Part 9
9:45 a.m., in the Pine Barrens
He dropped, his spent body unable to move any further. His exhaustion was more frightening than the blood running down his face from the wound on his head. It had been reopened by Ray the son slamming it against the armrest when they got in the car. He'd vomited blood and that scared him, he knew he had to get help. He rolled on his back, eyeing the blue peeking through a gray sky. His breath slowed, his heart slowed, his eye widened in delirious amazement.
He was dying.
He got a sarcastic snort at that; drawing up the look on his father's face when they told him. Told Victor? No, he wouldn't take the call, he never did. The bitterness rose again, as it always did when he 'saw' his father. He didn't fight it this time, he let it spill over. It hurt...still...perhaps it always would. He'd done more than any son should have to, but it wasn't enough.
He saw Danny then, lying in pool of blood. He furrowed his brow, fighting hard to breathe. Was Danny alive?
"...m'sor..." He slurred, one bloody hand reaching out, before his eye shut and his head lolled.
**************
9:49 a.m. in the Pine Barrens
Looking through his dark sunglasses, Jack Malone's head swiveled when the first of two choppers swooped low over the massive landscape. Then the voice broke through his radio, which was clipped to his hip.
"I got movement, two hundred yards up at three o'clock!"
"MOVE!" Jack ordered the officers gathered and ran, gun drawn. He ducked just as Ray Junior turned and fired. "FREEZE, FUCKFACE, F.B.I.!" he ordered, taking aim on the man's kneecap, "I can put four in you and cripple you..."
The gun dropped.
"Hands behind your head; interlace those fingers. NOW!" Malone moved in, pushing the button on his hip. "Chris, I got him."
"Roger, Jack, I'm right behind you." Boone moved, going past the irate Missing Person's leader, and frisked the suspect, taking a knife and another gun. Boone cuffed him and held on, as Jack moved in.
"Where's Martin Fitzgerald?"
"Dead," the killer tossed back with a leering smile .He saw the other man's face blanch. "I put one in his stinkin' guts. It hurt like hell!" He paused then, the other man didn't react the way he wanted. His eyes narrowed as the other man checked the chambers in his gun.
"Chris, why don't you scope out the next field. I think I saw the suspect over there."
"You got it Jack," Boone nodded, knowing Malone wasn't going to do anything but scare the weasel. He moved away, walking until the tall grass covered him.
"HEY! GET BACK HERE!" Ray yelled. "You can't leave me here!"
"Shut that hole," Jack said quietly, shoving the irate man to his knees. He leaned in, grabbing the sweating face with one hand and lowering his weapon with the other. He caressed the perp's thigh, grazing his groin before going to the knee. "You ever taken one in the knee? Hurts like hell. Worst pain you can imagine, but you won't pass out." He moved the gun again to the other knee. "By the second one, you'll be gasping like a fish outta water, your eyes roll and you try to scream but you're in too much pain."
"HEY! HELP!" he panted, fearing as the smile got wider above him, "You can't do that..."
"What?" Jack's lips quirked into a smile. "You don't like it? Call a cop!" he suggested with a twisted grin. Then the gun moved again, pressing against his ankle. "It'll shatter, but you'll be beyond reason by then." He moved it again, feeling the fear choking the other man. He pressed the weapon against the offender's groin. "This...would be for me. 'Cause I'd like nothing more than to blow your balls off, you sick son-of-a-bitch!" He leaned in, rammed the gun hard and narrowed his dark eyes. "Talk!"
"I don't know. He...jumped," he paused, took a gulping breath and waited, but the hammer went back on the pistol and it went to his knee, "Honest! We took the cuffs off, he called his banker. Then he passed out, or pretended to -- he'd thrown up blood on the way over. I went to pick him up and he got the gun. He shot my father --" he choked, still seeing his father's face, eyes wide as the gurgle of death came. "I shot back and hit the tire. Then I held onto my dad until..." he sobbed, "He took off..."
While the anxious team leader interrogated the spent suspect, the two helicopters continued their search. Each took a sector, zooming low over the marshes, woods and tall grasses that covered the area. They needed a miracle. Finding a non-moving body in that mess would be like finding a needle in a haystack.
"Doug, turn back, I saw something," the co-pilot directed, his eyes on the side glass. He narrowed his gaze and peered below intently. A thatch of white in a sea of pale green grass. "There! Lower," he directed, then saw an unmoving white male. "This is Charlie six, we got a visual! I REPEAT 'WE HAVE A VISUAL'"
"CHRIS!" Jack barked, gripping the back of Koslowski's neck and craning his eyes to the sky. They spotted the chopper, and the digits 'C6' on its side. He jerked the body up and over to the approaching agent. "Take this piece of filth."
He moved quickly, parting the tall grass, and huddled over when the wind from the chopper got intense. As soon as he dropped down, they lifted up a bit and lowered a ladder to him. He grabbed the ladder and let them transport him to Martin's location.
"Martin!" He dropped down, wincing at the battered face, blood streaking it like war paint. He groped on the neck and got a weak pulse. He tapped the pale cheek hard. "MARTIN! WAKE UP! GET THOSE BLUES OPEN!" He saw the brows furrow and the lips part, not missing their blue tinge. "DAMMIT, FITZGERALD, DON'T YOU DIE ON ME!"
From far beneath a thick sea of hot mud, Martin Fitzgerald fought back. Something deep within him kicked into overdrive. The voice drew him; it was one he knew and trusted. Someone was there. Someone cared. He wasn't dead. He tried hard and pushed with all his might, then was rewarded with a blurry face in front of a blue sky far above.
"That's it," Jack coached, gripping the fallen man's wavering hand. Skin met skin and the blue-eyed panic died down. A soft sigh of relief was barely audible. "It's Jack, son, can you hear me?"
