as she felt, she doubted she'd nap at all, knowing that her husband had attempted to murder Bronco.

  If he died in ICU—she couldn't stand to even think about it—she would never forgive herself for involving him in Max's secret. Turning toward her kitchen, she forced herself to nod, even as her face crumpled and the tears started to flow.

  The door of her apartment closed softly. Sniffing first, she looked over to find Bullfrog locking her door from the inside. He hadn't left, after all. "Bronco would never forgive me if I left you alone right now," he explained. "Do you have any books or a board game?"

  Sending him a wan smile, she wiped her face on a dishtowel and went to retrieve a handful of thrillers she had brought with her when she'd left Max.

  For the next two hours, they lay on her living room floor, alternately dozing and staring sightlessly at pages that failed to engage them. The sky in the windows went from gold to mauve to black. Rebecca made them both a cup of tea, while stealing a glance at the time on her microwave. In half an hour or so, Nurse Kelly would call them with an update on Bronco's condition.

  A knocking at her door had her lowering the mugs onto her kitchen counter and shooting Bullfrog a puzzled glance.

  "Expec
ting someone?" he asked, rolling to his feet. "You want me to answer it?"

  The fear that Max had decided to pay her a visit prompted her to nod. "Yes, please."

  She edged around the counter as Bullfrog approached the door. He had to stoop in order to peer through the peep hole. "Looks like a woman delivering pizza."

  "She must have the wrong unit."

  He unlocked the door, pulling it halfway open. Rebecca glimpsed a young, dusky-skinned woman with cornrows in her hair standing beyond him.

  "Sorry, we didn't order any pizza," Bullfrog said.

  The young woman flung aside the pizza box to point a wicked-looking pistol in Bullfrog's face. "I know that, motherfucker. Back the hell up."

  With lightning-quick reflexes, he grasped the weapon, twisting her arm up and back. But then two more men sprang into view—both of them brandishing firearms.

  "Let her go!" one of them commanded. "Back inside."

  Bullfrog released the weapon and put his hands up. Barrels trained on him, they forced him to retreat into the apartment, and they made their way inside, shutting the door behind them.

  Too shocked to move, Rebecca gaped at them.

  "How can we help you?" Bullfrog asked them calmly. His taut expression betrayed not a drop of fear.

  "You can help us by holdin' still. Don't move." The man with a sawed off shotgun kept it aimed at Bullfrog's chest while his two cronies fanned out searching her apartment.

  The woman sauntered up to Rebecca with a sneer of contempt. "Where's all your furniture?" she demanded. "Don't you even got a TV?"

  Unable to find her voice, Rebecca shook her head. Her stomach tightened to see the other male stalk into her bedroom.

  "Where's your purse?" the woman demanded. Her dark eyes scanned the kitchen. She crossed to a closet and grubbed inside it, coming out with Rebecca's hand bag. Dumping the contents onto the carpet, she dropped to one knee to paw through it.

  The man in Rebecca's bedroom leaned out of the door with her jewelry box tucked under one arm. "Where's your computer, bitch?" he demanded.