CHAPTER 120

Bobby's POV

"Yessir. Sergeant James is still in surgery. No, sir."

The noise in the ER was distracting and it was hard to hear Col. Striker over the constant stream of orders and shouts coming from the nurses and doctors. I also received a dirty glare from the head nurse so I slipped outside to continue the call.

"As for Capt. Mañoso… the swelling is increasing, sir. The doctor is recommending a medically induced coma because he isn't quieting down, even with the stronger sedative." I was standing just outside the ER doors and could see three nurses trying to hold down a delirious Carlos. I needed to get back in there. "Capt. Mañoso gave his medical power of attorney to his cousin and he is the only one who can authorize such an action. Permission to call him, sir?"

"Permission granted. Get Mañoso whatever he needs. Have you and Santos been treated?"

"Yes, sir. Minor injuries only."

"Alright. Report regularly on both Mañoso and James' condition. And, Brown, until we can be sure we eliminated the entire Al Qaeda cell, this needs to be kept quiet. A team is already at the explosion site to contain it. And expect a team from the FBI to debrief all four of you when the situation permits it."

"I understand, sir. Any word on Larsen and Jimenez?"

"Just that they're both still in surgery. If you and Santos hadn't gotten them out when you did, they wouldn't even have that chance. The warehouse burned completely."

"We don't leave men behind, sir."

"Hooah! And Brown, good job." The colonel disconnected.

Good job, my ass! None of our team should have received more than a few bruises, but instead, Tank was in surgery getting pieces of a brick wall cut out of his body and Carlos had both gunshot and knife wounds and a severe concussion. Now, his brain was swelling and the docs wanted to dump him into a coma until the pressure building up within his brain was reduced. Fuck! After surviving the predicted ninety percent fatality rate of our Iraqi mission, we come back home to this.

The only good part about it was that SOB al-Rashad was dead. Damn, he was one heartless bastard. I still can't believe the gruesome way he murdered his partner in crime. That poor girl never had a chance. Yeah, she was a traitor, but to have your neck snapped while your terrorist lover is… Bobby shook his head in disgust.

"Mr. Brown?"

I turned around and was face to face with Dr. Livingston, the neurosurgeon who had recommended putting Carlos in a medically induced coma. I'd spent the past two hours with Dr. Livingston and was impressed by his calm demeanor and quick assessment of Carlos' rapidly deteriorating condition. I was grateful the ER doctor had immediately called in a specialist to assess Carlos' condition while the ER staff tended to his other wounds. The ER doc and the neurosurgeon had agreed that inducing a coma was the best course of action.

"Mr. Brown, if we're going to help your friend, we need to do it soon. Have you contacted Mr. Mañoso's next of kin?" Dr. Livingston asked.

I rubbed my hand over my mouth and chin, knowing that would be the last thing Carlos would want – his family, and in particular his father, hovering over his bedside, especially when he couldn't get up and walk out.

In response, I informed him, "Mr. Mañoso has assigned his medical power of attorney over to his cousin. I'll put in a call to him now."

Thank heaven for cell phones. I did a quick check with 411. Within a few seconds I had Mateo Herrera's office number and called. "Hello, I need to speak with Mr. Herrera," I said, after the woman who answered had finished announcing the law firm's impressively long name.

"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Herrera isn't available. Would you like to speak with one of his associates?"

"No. It's imperative that I speak with Mr. Herrera personally. And I need to talk with him immediately. He holds the medical power of attorney for a friend of mine who's been in… an accident. This is a life or death situation."

From the sounds coming over the phone, the woman was obviously scrambling around her desk and then muted voices could be heard. When she came back on the line, she was breathless. "Mr. Herrera is out of the country. Actually, he's on vacation with his family. A Caribbean Disney cruise. I'm sorry to say that before he left he informed me he planned to turn his phone off and devote the entire week to his family. I can try to contact him, but I don't know if he'll get the message in time." I could hear the sincere regret in her voice.

I leaned my head back against the rough brick wall and exhaled deeply before requesting in my nicest yet firmest voice, "Give me his cellphone number and which cruise ship he's on. I'll take it from there." And then remembering I was dealing with civilians, I added, "Please."