"...s.s...s...on..." He sighed and nodded. Somehow from Jack it meant something.
"I called your dad," Malone corrected, thinking the dazed man was confused. At those words, the pale lips screwed up, the eye opened wide and the breathing became even more labored.
"Hah," Martin choked. "...miss funeral..." he managed, his weak voice in a derisive tone. "Oh," he mimicked his famous father, "...sorry...Mar..t..in...something...came up.."
Jack winced then, not at the words, or the battle scars, but at the deep and old wound in the young man's eyes. "Bastard," he muttered, thinking of the jet-setting, high-profiled elder Fitzgerald. Now he saw all too clearly why this intense young man was so driven, to the point of perfectionism. He moved for a moment, as the copilot dropped a canvas gurney down and they eased the injured man onto it.
"I'm comin' with him!" Jack forecast, seeing the flash of fear and confusion in the lost eyes. The feeble fingers clutched at his hand in desperation.
"Okay," the other man answered, tugging the line and sending the bloody agent into the helicopter.
Finally, they were airborne, on their way to the nearest trauma center. Jack sat vigil next to the injured man, keeping his lock on the weak hand. The eye opened again and the bloodied lips moved, too blue beneath the dark red crusting them.
"I...tried..." Martin whispered, lost in a fevered world or mixed images, past and present. "I...tried..hard..." he reaffirmed to the body. He gripped as hard as he could, needing that lifeline, that human touch. "Never...good...enough..."
"He's a fool then, son, or blind. Maybe both." He found those lost eyes, so desperately needing hope and affirmation. He lifted the body up a bit, hoping to give him relief from the intense pain and shelter him from the emotional storm. He let the shaking body rest against him, the fevered head on his arm. "Martin, can you hear me?" He saw the fuzzy eye blink and focus, then the blood-encrusted head bobbed. "I believe in you. You beat out over seventy very qualified men and women to get this job. I picked you, Martin, for the man I saw, not the name you wore. You understand?"
Martin heard every word and knew Jack Malone spoke the truth. He felt it in the delivery and moreover, saw it in the intense black gaze. He inhaled as best he could, then nodded and squeezed the hand.
"Good, then you fight like hell," Jack ordered, hearing the sigh of release, "I got no room for quitters around my campfire, comprende?"
"Trying...J...a..ck...hurts...like...hell."
"Then fight harder!" he barked loudly and saw the slim man gasping hard.
"...sittin' on me..." Martin rasped, "Get...him.off.chest...J..ac.k...pl...pl...ease...heavy...move."
"How much longer?" He eyed the other man with him, who was taking Martin's vitals.
"What's our ETA, Doug?"
"Two minutes."
"Cut it in half!" Malone barked, just as Martin's whole body tensed up. 'Martin?" He cupped the gaping jaw, which floundered like a fish out of water. Strange sucking sounds emerged as the eye went blue with wild fright, then a bloodied claw came up, hitting his neck and face. The silent plea of agony broke his heart. Then the blue lips parted and a single, heartfelt word emerged.
"Thanks."
Jack snagged the emotive word, just as a sea of red spewed forth. "Aw, Christ!" His voice shook, "He's choking to death, get this Goddamn thing landed!"
Something was wrong -- he had no air. He gasped and sucked, but nothing came. There was a crushing weight on his chest. Black spots appeared covering Jack's face. 'No. Not now. I don't want to die.' He heard the other man's voice from a place far above. The last word he heard, before his agony-ridden body gasped and shuddered, was 'fight'.
"Martin!" Jack briefly saw the panic-filled eye searching for him, then the body went limp in his arms. "Jesus, not now."
"Sir, let me have him!"
He moved away then, as the bloody warrior was laid on a gurney, surrounded by a sea of medical personnel.
"I've got no air sounds, Jeff!" the nurse relayed, listening to the purplish-blue mottled left side of the injured man's chest. "Pulse is 120 and rapid, BP is 80 over 50 and falling, respirations are 28 and extremely labored," she read off the information, "We need a tube."
"We're gonna tube him and put in an IV with saline, wide open," the medical resident hollered, inserting a small needle carrying a plastic catheter into the now stripped young man's arm. He withdrew the needle, then inserted the line carrying saline solution.
"Hemothorax suspected," Stevenson, the ER resident next to him updated, strapping the body onto the gurney. "Get the Ambubag," he advised his partner, "I'll get the tube in." He tilted the patient's head back and used a small, metal instrument with a light on the end. His veteran fingers quickly moved the tool past the mouth and down the throat. He skillfully lifted the dormant epiglottis, a cartilage lying behind the tongue and in front of the vocal cords. This allowed the tube to be eased into the trachea. "Okay, Kim, get those fingers working," he barked to the nurse on his right, attaching the bag to the tube. His partner would pump the bag every ten seconds, giving the critical man air, until the tube was attached to a respirator. He lowered his stethoscope and listened, insuring that the tube was in place correctly. "Let's go!"
"Hemo...what?" Jack sputtered, pushing his numb legs to follow the racing team into the building.
"Hemothorax," the nurse who was holding the door informed the bloodied man.
He followed her gaze and shook his head. 'It's his, not mine. Oh uh, he's got no allergies and he's uh...AB negative," he said slowly. He had every team member's information memorized, in case of emergency.
"Thanks, that'll help." She waited, picked up a phone on the wall and dialed the ER. "Maggie, it's me. You tell Matt that guy's AB negative and no known allergies. Thanks." She turned back to the other man, whose pale face revealed his worry. They walked quickly up the corridor to the elevator. She punched the button and waited, then spoke, "Roughly translated, they suspect that his lung is pierced and it's filling with blood. If they don't put a tube in his chest to relieve the pressure, he could drown in his own blood."
