“We were,” Patrick admitted. “But it was a miracle Wendy got pregnant at all, so we decided to go ahead with it.”
The doctor gave Patrick a faint smile. “Well, sir, now we all have to live with the consequences of that decision. It’s a tribute to her that she stayed in such good health through this pregnancy, and that is a definite plus in her favor-but we’re in trouble now. The worst has come true. You need to make a decision, Patrick.”
“All right,” Patrick said, reaching over and taking Wendy’s hand. She stirred but did not return his gentle squeeze. “What are my options?”
“The only way for us to ensure that we’ll deliver a healthy baby at this point is to do a cesarean right now,” the obstetrician said. “The only way to ensure Wendy’s health is to terminate the pregnancy. We can wait and hope that Wendy dilates to ten, but we risk injury or death to your baby because his head is pounding against her cervix and he’s showing obvious signs of distress, and we also risk the chance of infection for both mother and baby. We can go ahead with a C-section and risk Wendy’s health, although I’m fairly confident that she can come out of it all right. Or we terminate the pregnancy to save Wendy. That’s about it.”
Patrick looked at his wife, but she was out of it. You have got to help me on this one, sweetie, he told her silently. I can’t make this decision on my own.
As if in reply, she opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. She swallowed, took a ragged breath, and said in a low voice, “You are going to make a great father, lover.”
“Wendy, listen to me. I have to ask you-the baby’s in trouble, you’re in trouble. I think we need to… to abort it, sweetheart.”
Wendy’s expression never changed but she raised her chin confidently. “You won’t do that, Patrick,” she said.
“I can’t risk your life, Wendy…”
“I’ve had my life already, Patrick,” Wendy said. “You’d be denying a new life. You won’t do that.”
“But we have other options, Wendy,” Patrick said, pleading with her. “We can adopt. I can’t risk losing you…”
“Patrick, sweetheart, we have a life right here, right now, that we must decide about,” Wendy said. “There are no other options. It’s us three right now. You know what you have to do.”
Wendy’s smile never dimmed as Patrick’s eyes filled with tears. He reached down, kissed her on the forehead, pressed her hand, and nodded. She nodded in reply and closed her eyes as another wave of contractions, more painful than the last even through the epidural, washed over her.
Patrick turned to the obstetrician and said, “Cesarean.”
“All right, let’s go,” the doctor said. Nurses came in to get Wendy ready to move to the pre-op area.
“I want to be there,” Patrick said emphatically. “I want to be with Wendy. I’m not leaving her side.”
“You’ll be there,” the doctor said. Patrick was handed a package with a thin plastic surgical gown, cap, and shoe covers. “Put those on. We’ll have you wait outside the pre-op area until she’s been taken into surgery, and then we’ll bring you in. Don’t worry.”
The speed at which the nurses and doctor were working told Patrick that the greatest battle of their lives was just beginning.
LaFortier drove past the main entrance to Sacramento Live!, then parked the car across the street half a block down. LaFortier put the car in park but did not shut off the engine. He sat thinking. “Why don’t we just give the guy a call on the radio and have him let us in?” Paul McLanahan asked.
“It’s dark inside,” LaFortier said.
“They had a power failure, Cargo.”
“But the battery-powered emergency lights are off too,” LaFortier pointed out. “One or two lights out, I can understand-but
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that Rusty’s probably pretty pissed off right now,” LaFortier said. He picked up the radio. “Security One-Seven, One John Twenty-One.” No reply. LaFortier tried again; still no reply. “I’ll get Dispatch to beep him. He might be in the can or something.” LaFortier swung the Mobile Data Terminal toward him and typed, 1JN21 TO POP3 REQ PLZ BEEP SECURITY 17, a request to activate the beeper on the off-duty officer’s radio, a loud tone signaling the officer to check in right away.
“Should we get some backup?” McLanahan asked.
“Not just yet-let’s see if Rusty checks in,” LaFortier replied. He put the car in drive and rolled farther down the block, out of sight of the front of the building.
“
“
“What is the procedure when they open the door, Mullins?” one of the gunmen asked in heavily accented English.
“They’ll call out first on the phone, Major,” said a man in a security guard’s outfit. “Then they’ll look out the gunport. The security chief is supposed to stand in plain sight before the door is opened. Then they’ll…” Just then, a loud beeping sound came from the security desk.
“Is that the call?” asked the gunman identified as the Major, obviously the leader of the group. He was clad in thick Class Three bulletproof Kevlar armor protecting every part of his body except his head; his ballistic Kevlar infantry helmet, which had an integral communications headset, red-lens protective goggles, and a gas mask, was in his hand. His combat harness was arrayed with ammo pouches, grenades, and a large-caliber automatic pistol in a combat thigh rig. He scared the hell out of the security guard.
“No-that’s the cop’s radio,” the guard replied. “Dispatch is asking him to check in.”
“Do you know their procedures?” the Major asked. “Can you respond for the policeman?”
Mullins, the Judas security guard, hesitated. It had been two years since he was kicked off the Oakland police force, caught stealing drugs and guns out of police property rooms. He couldn’t get a decent job anywhere in the Bay Area, although he had never been charged with any crime because the department wanted the incident kept quiet. He finally found a job with a private security company in Sacramento. But he was unable to get a gun permit and make the big bucks of an armed security guard, so he made minimum wage as a seasonal-hire watchman at Sacramento Live! and other locations around town. He lived in a filthy fifty-dollar-a-week hotel room near the Greyhound bus terminal in the downtown area.
But Mullins now had additional sources of income. He had always loved motorcycles, and when he got kicked off the Oakland force, this passion turned in a dark direction: He became a Satan’s Brotherhood recruit. The Brotherhood paid him well to simply look the other way when the gang wanted to steal some fuel from a refinery, chemicals from a warehouse, or pharmaceuticals from a medical supply store.
His conspiracy activities were no longer for the benefit of Satan’s Brotherhood, however. Two weeks ago, a couple of paramilitary guys with German accents had approached him and offered almost a half-year’s worth of wages for one night’s work. He readily agreed. All he had to do was brief the head of the group on the security procedures when the cash boxes were being moved, and open a door when instructed. He’d make five thousand dollars on the spot.
But he never expected these guys to be so bloodthirsty. Every private security officer had been executed on the spot, even the unarmed watchmen. And now, instead of being given his money and let go, he had been dragged upstairs by one of the Germans to explain the cash room routine. He hesitated.
“Go, Mullins. Answer them.
“But I don’t know this department’s codes or procedures…”
“Go! It must be answered. Tell them everything is okay.”
Mullins walked up to the security desk and picked up the beeping police radio. Hesitantly, he keyed the mike