It took talking to the firm's senior partner to get the information I needed. And the secretary was right, Carlos' cousin had turned off his phone. I called the ship directly, and after the frustration of being routed through three different cruise ship employees, whom I mentally dubbed Mickey Mouse, Daffy Duck and Goofy, I was finally able to speak to the staff captain, who was, in essence, the second in command. He took my number and assured me he would find Mr. Herrera immediately and make sure that he knew the gravity of the situation. True to his word, ten minutes later Mateo Herrera called me. I explained the situation and was able to put Mateo and Dr. Livingston together and the necessary authorization was given for Carlos' emergency medical treatment to proceed.

Unfortunately, Mateo must have called Carlos' father immediately after that because in less than two hours a very worried and demanding Mr. Mañoso showed up at the hospital. It would soon be nightfall, and while it had already been a long eventful day for our team the night ahead promised to be even longer.

I introduced myself to Mr. Mañoso as a friend of Carlos' and explained his injuries and medical situation as best I could, but of course, I couldn't answer his questions about why and how his son had been injured. Nor could I tell him why his son was back in the States and hadn't called his family. I also couldn't explain that we had been tracking down and battling a dangerous Al Qaeda terrorist cell, so I gave him a vague story about a gas explosion in an old warehouse. I could see he didn't believe me, but fortunately, he was more concerned with his son's prognosis than the cause of the injuries. And it could have been worse. The entire Mañoso clan could have descended upon the hospital, each with their own searching questions. Carlos' father explained that he had wanted to come first and see just how bad his son's injuries were before he broke the news to his wife and the rest of his family.

I told Mr. Mañoso that his son had been placed in a medically induced coma. With anger in his voice, he asked me why he, Carlos' father, hadn't been called before taking such extreme measures. I took a deep mental sigh and informed him that Carlos had assigned his medical power of attorney over to his lawyer, Mateo Herrera. Mr. Mañoso's jaw tightened perceptibly and then his face turned red. This was obviously news to him and he wasn't pleased.

I watched as Mr. Mañoso approached the ICU room where Carlos had been moved to when 1 the doctors induced the coma. I had explained to Mr. Mañoso that, even under heavy sedation, Carlos had been very agitated and his constant thrashing around threatened to only increase the swelling of his brain. Now, Carlos was lying on a hospital bed, deathly still, and had multiple wires and tubes attached to him with machines quietly beeping all around him. Even I had a hard time seeing my friend so still and pale. The Captain normally had a commanding presence and calling him Superman wasn't a stretch at all. Now he appeared small and vulnerable, as if the bandages he wore were made of kryptonite, shutting down all Superman's internal power.

Mr. Mañoso stood in the doorway and as he took in the sight of his son lying so still in the hospital bed he slumped against the doorjamb. I rushed to his side and supported him until I could maneuver him onto one of the chairs in the room. After staring at his son for awhile, in a hoarse whisper he asked, "Can he hear me?"

A controversial question. "He may not be able to respond, but personally, I believe he can hear your voice, which should be a comfort to him." I knew there was some kind of strain between Carlos and his father, but I had to believe having family by his side would help my friend heal.

Family dynamics were a strange thing. If my father was here and I was lying in that bed, Dad would be tempted to crawl in next to me. Mom would definitely be lying by my side, constantly stroking my forehead and adjusting the wires and tubes to make me more comfortable, or maybe just to keep her hands busy so she wouldn't break down and cry. However, Mr. Mañoso sat as still in his chair as Carlos lay still in the bed. Both men seemed pale and lost. There was no reaching out to hold his son's hand or even touch him. Watching the awkwardness was too hard, so I left to check on Tank and see how his surgery had gone. I'd send Lester up to watch over Carlos and deal with Mr. Mañoso.

Ricardo's POV

I did not want to believe the motionless man lying in that hospital bed was my son. He seemed smaller and so pale. Not the strong, confident and vital man that epitomized my son. Carlos had never been meek. He was usually quiet, but there had always been an underlying strength and a sense of power within him. That was all gone now and it scared me.