"Jesus," Malone sighed, raking a trembling hand through his dark hair. The doors opened and they got inside. Once they reached the floor he moved immediately to a bank of pay phones. He dialed Vivian first, who was in a car with Boone, heading over.
"We're here, his lung collapsed and it's filling with blood. They're working on him. Call Danny!"
"Okay," Johnson clipped the phone and turned to Sam, "He's alive."
Jack punched the next number and waited. He tried to control his anger. His boiling insides escaped in seething tones when the now familiar female voice answered.
"It's Jack Malone again!" he barked, "Get him the hell on this phone NOW!"
"I'm sorry, Mister Malone. Mister Fitzgerald can't be reached. If you'll leave a message --"
"Message?" His face screwed up in revulsion. "Yeah, I got a message. You can tell him I'm standing the fuck outside an ER with my chest covered in his SON'S blood. You can tell that heartless son-of-a-bitch his SON damn near died in my arms!" he growled, and hung up.
The doors of the treatment room opened and nurse ran out as Jack moved inside. He watched in a muted mixture of horror and amazement as the team worked on the fallen man.
While a trauma team surrounded the young male, cleaning his wounds and beginning life saving treatment, he remained limp and unaware. His slack features were as pale as the sheet beneath him, which was now stained with his blood. The grime and filth were cleaned off and wounds were dressed. A second IV line was started with a dopamine drip and a new unit of blood was hung on a pole by his side. The head of the team set to work immediately, realizing that they had just minutes to spare. This young man was close to dying.
"I'm in," Dr. Lauren Hollis announced, completing the gory procedure. After cutting a hole in the chest wall and dissecting through the muscle, she placed the plastic tube into the pleural space. Then she connected it to a large plastic container, laced with blue liquid and wall suction, to remove air and fluid from the damaged area. Immediately, bright red liquid poured through the tube, filling the container. "Terry, get that to the lab, type and cross-match!" she ordered the nurse drawing blood.
"It's AB negative," a nurse remarked.
"We need to confirm and you don't question my orders!" Hollis shot back, then turned, "Dave, get that portable unit over him and take some pictures, so we can see what we have. How's his BP?"
"80 over 40, his pulse is racing, just over 130," the nurse announced, before leaving for the lab.
Dave Kauffman kept his eyes on the vital signs from the pulse oximeter attached to the patient's index finger. He did a complete set of x-rays, eager to get pictures of the problem areas to the doctor.
"You're lucky," she addressed the unconscious male, "That was close." The doctor eyed the pictures from the x-ray machine. "There it is!" She pointed to the broken ribs, which punctured the lung.
"What about this?" the medical resident asked Hollis, tipping the patient's head to reveal a deep laceration.
"I'm ordering a CT Scan." She checked his ears, nose and throat. "I don't think it's fractured, though. Is Escort here?" Doctor Hollis asked, taking the patient's temperature. "Good," she nodded at the young man, while writing notes and heading to the phone. "Mary?" she spoke into the phone to the head of the ICU, giving her the victim's name and his report. "He's a little hypothermic, get some warming blankets and make sure the IV's go in warm. I want his vitals checked constantly, and he'll need a central line put in. I think Hank Richardson is on call today," she noted of the vascular surgeon, "I'm ordering a CT Scan as soon as I clean up the head wound. I'll check on him later."
She hung up the phone and noticed the blood-splattered man in the doorway, face pale and eyes riveted to the figure on the gurney. She walked over and waited, then moved her head.
"I'm Doctor Hollis. He's critical, but stable. He should be fine, barring any unforeseen information from the head injury."
"Thanks!"
"We're gonna be working on him for awhile and taking a CAT Scan. Why don't you get cleaned up? He's going up to ICU."
"Okay. Hey, Doc," Martin paused, eyeing the pale body in the bed, "You take good care of him. He's special."
"You bet!"
His phone rang just as he tossed his now ruined shirt into the trash. The ER nurse had given him a blue scrub shirt to put on under his suit coat. He flipped the phone open and his features darkened when he heard the voice.
"You'd better be on your way to an airport!" he managed between clenched teeth.
"I've cleared my calendar for the immediate future. I'll be there shortly."
"Didn't strain yourself, I hope!" Jack sent back, not masking his rage, "You should have been here last night or early this morning. I called you six times!"
"I was kept aware of every move. I had my office checking on --"
"You cold-hearted bastard!" Malone tossed back, "You don't deserve a son as fine as that. You get your arrogant ass here and stay as long as he needs you. Don't you break his heart again!" He shut the phone off, not wanting to hear the prick anymore.
He went to the lobby, got a large coffee and sat down on a blue vinyl chair. He pulled his phone out and punched the numbers. He flaked some dried blood off with his fingers, it seemed to be under every nail.
"...he..llo..."
"Danny? He's alive." He heard a muffled sigh and forced air. He listened intently and heard gasping. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Danny took a calming breath and tried to slow his racing heart. "It was on the television, they broke in, just after Viv called." He paused, "How is he, Jack?"
"Bad. His lung popped, he damn near died in my arms, spittin' up blood." He sipped his coffee. "I finally got his father. Christ, he's a real piece of work."
"Yeah, I know," Taylor's voice faded away as the image of that lost child in the cold, stark school returned.
"They're checking out Martin's head wound, he's in ICU. I'm gonna hang here awhile. Chris Boone is the primary. His team will clean up the mess. The father is dead and the son is lucky."
"He's really okay?" Danny's voice wavered.
"The Doc said he should be fine. You get some sleep, I'll call."
Sleep? Danny hung the phone up and turned the television off. He eased his throbbing body back and ran his good hand over his hot face. The fever was still high and his headache raged, but Martin Fitzgerald was alive.
