Chapter 13: gagged; refuge in the Bronx;
24-hour diner, blocks from Harold's office, same day
Harold watched on his laptop screen as two of the D.C. Team, Joey Durbin and Harper Rose, entered the diner. A man and woman were standing at the counter looking around at the empty diner.
"Are you the police?" the man said.
"Identify yourself," Joey said, with his hand on the handle of his weapon.
"I-I called the police. We came in to have breakfast, but nobody's here. The doors are wide open, but nobody's here."
"You need to step outside, sir," and Joey looked pointedly at the older man, sliding his weapon out into his hand. He saw the man's eyes widen as he realized the danger. Then, nodding, he grabbed his wife's arm and pulled her to the door.
"What's happening, Roger?" she said as they left the diner. Joey watched them hurry to their car and pull away, while he knelt down at the glass doors to lock them.
Harper had pulled her weapon, too, and walked ahead through the main dining room to the hallway beyond the arch. But, Harold lost sight of her once she entered the hallway. She came to the door of the men's room first, and pushed it open with the tip of her gun. Tiny room, no place to hide, empty inside.
Then, she moved down to the women's room and pushed the door open with her gun. Bigger room, wheelchair-sized, with stalls and places to hide. She turned back to Joey, who was now right behind her in the hall, and she pointed toward the inside of the bathroom. He nodded, and moved beyond her toward the end of the hall, and the exit door.
Harper entered the bathroom. She swept the room with her eyes, and then knelt down to look under the doors of the stalls. No legs were visible. Two stalls.
She walked up to the first one, and pushed the door in, with her gun pointing forward. The hinges creaked as the wide door opened. Empty inside. She took a quick breath.
Harper backed out of the stall and moved to the left, to the next stall. She put her hand on the door and pushed it, fast.
"No shoot!" Her hand jumped, and her heartbeat pounded.
A woman cowered inside, perched on the top of the toilet. She threw her hands up. "No shoot! No shoot!"
Harper glanced around the small space, and then backed her way from the stall, holding the door open where she could still see the woman. She peeked around the side of the stall to look for anyone else hiding there. No one.
Then turning back, Harper faced the woman inside the stall, and motioned for her to come out.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," she said. The woman hesitated for a moment, and then stepped down off the toilet, and straightened herself. She was one of the waitresses, Harper noticed, as soon as she stood up. Her clothing.
She walked forward, eyes wide, and body shaking.
"Men come. I see them and hide – like this," she said, turning to point into the stall.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," Harper said, again. The door opened behind her and Harper backed against the wall, with her gun on the waitress and looking to the door.
"It's me," Joey said. He'd heard voices, and came to find out why. Harper lowered her gun and motioned for the waitress to stop so she could check her for any weapons. Then Joey motioned for the waitress to follow them.
"Where are the others?" Joey asked. She shook her head.
"Don't know. I hide," she said. They walked back down the hall into the dining room and to the front of the diner. Harold could see the three of them on his screen. Joey had locked the front doors so no one else could enter behind them. They moved toward the kitchen, then, and Joey peered in through the pick-up window.
No one was inside the kitchen. A hallway ahead led to more of the diner. Joey moved forward, leading the other two. Harold lost them again in the hallway.
"What else is down here?" he asked the waitress.
"Store room," she said with her thick Russian accent.
They walked together, Joey first, with his weapon pointed forward, then the waitress, and then Harper, her gun drawn and pointing to the ceiling. A little ways ahead was a grimy door.
Joey turned back to the waitress. She nodded toward the door and Joey motioned for her to stop and move back. Harper stepped next to the wall near Joey, while he reached out for the knob.
The door was locked.
He stepped in front of the door then and in one motion kicked out hard with his right foot. The lock popped and the door flew open and swung wide. Inside were a dozen people, tied, gagged, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Bronx, same day
Root pulled down a quiet street and then turned in to a wide plaza behind an L-shaped set of apartment buildings. The walls were pale yellow-orange brick, at least they'd been painted that color many years ago. But the brick had seen better days, the paint had bleached in the sun, and some of it was painted over with whitewash that, too, had faded. Little balconies with curly metal scroll work jutted from the backs of apartments above the first floor. And Root could see clothing airing on the railing of some of the balconies. It looked like a building from a tropical beach somewhere, not here in the Bronx.
The van tires rolled over the old brick plaza, and Root kept to the right, then stopped in front of a wide doorway, neatly framed, leading into a small open room inside, tiled in squares of deeply-colored terracotta. A thick wooden rod at the top held a heavy, colorful drape, pulled to one side. Terracotta pots, emptied from their summer profusion of flowers, sat cold and forlorn at either side of the opening. When Root had been here last, the pots were bursting with color.
She looked over at Sameen, who'd gone to sleep on the way. Root pushed her door open, and she let it close quietly, so it didn't wake Sameen. Then she walked through the opening, across the tiles to the back door. She could smell plantain and some kind of spicy meat cooking inside: los tres golpes - Dominican breakfast of mashed cooked plantain topped with cooked red onion rings, fried eggs on the side, rounds of cooked salami, and fried cheese. It brought back memories. She liked hers with sliced ripe avocado. Her stomach growled, hungry now.
When she knocked, it took a little time for someone to come. Then a young woman, with a baby in her arms, looked out. At first she looked surprised, and then happy, breaking into a wide smile and calling out to the others inside. The door opened, and she rushed out to greet Root, throwing her arms around her and kissing her cheek.
She turned away, and hollered back into the kitchen, "Mama!"
A small woman tottered to the back door, wiping her hands on her apron. She stopped at the door and saw Root standing there.
