swayed back and forth as he was whisked down the steps. Borgia nearly collapsed in relief when he saw the large amount of blood covering the man’s clothing, the multiple pressure bandages covering the man’s chest and stomach. No way Karim survived that.
Borgia thought of Fletcher, felt his heart tripping with pleasure at the thought of standing in front of all those cameras, telling the story of how he’d found and captured the former profiler. His story would hold up, even if Karim survived. It would be Karim’s word against the actions of an FBI agent with a pristine record. Karim had hidden a wanted fugitive. He had attacked and, God willing, killed a federal agent. If Karim survived, he would spend his remaining years behind bars.
Karim didn’t matter. Fletcher was the prize, and Fletcher was pinned down somewhere, in agony from the tear gas, choking on it. Any second now and they would have him. The monster couldn’t ride or hide any more.
A full minute passed with no word.
They’re moving slowly through smoke, taking no risks, Borgia thought. Fletcher spooked them — and with good reason. The monster might have the investigative mind of Sherlock Holmes, but he was as cunning and bloodthirsty as a vampire.
Ten minutes passed and the smoke was no longer drifting through the front doorway or shattered windows.
Borgia’s eyes narrowed in thought, his insides turning to water even before a new voice spoke over his headset: ‘CP, we’ve found a body hidden inside a closet — hidden inside what looks like some sort of panic room. It has — ’
‘Is it Fletcher?’ Cronin asked.
‘No, sir. He’s one of ours. Danny Jackman.’
57
The SWAT tactical paramedic kneeling in the back of the swaying ambulance went to work applying new pressure bandages to the comatose stabbing victim strapped down to the gurney. The paramedic had completed two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan; he had seen the many ways in which the human body could be torn apart by high-velocity bullets and roadside bombs. This victim was relatively easy compared to those miseries.
Two stab wounds: the lower left quadrant of the abdomen and the other on the chest, just below the left clavicle. The attacker had been aiming for the heart. The vic had worn a bulletproof vest but had opted out of using a steel-plate insert. If he had, the long blade wouldn’t have punctured the lung.
The stabbing vic was intubated and had a breathing tube inserted through the trachea to protect the airway. The problem now was blood. The vic had lost a lot, maybe too much. He’d been found lying in at least a litre, and his abdomen was rigid and distended from internal bleeding. Every time he coughed, a fine red mist sprayed the inside of the breathing tube, a sure sign his lungs were filling up.
The paramedic started two large bore IV lines to replace the lost blood, hoping to God the intravenous fluid would keep the victim’s brain and vital organs alive without accelerating the internal bleeding. Then he went to work suctioning blood from the man’s endotracheal tube to keep the airway open and oxygenated.
The second victim riding in the ambulance was an HRT operator named Jackman. He had suffered blunt-force trauma from the lead slugs that had struck his chest. The man had been shot three times — once above the heart, the other two dead centre of the chest. His vest had a steel plate, and it had saved his life.
And Agent Jackman had possibly saved this other man’s life. Entering the bedroom filled with smoke, the paramedic had found the stabbing vic’s vest already cut off, a HALO chest seal on the bleeding wound.
The paramedic had tried to take off the agent’s gas mask to rinse away the tear gas, but Jackman had waved him off, saying in a mechanical voice over the mask’s speaker that he had on a vest and was fine, just in severe pain. The HRT operator kept pointing to the stabbing vic, who was certainly more in need of help.
The operator was sitting up now. Christ, he’s one big son of a bitch, the paramedic thought, stripping out of his bloody gloves. He turned to the radio and called the Cape Regional Medical Center. It had an excellent trauma unit, from what he’d been told.
‘Cape Trauma, this is Tac Medic One, do you copy?’
‘Tac Medic One, this is Dr Notestine, I copy, go ahead.’
‘We’re en route to your facility, code three with an ETA of ten minutes,’ the paramedic said. ‘On board we have an older male patient with multiple stab wounds. Wound one is on the left chest, mid-clavicular fourth intercostal space. Wound two is left upper abdominal quadrant. Knife was approximately two-inch-width blade, length of five inches. Patient is unconscious and unresponsive, estimated external blood loss at one litre. Skin is cool and diaphoretic with a delayed capillary refill. Blood pressure 80 over 40, heart rate of 144.’ A glance at the monitor and he added, ‘He’s showing sinus tachycardia.’
Out of the corner of his eye the paramedic saw the HRT agent stripping out of his jacket. ‘Patient is intubated with a number eight endotracheal tube,’ he said. ‘Lung sounds are diminished on the left, right lung fields are clear. There’s blood in the tube on expiration. I have two large bore IVs infused with approximately 500cc of normal saline. Patient was found comatose. Medications, last meal and medical history unknown, over.’
‘Copy, Tac Medic One, we’ll have operating room standing by. Do you know patient’s blood type?’
The paramedic couldn’t answer. A powerful arm had wrapped around his neck, squeezing the carotid artery and cutting off the much needed blood to his brain.
‘My apologies,’ Agent Jackman whispered, but it was too late for the paramedic to answer.
Nineteen-year-old Mindy Williams had been driving her boyfriend’s pickup when she heard the wailing ambulance. Unlike some of the other vehicles, she pulled over to the far side of the breakdown lane to give the ambulance a wide berth.
After it whisked past her in a wail of sirens and flashing lights, she pulled back on to the two-lane highway, reviewing what she needed to pick up at the mall, when she saw the ambulance’s back door fly open. She immediately slammed on her brakes. The seatbelt kept her from smashing against the steering wheel.
A paramedic stood by the opened door; she was close enough to see the bright blue jacket with its reflective bands, the large EMS emblem stitched on the breast. His hands were bloody. Whoever was riding in the ambulance must’ve been in one hell of an accident, she thought.
The paramedic didn’t shut the door. Incredibly, he stepped on to the back bumper.
Then he jumped.
Car horns shrieked and tyres skidded, and she watched in fascination and horror as the man hit the fast- moving ground, tumbled and rolled, tumbled and rolled.
What the hell is going -
Her thought was interrupted by a new sound: police sirens. She glanced in her rearview mirror and in the far distance saw a cavalry of flashing blue-and-white lights — police cruisers and undercover vehicles were driving at rocket speed as if trying to outrun an atomic bomb. Mindy Williams looked back at the highway, catching a flash of the paramedic’s blue coat before the man disappeared into the woods.
58
Malcolm Fletcher spotted the gated parking lot and stopped running.
His broken ribs had been aggravated by his tumble across the highway, the bones feeling as though they had been turned into shards of glass, the jagged ends shredding his muscles and lungs. His legs fluttered, threatening to give out, and his vision swam with pain. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and quickly tried to catch his breath.
The gated lot was for people using Cape May’s small Woodbine Municipal Airport. The entrance and exit were in the same location, manned by a pair of automated machines that created parking tickets and collected the fees.
The wailing sirens had reached a piercing pitch; the FBI had discovered HRT Operator Jackman’s body and
