Chapter 11
The normally unflappable charge nurse with hair as fiery as her no-nonsense personality was flummoxed at the speed at which the ambulance attendants were rolling in their patients. "What's the goldang rush, Bex?" She paused when she saw the bloody blond head. "Room 1, boys." Their smell hit her, involuntarily making her back away.
Pendergast signaled for the attendants to stop. "Loretta, I need 'em in the same room as far away from the front door as they can be. Now. They're in danger."
Loretta didn't question either his command or the fact that he was out of his parish, considering law enforcement from surrounding parishes frequently brought people needing more advanced care to this hospital. "Take 'em to 12, Tommy," she said to the orderly to the left and one step behind her. "I'll get the doc and join you shortly."
"Thanks, doll. And get some more manpower down here, too." Pendergast took a short look at the Russian, who at the moment seemed to be unconscious. He decided to risk de-cuffing him; at least the man could get away and hide should it come to that. "Hold on, Herb. I'm gonna free him. Just back off if he wakes up, okay?" A wide-eyed Herb nodded briskly.
One handcuff was completely off and the other half off, the steel still encasing Kuryakin's left wrist, when the first shot sounded. Pendergast gasped and drooped, hanging onto the gurney's rail. A growing patch of red high on his right shoulder began coloring his uniform shirt.
The shot startled Illya to consciousness. He instantly took in the situation, adrenaline sharpening his entire body, dampening his pain. Without looking, he knew Napoleon was to his left, his breaths steady in that way that indicated unconsciousness. An injured man was to his right, service weapon holstered on his right hip. Four men in sweat-stained white clothing, two at the head and two at the foot of the stretchers, held up their hands in surrender. Another man on Napoleon's left squatted next to his partner, his terrified hazel eyes peeking out just above the gurney's frame.
Four more men, all in summer-weight suits tailored to mask shoulder harness holsters, were spread out just inside the ER entrance, weapons up, two rifles—sleep darts?—directed at him and two hand guns at Napoleon.
Sleep darts or not, for Illya, there was no question which THRUSHes he'd take out first.
In that same instant, Illya lifted the safety strap off the gun's hammer and pulled the weapon out and identified it as standard law enforcement issue, which meant no safety on the revolver itself. The empty cuff clanged on the pistol's metal, the unexpected sound buying him a much-needed second.
He aimed for center mass, rather than the head as his KGB training had instilled in him, of one of the THRUSHes targeting Napoleon, what with an unfamiliar gun and spastic tremors in his extremities—new side effect of the drug? He squeezed the trigger.
That THRUSH went down, shot through the heart.
The unfamiliar revolver's recoil threw Illya enough that his second shot caught the other THRUSH in the low right shoulder. The injury was enough to disable him, at least temporarily. For now, Napoleon was relatively safe.
Part of him worried that he would run out of bullets eliminating the THRUSH threat to Napoleon and the others, leaving none for himself. In his still-addled memory, he heard his friend say, "Let it all go."
For the moment, he did. He targeted one of the THRUSHes aiming at him. Before he could get that shot off, he felt the sting of two needles. His eyes rolled up in his head while his brain seemed to incandesce, and then he was out. The revolver dropped to the floor.
oooo
Napoleon barged into awareness when he heard metal on metal. His head swam for a brief moment then oddly cleared when he heard a shot originating from his right.
Using only one eye, which mostly defeated the blurred vision, he watched a THRUSH fall. A perfect hit to the heart.
He smiled to himself. That's my partner. A dead shot even with his left and under the influence.
Another shot before he could look to his right, and a second man slumped to his right, not quite collapsing but at least momentarily out of the shooting match.
Napoleon turned to see Illya take two darts, one to his damaged left cheek and another perilously close to his center neck. Illya's hand unfurled its hold on the Smith & Wesson. Its clatter on impacting the floor told Napoleon exactly where it had landed.
Then he heard Bex groan painfully and thud to the ground.
"We just want the little blond guy," said a THRUSHman, now targeting Solo.
Over my cold, dead body. "Now, now, that's against doctor's orders," he said with a hint of authority that a teacher would use with a misbehaving student.
Again, the two fully upright THRUSHes paused as if to question why they needed a doctor's permission to take Kuryakin. Napoleon took advantage and flung his aching, stiff body off the stretcher, added a few more bruises, miraculously not getting tangled up in the thin sheet that covered him. He scrambled to the police weapon and clutched the tactical grip in his right hand. The stretcher wound up on its side, perfectly positioned for Napoleon to use as cover.
Several sleep darts pinged off the gurney before Napoleon could twist into a semi-decent firing position. With one eye still closed, he popped up and fired off two shots, each one finding a recipient. One expired immediately while the other staggered back, left arm flopping at his side. Before Solo could fire a shot at the THRUSH Illya had wounded, he fled from the ER.
"Illya?" Napoleon said weakly, even though he knew his partner couldn't respond.
"He'll be okay, Napoleon," he heard Bex say. He looked toward the voice that seemed so far away. The pained face gave him a reassuring smile. "You both will be. Hot damn, no wonder y'all are the top two-"
He didn't hear the rest. As his vision fish-eyed, he grabbed the rail of Illya's stretcher with the intention of pulling himself up to confirm that his friend was truly on the way to "okay." He grunted once and fell away, aware of nothing yet again.