Sleep? He sighed, yawned and let his eyes shut. He'd sleep and eat and take all their damned medicine. Then he'd go to that hospital and give that cocky, blue-eyed terrier a piece of his mind.
"You and me are gonna have a talk, Harvard!" he vowed, then fingered the small gold cross on his neck. A gift from his mother when he got out of Quantico. He eyed through the ceiling to a place far above, where Hope used her charms to spin miracles on the Loom of life. "Thank you," he sighed, slipping into a peaceful rest.
He was cold and his head throbbed. His chest was on fire and something was shoved down his throat. He furrowed his brows in confusion and began to thrash lightly. He panicked at the thing in his throat until a voice penetrated his lost world.
"It's a tube, it's helping you breathe. Leave it alone!"
It wasn't just any gruff voice, it was one he needed to hear. He sighed, obeyed and knew whatever the voice told him, it was so. He believed in the voice and knew he was safe.
Jack hovered over the bed, willing the blue eyes to open. The only sound in the room was the beeping of the monitor. Martin was pale and weak, but he was on the way back. Satisfied the panic was over, he retreated to the doorway again.
The darkness broke. From the abyss he was lost in, rich vivid waves of colors broke over a pristine white beach. He sighed and relaxed, bathing in the warmth. The blues and greens faded away, birthing a new light. It was rich and gold, shimmering and glittering, nearly blinding him. He was drawn to the magnificent light, needing to bathe in its brilliance. The bath was full of emotion and wrapped around him, filling him with a healing elixir. He turned and swam in the glow, feeling an explosion of incredible power overtake him. He inhaled it, feeling the warmth course through his ravaged body. He felt almost giddy; he wasn't lost anymore. He knew where he was now; his compass was back. It was right there. Right there. Right there.
"Son!"
Martin gasped and eyed the unfamiliar room. Strange walls and an awful antiseptic smell. A beeping in his ear and a plastic line with fluid running into his arm. Pain. Pain and pressure. His chest felt like an elephant was dancing on it. Then he realized he couldn't breathe. Something was jammed down his throat. His eyes went wild, his hand groped, trying to pull the thing out and get air.
Two very confused blue eyes wavered from left to right. For a moment, there was no movement. Then the body began to shake; the eyes darted frantically. "Shit!" Jack jumped from the chair by the door, "He doesn't know where he is or what's going on." He moved closer, then eyed the other man with contempt. "Get a doctor!"
"Calm down!" he ordered, wiping the fevered brow with a cold cloth. He locked onto the lost soul, leaning in and watching the fear screaming silently from the blue eyes. He didn't need ears to 'hear' what those vivid eyes were shouting.
*"What the hell...goin'...on? Shit...I can't breathe...I can't...where am I? My chest hurts...God it hurts...I can't...."* Martin' s panic died down when his fumbling hand was snagged and the voice returned. He blinked and trained his eyes on the face, trusting it without question.
"Cut that out, Fitzgerald!" Malone commanded, his eyes watching the vital signs jumping all over as the panicked man's body reacted, "Look at me!"
He waited until the damp head turned, keeping the weak hand in his own. He kept his face stern. "You're in the hospital in New Jersey, in ICU, and that tube in your throat is helping you breathe." He saw the eyebrows cross and the fingers claw at his hand to get free. He gripped harder and remained strong. "Quit cursing at me, Martin! That tube is staying for awhile. It's been a bitch of a day and I don't need your shit, understand?"
Martin nodded and began to shiver. He was so cold. He nodded in appreciation when the blanket came up. Then the pieces of the puzzle returned in part: he saw the diner, the soup, the blond waitress and Danny Taylor's body. His head jerked, he tugged on the hand, using his free one to tap the badge clipped to the visitor's belt. He had to know. He needed to hear.
"He's fine," Jack smiled down at the expressive face, "He'll be wearing a sling for awhile, and don't think I don't have a nice 'chat' planned for you two." He leaned over, pulled his hand out and tucked the blanket closer. The wounded man was shivering badly, a combination of fear, confusion and fever. "You dad's here, he went to get the doctor."
Before Martin could react to that, the door opened and his eyes turned. There came the imposing figure of Victor Fitzgerald, with a young woman in tow. She looked tired, but found a smile for him. He listened carefully as she explained his injuries, the punctured lung and head crease. The tube would remain in for the rest of the day. Then he'd have to take it easy and rest a few weeks. He nodded and closed his eyes, his head hurt so. He heard her speaking to his father, then that voice drew him back.
"Did you hear that, son?"
He pulled away from the man's touch, repelled and annoyed. He dodged the words like poisoned bullets. He turned his body physically, the sound of 'son', from those lips, sickened him. He turned to the doorway and reached a hand out. He saw shock first, then a flush of maybe embarrassment then finally warmth. The body moved, a hand clasped in his and he let his emotional plea come through his eyes.
"Quit shoutin' at me, Fitzgerald, this is a hospital!" Malone gruffed, completely disarmed by the blue eyes, "You're dented a little, but you'll be okay if you do what the Doctor says. You've got Vivian, Sam and me to kick your ass if you don't." He paused, reading the eyes again. "Yeah, and you've got Danny, too! That partner of yours is one tough customer. You're not alone anymore. You're on our team now, you're family."
He considered the words carefully and felt that golden light invade him again. The warmth coursed through him and he eyed the strong hand gripping his weak one. Every step...a shoulder to lean on... strong arms to help support him. Danny's face flashed, that cocky grin invaded his space. A brother. All the tension left his body and he relaxed. He kept his gaze fixed on those dark beacons of hope until the nurses and doctor started to fuss over him. The examination brought a tidal wave of pain and it washed him away. His eyes slid shut and he rode out the storm. The first of many to come, but they wouldn't defeat him. He wasn't alone, not anymore.