"Oh, Dios mio," she said and limped out onto the tiles. Her daughter stepped back and the woman gathered Root in her arms, hugging her and swinging her side to side. She let loose with an avalanche of Spanish, and Root couldn't keep up. At the end, Root looked to the two women.
"Por favor, necesito tu ayuda," Root said, with her hands together in front of her. The women glanced at one another, and then broke into more Spanish. Root could get the gist of it. They were agreeing to help her. Anything, they said. Anything they could do to help.
Root held her hand up to ask them to wait for her right there. Then she turned back to the van, opening the passenger-side door next to Sameen. She leaned in and put her hand on Sameen's arm, then remembered how she reacted if she were touched, unexpectedly. Root withdrew a bit, out of harm's way.
"Sameen." Root watched her grimace.
"Sameen we're here. We can rest for a little bit. Come on, sweetie." She opened her eyes and raised her head up a little, grimacing.
"Where are we?"
"They're friends, Sameen. We'll be safe here."
"Not a good idea – we can't involve – " but the rest was cut off by a small group of people from the apartment, surrounding their side of the van, looking in at Sameen.
"She's hurt – uh – ella esta herida," Root said to the group, and the women spoke up, pointing to Sameen, and telling the boys to carry her. Root leaned over Sameen.
"They're here to help us, Sameen. Let them."
Four of the slender young men lifted Sameen out of the seat, and carried her in through the back door of the apartment. Root slammed the door closed on the van, and followed them inside. One of the boys carrying Sameen called to his grandmother, raising his hand to show her.
"Sangre," he said. The older woman gave them instructions to carry her into a small bedroom, and the other women rushed to bring supplies. They laid towels out on the bed, and then had the boys lower her down onto the top of them. Then, the women shooed the boys out and returned to Shaw, lifting her torso up, sliding off her jacket and the black shirt underneath. Shaw held her left arm close against her body, and she could see how the women were so careful with her. The shirt was saturated with blood, and a thick layer of it soaked the black cami underneath.
One of the women returned to the bedroom with a basin of hot water and soap. The older woman stood at Sameen's side, speaking softly to her in Spanish. She reached over and peeled the cami up off Sameen's back, and as they got to the top, they could see the wound, small and round at the top of her shoulder. The woman looked at the wound, the location, and then moved around to the front of her, gently pulling the cami lower in front. Another ragged red wound was there at the front of her shoulder.
"Don't move my shoulder," Sameen said. Root looked up.
"What's wrong?"
"I felt it – the bullet broke my clavicle – my collarbone." She reached up to it with her right hand at the ragged spot.
"What should we do, Sameen?"
"Stop the bleeding first, and then my arm needs to be tied against my body, so it doesn't move around. The bone fragments are sharp and blood vessels are close by. I can bleed inside if the fragments move and puncture the vessels."
Root's eyes widened. She'd said it so matter-of-factly. Like discussing the weather in Canada. In halting Spanish, she tried to explain to the women, while Sameen pulled the cami over the top of her head with her right hand, and then slid it down her left arm, without moving it. The women draped her with a towel in front for modesty, more for themselves, Root noticed, than for Sameen.
They set to work, washing and rinsing the blood from her back. The wound had stopped bleeding with the pressure from the seatback in the van. When her back was clean, they washed her front, gently, and her left arm, while the older woman left and then returned with something to use for a dressing. She showed it to Sameen. It was a huge, wide bandaid, like the ones for a badly skinned knee. The woman told Root that she had boys, grandsons, who came in all the time with cuts on their knees, elbows, whatever, and this is what she used.
"Gracias, Rosa," Root said. They peeled off the paper from the sticky part and laid them carefully over the wounds. Then Sameen told Root how to fashion a sling and swathe to stabilize her shoulder. Once that was done, they helped Sameen stand up, while they started to slide off her suit pants. Sameen stopped them.
"My weapon, Root." She rolled her eyes – she'd forgotten that Sameen carried hers in the back on her beltline. She held her hand up to the women, and then unbuckled the holster, sliding the whole thing around her to the front.
The women stared at the gun. Then back at Sameen, and then back at the gun. They said nothing, but they couldn't stop looking at the gun. Root wrapped the belt of the holster around it, so it was harder to see it, and then put it away under some towels and sheets on a chair nearby.
They finished washing the rest of the blood that had trailed down below Sameen's suit pants, and finally, she was ready to rest for a bit. Rosa offered her the bed, and told her she could sleep there. One of her daughters came in with fresh clothing in a stack. Rosa wanted to bring her some food if she was ready.
Root listened to the women speak, and then translated for Sameen. She could see that Sameen was exhausted, but was putting up a good front for the women. She didn't want any food, just something to drink. Rosa told one of the granddaughters to bring coconut water for her and the young girl disappeared into the house to get it. She returned with a liter carton of coconut water and a glass. Root took it, thanking the girl, and poured some out for Sameen. Once she'd had some kind of nourishment, the women withdrew, leaving Root and Sameen alone.
Root went over to the edge of the bed and sat down next to her.
"I know you're tired. Do you think you can sleep here?" She stroked Sameen's good arm with her fingers. Sameen looked blank. Her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
"I don't know these people, Root. It was wrong to come here. We're putting them all at risk if they find us."
"I was careful, Sameen. They couldn't have tracked us. And if anything, the Team is going to know where we are before anyone else. We'll be fine, Sameen. These are good people. We have history. I'll tell you sometime, but right now, I just want you to rest. I need to deal with the van now, and then I'll be back. Do you want me to stop for anything on the way back?"
She looked at Sameen, but her eyes were closed, and she'd slipped into sleep. Root covered her with a quilt and leaned forward to touch her face with her lips.
"Sleep now," she said. And she stood up to go out to Rosa's family. There was a lot of explaining to do.