I remembered back to that awful night when I had confessed to Teresa the truth about how I had met Estefania and what her relationship was to our son. Teresa was furious with me for once again chastising Carlos about his refusal to honor me and not come to work at Rosa's and for arguing with him just before he was to leave on his latest mission. I remembered how quickly I had dismissed her fears that we might lose our youngest son this time. All she could think about was his mission's projected ninety percent fatality rate. I had rejected that as nonsense. And now, to have that possibility staring me right in the face. ¡Dios mío!

Most of my family were physically demonstrative, although Carlos and I rarely touched, let alone hugged. But I needed to connect to my son now and let him know I was here for him. I reached out and touched his arm and he did not pull back. A part of me worried that even in this god-awful state he was in, he would still rebuff me. I turned his hand over so I could hold it in mine. I remembered when he was a little boy and we would walk, he would always want to hold my hand. That phase did not last long and it was the only time he had ever allowed me to be close to him. That was well over twenty years ago.

Carlos' hand was cold and limp and a jolt of fear shot through me. He looked and felt… dead. I heard the words tumble out of my mouth, but my shaky voice was unrecognizable, "¡Dulce María, madre de Jesús! Please do not take my precious son away from me. I cannot lose him now, knowing he hates me. I need more time; we need more time. I must have time to apologize to him, to tell him how proud I am of him. And that I love him!" I bowed my head, unable to look at the pale, motionless body before me. [Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus!]

I had said so many Hail Marys the last few months as penance for my prideful sins, the words came unbidden to my lips. "Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amen." [Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.]

Leaning over, I pressed my lips to Carlos' palm and a tear fell from my brimming eyes on that very spot as I rose back up.

Startled by a loud insistent beeping that suddenly sounded from one of the machines, I looked up to see flashing numbers and jumping lines on one of the screens. One number in particular was increasing each time it flashed. To my surprise, the room was quickly filled with nurses and doctors. One of the nurses hurriedly pushed me out of the room, ignoring my questions. All their attention was focused on my unmoving son.

I stood outside looking in as they checked the machines and examined Carlos. I could see no difference in his face, but obviously, something had happened, and not something good. Had Carlos sensed my presence? Did he hate me so much that my mere touch could distress him so?

A strapping young Latino with a shaved head approached me in the hall and asked if I was Mr. Mañoso. When I nodded, he held out his bandaged hand and introduced himself. "I'm Lester Santos, a friend of your son's. It was Bobby Brown and I that brought him to the hospital."

We shook hands and I realized the name was familiar to me. I had to ask, "Are you any relation to Rafael Santos of Santos Jewelry in Newark?" Rafael and I had been a part of the same Newark Latin business owners association for years.

This young man, this friend of my son's – apparently wounded in the same 'accident' as Carlos – grinned at me and nodded, "That's my father, sir. The Santos' have been the lead jewelers in Newark since the 40s." Then, the young man tilted his head toward the commotion in Carlos' room and asked, "Do you know what's happening in there?"

I could only shake my head and hope that I had nothing to do with Carlos' sudden episode. I looked at this intense man standing next to me and realized he must be a soldier, like my son. I seem to remember Carlos mentioning some of his military friends, but I hadn't paid much attention. Another example of how I had failed him.

Like Mr. Brown before him, Lester Santos was wearing badly stained and dirty clothes and his face and arms had several bandages on them. If he had brought Carlos to the hospital, he must have been with him when he was injured. These men were undoubtedly still operating under military orders. Were they still in danger? Could that danger follow them to this hospital?

We both stood staring into the ICU room filled with bustling men and women in blue scrubs as they hovered over my son's immobile body. Carlos had always called his mother when he was through with a mission and there had been no call this time. But Carlos was here in Philadelphia, and he had been injured here, not in some far away country. I had so many questions…

I turned back to the young man standing next to me. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lester Santos. Your father and I have known each other for years. I have met only a few of Carlos' military friends. Do you know a man by the name of Pierre James?"

Lester Santos' mouth twitched as I mentioned Mr. James, but he nodded and his face was somber as he answered my question, "Tank, I mean, Sergeant James, is in the recovery room. He just had surgery. Doctors say he's gonna be sore, but he'll be fine."