9:45 a.m., in the Pine Barrens
He dropped, his spent body unable to move any further. His exhaustion was more frightening than the blood running down his face from the wound on his head. It had been reopened by Ray the son slamming it against the armrest when they got in the car. He'd vomited blood and that scared him, he knew he had to get help. He rolled on his back, eyeing the blue peeking through a gray sky. His breath slowed, his heart slowed, his eye widened in delirious amazement.
He was dying.
He got a sarcastic snort at that; drawing up the look on his father's face when they told him. Told Victor? No, he wouldn't take the call, he never did. The bitterness rose again, as it always did when he 'saw' his father. He didn't fight it this time, he let it spill over. It hurt...still...perhaps it always would. He'd done more than any son should have to, but it wasn't enough.
He saw Danny then, lying in pool of blood. He furrowed his brow, fighting hard to breathe. Was Danny alive?
"...m'sor..." He slurred, one bloody hand reaching out, before his eye shut and his head lolled.
**************
9:49 a.m. in the Pine Barrens
Looking through his dark sunglasses, Jack Malone's head swiveled when the first of two choppers swooped low over the massive landscape. Then the voice broke through his radio, which was clipped to his hip.
"I got movement, two hundred yards up at three o'clock!"
"MOVE!" Jack ordered the officers gathered and ran, gun drawn. He ducked just as Ray Junior turned and fired. "FREEZE, FUCKFACE, F.B.I.!" he ordered, taking aim on the man's kneecap, "I can put four in you and cripple you..."
The gun dropped.
"Hands behind your head; interlace those fingers. NOW!" Malone moved in, pushing the button on his hip. "Chris, I got him."
"Roger, Jack, I'm right behind you." Boone moved, going past the irate Missing Person's leader, and frisked the suspect, taking a knife and another gun. Boone cuffed him and held on, as Jack moved in.
"Where's Martin Fitzgerald?"
"Dead," the killer tossed back with a leering smile .He saw the other man's face blanch. "I put one in his stinkin' guts. It hurt like hell!" He paused then, the other man didn't react the way he wanted. His eyes narrowed as the other man checked the chambers in his gun.
"Chris, why don't you scope out the next field. I think I saw the suspect over there."
"You got it Jack," Boone nodded, knowing Malone wasn't going to do anything but scare the weasel. He moved away, walking until the tall grass covered him.
"HEY! GET BACK HERE!" Ray yelled. "You can't leave me here!"
"Shut that hole," Jack said quietly, shoving the irate man to his knees. He leaned in, grabbing the sweating face with one hand and lowering his weapon with the other. He caressed the perp's thigh, grazing his groin before going to the knee. "You ever taken one in the knee? Hurts like hell. Worst pain you can imagine, but you won't pass out." He moved the gun again to the other knee. "By the second one, you'll be gasping like a fish outta water, your eyes roll and you try to scream but you're in too much pain."
"HEY! HELP!" he panted, fearing as the smile got wider above him, "You can't do that..."
"What?" Jack's lips quirked into a smile. "You don't like it? Call a cop!" he suggested with a twisted grin. Then the gun moved again, pressing against his ankle. "It'll shatter, but you'll be beyond reason by then." He moved it again, feeling the fear choking the other man. He pressed the weapon against the offender's groin. "This...would be for me. 'Cause I'd like nothing more than to blow your balls off, you sick son-of-a-bitch!" He leaned in, rammed the gun hard and narrowed his dark eyes. "Talk!"
"I don't know. He...jumped," he paused, took a gulping breath and waited, but the hammer went back on the pistol and it went to his knee, "Honest! We took the cuffs off, he called his banker. Then he passed out, or pretended to -- he'd thrown up blood on the way over. I went to pick him up and he got the gun. He shot my father --" he choked, still seeing his father's face, eyes wide as the gurgle of death came. "I shot back and hit the tire. Then I held onto my dad until..." he sobbed, "He took off..."
While the anxious team leader interrogated the spent suspect, the two helicopters continued their search. Each took a sector, zooming low over the marshes, woods and tall grasses that covered the area. They needed a miracle. Finding a non-moving body in that mess would be like finding a needle in a haystack.
"Doug, turn back, I saw something," the co-pilot directed, his eyes on the side glass. He narrowed his gaze and peered below intently. A thatch of white in a sea of pale green grass. "There! Lower," he directed, then saw an unmoving white male. "This is Charlie six, we got a visual! I REPEAT 'WE HAVE A VISUAL'"
"CHRIS!" Jack barked, gripping the back of Koslowski's neck and craning his eyes to the sky. They spotted the chopper, and the digits 'C6' on its side. He jerked the body up and over to the approaching agent. "Take this piece of filth."
He moved quickly, parting the tall grass, and huddled over when the wind from the chopper got intense. As soon as he dropped down, they lifted up a bit and lowered a ladder to him. He grabbed the ladder and let them transport him to Martin's location.
"Martin!" He dropped down, wincing at the battered face, blood streaking it like war paint. He groped on the neck and got a weak pulse. He tapped the pale cheek hard. "MARTIN! WAKE UP! GET THOSE BLUES OPEN!" He saw the brows furrow and the lips part, not missing their blue tinge. "DAMMIT, FITZGERALD, DON'T YOU DIE ON ME!"
From far beneath a thick sea of hot mud, Martin Fitzgerald fought back. Something deep within him kicked into overdrive. The voice drew him; it was one he knew and trusted. Someone was there. Someone cared. He wasn't dead. He tried hard and pushed with all his might, then was rewarded with a blurry face in front of a blue sky far above.
"That's it," Jack coached, gripping the fallen man's wavering hand. Skin met skin and the blue-eyed panic died down. A soft sigh of relief was barely audible. "It's Jack, son, can you hear me?"
