Two weeks after buying the new truck, first week of August…
It hadn't looked like an ambush when we walked into it. It hadn't felt like one, either.
There was no current in the air. No feeling that something was going to go down. In fact, it had been quiet since my truck met with its demise.
Too quiet, apparently.
We had just reached the parking lot where my truck had blown up at the end of another slow night. Two weeks of slow nights. Nothing but fights and drunks. Mental notes of names for possible prostitutes, pimps, and drug dealers made. Not even any gang activity.
Even at four in the morning, it was hot and humid. The air was suffocating. It was hard to breathe. No one had enough energy to leave the air conditioning and hit the streets looking for trouble.
We were almost back to the vehicles when the shots rang out. Another minute and we all would have been inside the SUVs or the pickup. Five feet. One minute. A mile to cross in a lifetime.
Every one of us hits the ground, crawling for whatever cover we can find while we try to ascertain what direction the shots came from. I wish I could say that I was able to locate the shooter and take him or her out quickly. I wish I was able to say I was able to keep my team safe.
My team is shouting, giving orders to stop firing and drop weapons. Of course, since we are now pinned down, our assailants keep firing at us. We hesitate to return fire in fear of hitting an innocent bystander. Not that there are many out at this time of night, but we refuse to take that chance.
I hear Steph shouting over the boys. "Use the damned paintball guns!"
It's a good plan. Nine-millimeters are exchanged for paintball pistols. We begin firing in the directions the bullets were coming from. The shots headed in our direction slow down and I can hear coughing and choking coming from the shadows.
Thank God.
Thirty seconds goes by without a shot. We cautiously stand up and look around. The boys melt into the shadows in an attempt to collect as many of the shooters as possible. I pull out my cell to call our liaisons at the PD. This is the second assault on us in under a month, even though the first one was probably not aimed at us. Hopefully, the guys will round up some of the shooters and we can get some answers.
Detective Sullivan answers his cell on the third ring. He sounds like I woke him up. I explain the situation. He promises that he'll be here in a few, and he'll bring some of the boys in blue, provided they don't beat him here. He tells me he'll also call Rodriguez and get him headed in our direction to deal with the possible gang issue. I thank him and hang up.
One by one, my team filters back into the lot. I look over the boys they've got in steel bracelets. I'll bet not one of them is over twenty. They look like babies. Armed ones with a shitload of gang ink.
I look around. Hector and Steph are missing.
I double check, rescanning the lot, in case I missed them or they showed up after I checked an area.
No such luck.
"Steph!" I yell, praying for an answer. I don't get one. I pull out my radio and try to raise her or Hector. Neither replies. I pull out my cell and dial her number.
I can hear her phone ringing, very close. It stops ringing and kicks over to her voicemail. I hang up and redial, trying to locate her phone, which is hopefully attached to her.
I tell everyone to shut up and wait for the ringing to begin again. When I hear her phone, I walk toward the sound, which seems to be coming from behind a car. I feel sick to my stomach, terrified that she's dead. Ram follows me. Lester walks by my side.
The ringing stops again. I press redial. The ringing starts up again.
She's not on the other side of the car. Neither is Hector.
We follow the sound of her phone behind the dumpster in front of which the car is parked. For a minute, I'm back in Trenton, watching her park Big Blue next to the dumpster at her old apartment.
My stomach lurches and it's an effort to keep my feet moving. I feel Lester's hand on my back, gently urging me forward.
The ringing stops again. In the silence, I can hear our boots crunching against the gravel near the dumpster.
I take a deep breath before I walk around the dumpster. I am terrified of what I will find there. Lester squeezes my shoulder and steps in front of me. He doesn't want them to be hurt, either, but he's aware that losing her would crush me.
Lester sucks in a breath and curses. My heart falls.
"Ranger, get an ambulance. Hector's down," Lester barks at me. My heart stops. If Hector is the only one in need of an ambulance, Steph is either missing or…. Gone.
It takes everything I have to walk behind that dumpster.
Steph is on her knees next to Hector, using both hands to apply pressure to the right side of his chest. My heart starts beating again. Lester is down on the ground next to her, his hands covering hers, helping her hold pressure. She's sobbing.
I kneel behind her and wrap one arm around her. I use the other one to pull out my cell and call for an ambulance.
I am beyond relieved. I feel giddy. She's here. She's safe.
Once I have requested an ambulance, I call Sullivan back to let him know we have a man down. I keep my arm around my wife.
I can hear the sirens long before I see the lights. PD is first on scene. An ambulance pulls up a few minutes later. Hector is loaded into the back with an IV and a monitor attached to him. The ground where he had lain is littered with discarded wrappers from bandages.
The police are asking questions, both of us and of the boys wearing our hardware. One by one, our metal cuffs are traded for plastic FlexCuffs and their wearers are loaded into the backseats of waiting cruisers. We will be pressing assault charges on top of whatever state and federal charges they are facing.
Steph is swaying on her feet. Lester scoops her up and gets into the passenger side of my truck with her cradled in his lap. I continue answering questions. My cell vibrates against my hip and I pull it out absently and answer it. "Yo."
"Your wife says she just needs a band aid, but she's dripping blood all over me and the seats in your new truck."
Once again, all the air leaves my lungs. "How bad?"
"Don't know, but she's getting drowsy. Could be shock, adrenaline crash, or blood loss. Pick one."
Shit. Shit. Shit. My stomach starts rolling again. "On my way."
I turn to the officers with whom I have been speaking. "Where did they take my man, and how do I get there? Fast."
