Brad’s breath came in tiny gasps with a whistling sound with each breath. His pulse pounded in his temples and black spots appeared before his eyes. His chest spasmed, trying to pull air into his lungs. He slouched and then rested his arms on his thighs. His fingers tingled.
“Oh, poor baby. Having trouble breathing. Please. You’re breaking my heart.” Toscana bent to meet Brad’s eyes. “I might not have to do anything. You’re suffocating. You’ll die, soon. Weird thing about not being able to breathe. Just not consistent with life.”
Like in football, Brad’s powerful legs propelled him forward and within two steps, he slammed into Toscana’s stomach as hard as he’d ever done in football. They hit the floor, the wind knocked out of them.
Brad rolled off Toscana and tried to roll to his knees. He couldn’t. Every time he moved, the room spun. He wasn’t getting enough air. He glanced at Toscana, who was doing worse than Brad. Her lips puckered like a guppy as she struggled to breathe.
Brad scanned the floor. The gun was eight feet to the left, the cattle prod the same distance to the right. He wasn’t sure he could get either. He didn’t see the knife blade. It had to be the gun. Fighting her for the guns would be suicidal, but he was out of options. He sucked air between his teeth and then rolled left. On the third roll, he used his momentum to raise into a crouch. In two steps, he was reaching for the gun.
“Coulter, you fucker. Die.”
Brad dove to the floor, grabbed the gun, and swung toward Toscana. Her first shot whizzed over his head, exactly where he’d been crouched. He swung the gun up and without aiming fired three shots. Two to the chest and one to the forehead.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Steele sprinted out of the factory with other TSU members close behind. Zerr limped to their truck. The cold was messing up his leg. Zerr hadn’t closed the truck door when Steele swung the Suburban out of the parking lot. The truck fishtailed on the slippery road. Steele gained control and swung the truck south.
Zerr picked up the microphone. “Dispatch. TSU heading to the old CN Railway station. We have information Coulter may be there. Send backup.”
“Roger,” dispatch said.
Steele glanced over. “Maybe EMS.”
Zerr’s jaw clenched. “Dispatch, roll two EMS units please.”
“Roger.”
Steele swung onto Eighteenth Avenue. Four Suburbans followed bumper to bumper. As they approached the CN Railway station, the Suburbans fanned out on either side of the building. Every window and door was covered with a sheet of plywood.
Steele and Zerr jumped out of the truck and jogged toward a side door that was covered with plywood. Steele reached into a gap between the door and plywood and pulled. Nails screeched as they gradually released their grip on the ancient wood. Steele tossed the plywood to the ground and unslung his rifle. He placed his hand on Zerr’s shoulder and they entered the dark building. Before they’d taken a dozen steps, three gunshots rang out. They sprinted through the darkness toward the sound.
Steele was the first one to the room. He swung the door open, stepped in so the door would bounce back on his foot, and surveyed the room over the sights of his rifle. Zerr did the same to Steele’s left.
The air was thick with the odors of body sweat, blood, and body fluids. A body lay before them, face down and unmoving. Across the room, a man was bound to a chair by rope. Occasional moans escaped his lips. To the far right, a man lay on his face on the floor. High-pitched whistles were heard.
Steele knelt and rolled the first person onto their back. Despite the bullet hole in her forehead and the blood, he recognized Toscana. He checked for a pulse and found none. Blood oozed from two bullet holes mid-chest.
Zerr was assessing the man in the chair, so Steele headed to the man on the floor, and rolled him onto his back.
“Oh, shit.”
Zerr’s head swung to Steele. “What?”
“It’s Brad. He’s badly injured.”
“I’ve got Michael Trant here. I think he’s overdosed.”
Four TSU members, guns pointed, strode into the room.
“We need EMS here, now,” Steele yelled. “Officer down.”
Two TSU members sprinted out of the room.
Zerr left Trant with two of his team and slid across the floor.
Steele glanced at Zerr. “Where do we start?”
Puffy, dark bruises surrounded Brad’s eyes. His nose hooked right, and his jaw was out of place. Whistling sounds came as air passed through Brad’s clenched jaw.
“Ah shit,” Zerr said. “His nose is broken and caked with blood. His jaw is broken or dislocated. He can hardly breathe through his mouth. I don’t know.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Jill Cook sprinted across the open room, following the beam of two TSU flashlights. They separated as they reached a room and Jill stepped in. Her eyes scanned the scene. “What do you have?”
Zerr glanced up. “Three patients. One DOA. One overdose. And Brad, he’s in awful shape.”
Jill pushed Steele to the side and assessed Brad’s face. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “He’s ice cold.”
“Broken nose and jaw,” Zerr said.
“Yup. And he’s not moving much air.” She pulled an oxygen mask out of her kit and hooked it up to the oxygen tank. She handed it to Steele. “Hold this over his nose and mouth, but don’t apply any pressure.” She glanced at her partner. “Sharma, take two cops, get the spine board, stretcher, blankets, and hot packs. We need to get going.”
As Amir left, Dixon and Thompson barged into the room. Jill pointed to Michael Trant. “Overdose.”
She checked the rest of Brad’s head and face. “He’s got some large goose eggs on his head, and several lacerations. If I had to guess, I’d say he was hit with something a bunch of times, maybe a gun.”
“Was he given heroin?” Zerr asked.
Jill shone a penlight into Brad’s eyes. “They’re equal and dilated. It’s unlikely he