"...s.s...s...on..." He sighed and nodded. Somehow from Jack it meant something.
"I called your dad," Malone corrected, thinking the dazed man was confused. At those words, the pale lips screwed up, the eye opened wide and the breathing became even more labored.
"Hah," Martin choked. "...miss funeral..." he managed, his weak voice in a derisive tone. "Oh," he mimicked his famous father, "...sorry...Mar..t..in...something...came up.."
Jack winced then, not at the words, or the battle scars, but at the deep and old wound in the young man's eyes. "Bastard," he muttered, thinking of the jet-setting, high-profiled elder Fitzgerald. Now he saw all too clearly why this intense young man was so driven, to the point of perfectionism. He moved for a moment, as the copilot dropped a canvas gurney down and they eased the injured man onto it.
"I'm comin' with him!" Jack forecast, seeing the flash of fear and confusion in the lost eyes. The feeble fingers clutched at his hand in desperation.
"Okay," the other man answered, tugging the line and sending the bloody agent into the helicopter.
Finally, they were airborne, on their way to the nearest trauma center. Jack sat vigil next to the injured man, keeping his lock on the weak hand. The eye opened again and the bloodied lips moved, too blue beneath the dark red crusting them.
"I...tried..." Martin whispered, lost in a fevered world or mixed images, past and present. "I...tried..hard..." he reaffirmed to the body. He gripped as hard as he could, needing that lifeline, that human touch. "Never...good...enough..."
"He's a fool then, son, or blind. Maybe both." He found those lost eyes, so desperately needing hope and affirmation. He lifted the body up a bit, hoping to give him relief from the intense pain and shelter him from the emotional storm. He let the shaking body rest against him, the fevered head on his arm. "Martin, can you hear me?" He saw the fuzzy eye blink and focus, then the blood-encrusted head bobbed. "I believe in you. You beat out over seventy very qualified men and women to get this job. I picked you, Martin, for the man I saw, not the name you wore. You understand?"
Martin heard every word and knew Jack Malone spoke the truth. He felt it in the delivery and moreover, saw it in the intense black gaze. He inhaled as best he could, then nodded and squeezed the hand.
"Good, then you fight like hell," Jack ordered, hearing the sigh of release, "I got no room for quitters around my campfire, comprende?"
"Trying...J...a..ck...hurts...like...hell."
"Then fight harder!" he barked loudly and saw the slim man gasping hard.
"...sittin' on me..." Martin rasped, "Get...him.off.chest...J..ac.k...pl...pl...ease...heavy...move."
"How much longer?" He eyed the other man with him, who was taking Martin's vitals.
"What's our ETA, Doug?"
"Two minutes."
"Cut it in half!" Malone barked, just as Martin's whole body tensed up. 'Martin?" He cupped the gaping jaw, which floundered like a fish out of water. Strange sucking sounds emerged as the eye went blue with wild fright, then a bloodied claw came up, hitting his neck and face. The silent plea of agony broke his heart. Then the blue lips parted and a single, heartfelt word emerged.
"Thanks."
Jack snagged the emotive word, just as a sea of red spewed forth. "Aw, Christ!" His voice shook, "He's choking to death, get this Goddamn thing landed!"
Something was wrong -- he had no air. He gasped and sucked, but nothing came. There was a crushing weight on his chest. Black spots appeared covering Jack's face. 'No. Not now. I don't want to die.' He heard the other man's voice from a place far above. The last word he heard, before his agony-ridden body gasped and shuddered, was 'fight'.
"Martin!" Jack briefly saw the panic-filled eye searching for him, then the body went limp in his arms. "Jesus, not now."
"Sir, let me have him!"
He moved away then, as the bloody warrior was laid on a gurney, surrounded by a sea of medical personnel.
"I've got no air sounds, Jeff!" the nurse relayed, listening to the purplish-blue mottled left side of the injured man's chest. "Pulse is 120 and rapid, BP is 80 over 50 and falling, respirations are 28 and extremely labored," she read off the information, "We need a tube."
"We're gonna tube him and put in an IV with saline, wide open," the medical resident hollered, inserting a small needle carrying a plastic catheter into the now stripped young man's arm. He withdrew the needle, then inserted the line carrying saline solution.
"Hemothorax suspected," Stevenson, the ER resident next to him updated, strapping the body onto the gurney. "Get the Ambubag," he advised his partner, "I'll get the tube in." He tilted the patient's head back and used a small, metal instrument with a light on the end. His veteran fingers quickly moved the tool past the mouth and down the throat. He skillfully lifted the dormant epiglottis, a cartilage lying behind the tongue and in front of the vocal cords. This allowed the tube to be eased into the trachea. "Okay, Kim, get those fingers working," he barked to the nurse on his right, attaching the bag to the tube. His partner would pump the bag every ten seconds, giving the critical man air, until the tube was attached to a respirator. He lowered his stethoscope and listened, insuring that the tube was in place correctly. "Let's go!"
"Hemo...what?" Jack sputtered, pushing his numb legs to follow the racing team into the building.
"Hemothorax," the nurse who was holding the door informed the bloodied man.
He followed her gaze and shook his head. 'It's his, not mine. Oh uh, he's got no allergies and he's uh...AB negative," he said slowly. He had every team member's information memorized, in case of emergency.
"Thanks, that'll help." She waited, picked up a phone on the wall and dialed the ER. "Maggie, it's me. You tell Matt that guy's AB negative and no known allergies. Thanks." She turned back to the other man, whose pale face revealed his worry. They walked quickly up the corridor to the elevator. She punched the button and waited, then spoke, "Roughly translated, they suspect that his lung is pierced and it's filling with blood. If they don't put a tube in his chest to relieve the pressure, he could drown in his own blood."