"I am sorry to hear that Sergeant James was injured, too. A little later, after he is awake, may I visit with him?" He nodded again and then glanced toward Carlos' room. I had to ask, "What happened to injure all of you and hurt my son so badly that he must be put in a coma?"

The young man straightened and his face took on the blank expression I was so familiar with from my son. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mañoso, but that information is confi-"

An older man in a white coat came striding out of Carlos' room and positioned himself directly in between us, rudely interrupting our conversation. He introduced himself as Dr. Livingston and, without any more formality, asked me if I had noticed any change in Carlos before the machines had gone crazy. "Did your son move at all or open his eyes or make a sound?"

I looked him up and down before answering. This man clearly had no manners. I was terse with my answers. "No. There was no movement, no sound. I was praying. I held his hand." A chill ran through me as I again wondered if Carlos' episode was a result of me touching him. I could not help but ask, "Should I not have touched him?" I could not read this man, this doctor who held my son's life in his hands.

The doctor's gaze was focused on the room behind me as he replied, "I don't see how that would have triggered such a rapid rise in his heart rate or the erratic spiking of the EEG. He shouldn't be able to respond to stimulus of any kind, not under the type of anesthesia we have him on. But…"

I interrupted him. "Doctor, is my son going to die?"

He finally looked me in the eye and gave me the standard pap you hear on every TV hospital drama scene. "We are doing everything we can to prevent that from happening." A nurse touched his arm and whispered something to him and he barked an order at her and then turned back to me. "Your son's vital signs have stabilized, but it's critical that he remain calm and motionless."

I felt like he was blaming me for Carlos' downturn, but this was the man who was responsible for my son's current comatose condition. "I was told by Mr. Brown that you purposely put my son in a coma? Is that right?"

"Your son sustained a severe head injury, and his brain was swelling rapidly which could result in brain damage and eventually death. We weren't able to reduce the edema through other methods so we are now administering a steady dose of propofol and other drugs to cause a temporary deep state of unconsciousness or what is commonly referred to as a medically induced coma. By doing this we hope to reduce the intracranial pressure as well as slow the cerebral blood flow. If we cannot control the brain swelling this way, we may have to perform a cranioectomy which requires removing part of his skull to prevent further damage to his brain."

I could feel the blood drain from my face. "Good Lord! I had no idea. How long will my son have to remain in this… this coma?"

"We should know more about his prognosis by this time tomorrow. We'll do another CT scan then to see if the swelling has decreased. In the meantime, we are monitoring him constantly, which is why all those machines are in there with him." The doctor's pager went off and he paused to glance at the screen and then continued, "It may be best if your son doesn't have any visitors until then. I don't know if your presence had anything to do with the sudden spike in his heart rate, but it's best not to take chances."

My own heart nearly stopped. "You are telling me I cannot even sit by my own son's bedside? When my wife, his sainted mother, gets here she will demand to see him and when my mother arrives, you will not be able to keep her from him." And that was the truth!

I had purposely not called Teresa yet until I knew more about Carlos' condition, but I could not put off the inevitable forever. And Teresa would fly to this hospital and bring the family with her. If just my presence could make him worse, imagine what a roomful of crying women could do? And what of my mother? At her age just the shock of seeing her beloved Carlito lying so still and pale, as if in death, would give her a heart attack.

Maybe… Possibly… Do I dare not tell the family? Do I give Carlos the 24 hours the doctor advised until he would know more about Carlos' prognosis? What possible excuse could I give Teresa for me leaving the restaurant before dinner service had even begun? And as for staying away overnight? ¡Ay caramba!

Maybe if I told Teresa an old friend was sick and requested my presence? No! She would want to know the details and I would have to make up more falsehoods. Dios tenga misericordia. [God have mercy.]

It was very late, too late for Teresa or any of my family to make the trip and I knew she hated driving at night. I decided to call my dear wife and explain this terrible situation and implore her not to come until tomorrow. I would assure her that Carlos was stable, but was in the ICU and was not allowed visitors. Hopefully, by tomorrow this will have changed or heaven help the hospital staff.

TBC