"Baystate. Easiest way is right up Main Street and then turn right just before the cable company, but there's a lot of traffic. You can get up on 91 North and take exit 10, then just go straight until you run into the hospital. We're not quite done, though, sir…"
"We are now. My wife was shot, too."
The cop's face goes white. "I'll get another ambulance."
I shake my head. "She's already in my truck, ready to go."
I turn to walk away when I hear Franklin's voice ring out behind me. "We'll give the Spitfire a lights and sirens escort, Ranger."
"Thanks!" I call over my shoulder.
When I get to the truck, Steph's eyes are closed, her head resting on Lester's shoulder. He has one hand on her leg and the other on her wrist, monitoring her pulse. "Let's move, Ranger. The faster the better."
"We're getting an escort from PD. That should make it a real fast trip."
"Good," he grunts at me.
We make it to the ER in under ten minutes with a cruiser in front of us and another behind. Lester hands Steph off to me and runs in ahead of us to let them know she's coming. The two cruisers park and four cops plus Franklin follow me through the doors. A nurse is waiting to take Steph from me. I can't let her go. I look at the nurse and she shakes her head.
"Follow me. You get in our way, I'll have security drag you out." I nod and follow her. She points to a bed and pulls the privacy curtains. I begin cutting Steph's pants off so the nurse can see the damage. "How many times is she hit?"
"Just the one, I think."
"You think?"
"I didn't see her get shot."
"Oh."
The nurse starts an IV while I cut off Steph's shirt. I return to holding pressure until she's ready to put on a temporary bandage. Once that's done, the nurse begins the business of getting Steph under a blanket and checking her vitals. She's firing questions at me. She wants information about Steph's age, weight, medical history, allergies, relationship to me and how long ago she was actually shot. Without thinking, I ask, "Which time?"
The nurse looks at me like I've got two heads. "This time!"
I look at my watch. "Thirty-eight minutes."
She rolls her eyes at me and leaves the cubicle.
I step to the head of the bed and lean over. I kiss Steph's forehead and whisper that I love her. She doesn't respond. My stomach does another u-turn and I wish I had the case of Maalox Morelli sent me after I married her.
The nurse returns with a doctor, who begins the business of checking Steph out and asking all the same questions the nurse just asked. "Any connection to the Hispanic guy we just sent into surgery?" the doc wants to know.
"My employee. Her partner."
"And you are…?"
"Ranger. Her husband. I own the company they both work for."
"I see."
It feels as though it takes him forever to poke and prod her. My impatience is building. "I'm responsible for both of them," I finally say softly.
The doctor nods. "He's in surgery. The bullet hit the right side of his chest. He's got a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. The bullet is lodged in his back. It's far enough from his spine to safely remove it. Providing there are no complications, he'll be out of surgery and in recovery in a couple of hours. I'm going to do some x-rays and an MRI on your wife before I stitch her leg. They'll both be admitted for a few days."
I nod. "It would be best to put them in a room together."
"Mr. Manoso, this is a hospital. Men and women have separate rooms here."
I shrug. "Hector is gay. My guys will be traipsing around the halls between both of their rooms as well as taking guard duty. When she wakes up, she's going to want to see Hector."
The doc turns pale, which is quite an accomplishment since his complexion is darker than mine. "Those men in the waiting room wearing army uniforms…"
I smile. "Mine. Not to mention the ones that will be coming up from Trenton when they hear about this."
"Right I'll make arrangements for them to share a room."
"Thank you."
He leaves the room. A few minutes later, a tech comes in with a portable x-ray machine and takes pictures of her leg. He's gone in under ten minutes. A half-hour after she leaves, an orderly comes to collect Steph for her MRI. He kicks the brakes on the bed to release them. He smiles at me and says, "I hear you'll be comin' along with us. Ya wanna walk, ride, or drive?"
I find myself smiling back and telling him I'll walk by my wife's side. He nods at me and starts whistling, the smile never leaving his face. We walk through the ER and down a hall, then through a few sets of doors. He drops us off in the MRI department and helps me move Steph onto the machine's bed and arranging her to the tech's specifications. He leaves, still whistling.
The tech invites me to sit with her in the control booth. I kiss Steph's forehead and follow the woman, taking the seat she indicates. The whole process takes nearly an hour, with Steph's body being rearranged a few times.
A different orderly returns us to the ER, where Steph's leg is stitched up and put into a cast.
"Why the cast?"
"She got shot twice in that leg. Once in the thigh – that's the one that bled so much. The MRI showed a second hole, much smaller, just above her kneecap. We'd like her to keep that leg nice and still until it heals up."
That's going to go over well, I think. "When will she wake up?" Right this second, that's stressing me out more than anything.
"When we stop the sedatives we've been giving her. Probably in the morning."
"It is morning."
"How about lunch time?" he snaps at me. I decide it's time to shut up.
It's another hour before Steph and Hector are settled into a semi-private room in the Centennial wing. The guys manage to squeeze into the room. Lester pulls me into the hall.
"I called Tank and Hal. Hal and Heather are on their way up. They're stopping in New York to pick up Juan on the way. I called him, too," Lester tells me.
A block lifts off my chest. I'd been dreading making those calls. "Thanks. Any ETA?"
Lester shakes his head. "No. But Lula said – and I quote – 'What da fuck, Batman? What you be doin' lettin' Steph git shot?'"
I figured that would be coming. The more upset Lula gets, the more ghetto her language becomes. She's furious. I sigh and rub my hands over my face. "Thanks. I think."
He smirks. He claps me on the back and we return to our vigil.