"Jesus," Malone sighed, raking a trembling hand through his dark hair. The doors opened and they got inside. Once they reached the floor he moved immediately to a bank of pay phones. He dialed Vivian first, who was in a car with Boone, heading over.
"We're here, his lung collapsed and it's filling with blood. They're working on him. Call Danny!"
"Okay," Johnson clipped the phone and turned to Sam, "He's alive."
Jack punched the next number and waited. He tried to control his anger. His boiling insides escaped in seething tones when the now familiar female voice answered.
"It's Jack Malone again!" he barked, "Get him the hell on this phone NOW!"
"I'm sorry, Mister Malone. Mister Fitzgerald can't be reached. If you'll leave a message --"
"Message?" His face screwed up in revulsion. "Yeah, I got a message. You can tell him I'm standing the fuck outside an ER with my chest covered in his SON'S blood. You can tell that heartless son-of-a-bitch his SON damn near died in my arms!" he growled, and hung up.
The doors of the treatment room opened and nurse ran out as Jack moved inside. He watched in a muted mixture of horror and amazement as the team worked on the fallen man.
While a trauma team surrounded the young male, cleaning his wounds and beginning life saving treatment, he remained limp and unaware. His slack features were as pale as the sheet beneath him, which was now stained with his blood. The grime and filth were cleaned off and wounds were dressed. A second IV line was started with a dopamine drip and a new unit of blood was hung on a pole by his side. The head of the team set to work immediately, realizing that they had just minutes to spare. This young man was close to dying.
"I'm in," Dr. Lauren Hollis announced, completing the gory procedure. After cutting a hole in the chest wall and dissecting through the muscle, she placed the plastic tube into the pleural space. Then she connected it to a large plastic container, laced with blue liquid and wall suction, to remove air and fluid from the damaged area. Immediately, bright red liquid poured through the tube, filling the container. "Terry, get that to the lab, type and cross-match!" she ordered the nurse drawing blood.
"It's AB negative," a nurse remarked.
"We need to confirm and you don't question my orders!" Hollis shot back, then turned, "Dave, get that portable unit over him and take some pictures, so we can see what we have. How's his BP?"
"80 over 40, his pulse is racing, just over 130," the nurse announced, before leaving for the lab.
Dave Kauffman kept his eyes on the vital signs from the pulse oximeter attached to the patient's index finger. He did a complete set of x-rays, eager to get pictures of the problem areas to the doctor.
"You're lucky," she addressed the unconscious male, "That was close." The doctor eyed the pictures from the x-ray machine. "There it is!" She pointed to the broken ribs, which punctured the lung.
"What about this?" the medical resident asked Hollis, tipping the patient's head to reveal a deep laceration.
"I'm ordering a CT Scan." She checked his ears, nose and throat. "I don't think it's fractured, though. Is Escort here?" Doctor Hollis asked, taking the patient's temperature. "Good," she nodded at the young man, while writing notes and heading to the phone. "Mary?" she spoke into the phone to the head of the ICU, giving her the victim's name and his report. "He's a little hypothermic, get some warming blankets and make sure the IV's go in warm. I want his vitals checked constantly, and he'll need a central line put in. I think Hank Richardson is on call today," she noted of the vascular surgeon, "I'm ordering a CT Scan as soon as I clean up the head wound. I'll check on him later."
She hung up the phone and noticed the blood-splattered man in the doorway, face pale and eyes riveted to the figure on the gurney. She walked over and waited, then moved her head.
"I'm Doctor Hollis. He's critical, but stable. He should be fine, barring any unforeseen information from the head injury."
"Thanks!"
"We're gonna be working on him for awhile and taking a CAT Scan. Why don't you get cleaned up? He's going up to ICU."
"Okay. Hey, Doc," Martin paused, eyeing the pale body in the bed, "You take good care of him. He's special."
"You bet!"
His phone rang just as he tossed his now ruined shirt into the trash. The ER nurse had given him a blue scrub shirt to put on under his suit coat. He flipped the phone open and his features darkened when he heard the voice.
"You'd better be on your way to an airport!" he managed between clenched teeth.
"I've cleared my calendar for the immediate future. I'll be there shortly."
"Didn't strain yourself, I hope!" Jack sent back, not masking his rage, "You should have been here last night or early this morning. I called you six times!"
"I was kept aware of every move. I had my office checking on --"
"You cold-hearted bastard!" Malone tossed back, "You don't deserve a son as fine as that. You get your arrogant ass here and stay as long as he needs you. Don't you break his heart again!" He shut the phone off, not wanting to hear the prick anymore.
He went to the lobby, got a large coffee and sat down on a blue vinyl chair. He pulled his phone out and punched the numbers. He flaked some dried blood off with his fingers, it seemed to be under every nail.
"...he..llo..."
"Danny? He's alive." He heard a muffled sigh and forced air. He listened intently and heard gasping. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Danny took a calming breath and tried to slow his racing heart. "It was on the television, they broke in, just after Viv called." He paused, "How is he, Jack?"
"Bad. His lung popped, he damn near died in my arms, spittin' up blood." He sipped his coffee. "I finally got his father. Christ, he's a real piece of work."
"Yeah, I know," Taylor's voice faded away as the image of that lost child in the cold, stark school returned.
"They're checking out Martin's head wound, he's in ICU. I'm gonna hang here awhile. Chris Boone is the primary. His team will clean up the mess. The father is dead and the son is lucky."
"He's really okay?" Danny's voice wavered.
"The Doc said he should be fine. You get some sleep, I'll call."
Sleep? Danny hung the phone up and turned the television off. He eased his throbbing body back and ran his good hand over his hot face. The fever was still high and his headache raged, but Martin Fitzgerald was alive.
Sleep? He sighed, yawned and let his eyes shut. He'd sleep and eat and take all their damned medicine. Then he'd go to that hospital and give that cocky, blue-eyed terrier a piece of his mind.
"You and me are gonna have a talk, Harvard!" he vowed, then fingered the small gold cross on his neck. A gift from his mother when he got out of Quantico. He eyed through the ceiling to a place far above, where Hope used her charms to spin miracles on the Loom of life. "Thank you," he sighed, slipping into a peaceful rest.
He was cold and his head throbbed. His chest was on fire and something was shoved down his throat. He furrowed his brows in confusion and began to thrash lightly. He panicked at the thing in his throat until a voice penetrated his lost world.
"It's a tube, it's helping you breathe. Leave it alone!"
It wasn't just any gruff voice, it was one he needed to hear. He sighed, obeyed and knew whatever the voice told him, it was so. He believed in the voice and knew he was safe.
Jack hovered over the bed, willing the blue eyes to open. The only sound in the room was the beeping of the monitor. Martin was pale and weak, but he was on the way back. Satisfied the panic was over, he retreated to the doorway again.
The darkness broke. From the abyss he was lost in, rich vivid waves of colors broke over a pristine white beach. He sighed and relaxed, bathing in the warmth. The blues and greens faded away, birthing a new light. It was rich and gold, shimmering and glittering, nearly blinding him. He was drawn to the magnificent light, needing to bathe in its brilliance. The bath was full of emotion and wrapped around him, filling him with a healing elixir. He turned and swam in the glow, feeling an explosion of incredible power overtake him. He inhaled it, feeling the warmth course through his ravaged body. He felt almost giddy; he wasn't lost anymore. He knew where he was now; his compass was back. It was right there. Right there. Right there.
"Son!"
Martin gasped and eyed the unfamiliar room. Strange walls and an awful antiseptic smell. A beeping in his ear and a plastic line with fluid running into his arm. Pain. Pain and pressure. His chest felt like an elephant was dancing on it. Then he realized he couldn't breathe. Something was jammed down his throat. His eyes went wild, his hand groped, trying to pull the thing out and get air.
Two very confused blue eyes wavered from left to right. For a moment, there was no movement. Then the body began to shake; the eyes darted frantically. "Shit!" Jack jumped from the chair by the door, "He doesn't know where he is or what's going on." He moved closer, then eyed the other man with contempt. "Get a doctor!"
"Calm down!" he ordered, wiping the fevered brow with a cold cloth. He locked onto the lost soul, leaning in and watching the fear screaming silently from the blue eyes. He didn't need ears to 'hear' what those vivid eyes were shouting.
*"What the hell...goin'...on? Shit...I can't breathe...I can't...where am I? My chest hurts...God it hurts...I can't...."* Martin' s panic died down when his fumbling hand was snagged and the voice returned. He blinked and trained his eyes on the face, trusting it without question.
"Cut that out, Fitzgerald!" Malone commanded, his eyes watching the vital signs jumping all over as the panicked man's body reacted, "Look at me!"
He waited until the damp head turned, keeping the weak hand in his own. He kept his face stern. "You're in the hospital in New Jersey, in ICU, and that tube in your throat is helping you breathe." He saw the eyebrows cross and the fingers claw at his hand to get free. He gripped harder and remained strong. "Quit cursing at me, Martin! That tube is staying for awhile. It's been a bitch of a day and I don't need your shit, understand?"
Martin nodded and began to shiver. He was so cold. He nodded in appreciation when the blanket came up. Then the pieces of the puzzle returned in part: he saw the diner, the soup, the blond waitress and Danny Taylor's body. His head jerked, he tugged on the hand, using his free one to tap the badge clipped to the visitor's belt. He had to know. He needed to hear.
"He's fine," Jack smiled down at the expressive face, "He'll be wearing a sling for awhile, and don't think I don't have a nice 'chat' planned for you two." He leaned over, pulled his hand out and tucked the blanket closer. The wounded man was shivering badly, a combination of fear, confusion and fever. "You dad's here, he went to get the doctor."
Before Martin could react to that, the door opened and his eyes turned. There came the imposing figure of Victor Fitzgerald, with a young woman in tow. She looked tired, but found a smile for him. He listened carefully as she explained his injuries, the punctured lung and head crease. The tube would remain in for the rest of the day. Then he'd have to take it easy and rest a few weeks. He nodded and closed his eyes, his head hurt so. He heard her speaking to his father, then that voice drew him back.
"Did you hear that, son?"
He pulled away from the man's touch, repelled and annoyed. He dodged the words like poisoned bullets. He turned his body physically, the sound of 'son', from those lips, sickened him. He turned to the doorway and reached a hand out. He saw shock first, then a flush of maybe embarrassment then finally warmth. The body moved, a hand clasped in his and he let his emotional plea come through his eyes.
"Quit shoutin' at me, Fitzgerald, this is a hospital!" Malone gruffed, completely disarmed by the blue eyes, "You're dented a little, but you'll be okay if you do what the Doctor says. You've got Vivian, Sam and me to kick your ass if you don't." He paused, reading the eyes again. "Yeah, and you've got Danny, too! That partner of yours is one tough customer. You're not alone anymore. You're on our team now, you're family."
He considered the words carefully and felt that golden light invade him again. The warmth coursed through him and he eyed the strong hand gripping his weak one. Every step...a shoulder to lean on... strong arms to help support him. Danny's face flashed, that cocky grin invaded his space. A brother. All the tension left his body and he relaxed. He kept his gaze fixed on those dark beacons of hope until the nurses and doctor started to fuss over him. The examination brought a tidal wave of pain and it washed him away. His eyes slid shut and he rode out the storm. The first of many to come, but they wouldn't defeat him. He wasn't alone, not anymore.
