"What've we got?" was the question from Detective Randy O'Toole. The MO pointed to the hastily drawn chalk lines on the pavement.
"Officer Girard found him on the ground over here, massive blood loss," the last part was unnecessary, as one could tell by the twenty-five square foot puddle that had formed because of the head wound. "He had a pulse, although it was weak. Paramedics stabilized him, rushed him off to the Ardennes hospital. They've got a good head doctor."
"What was the method?" O'Toole asked, having his partner write down the questions and answers on a small pad of paper. The MO stepped aside as Girard fielded the question.
"Nine-millimeter parra bellum, we found the shell casing over there by the storm drain. Damn lucky it didn't fall in."
"Our guess," the MO said, "Is that the bullet deflected off his skull, cracking it, but not too bad. The pressure of the spinal fluid forced some of the skull fragments into the scalp and face, causing damage to the circulatory system."
"Is he going to make it?"
"We can't say. Ask the doc' at the hospital. My bet is he doesn't make it thorough lunch."
"Thanks, Mike," O'Toole said, walking away. Wasn't just another pusher getting taken down by a rival. Nothing was missing. Identification, driver's license, even three hundred bucks in cash.
Using the windows to get out, Carmelita and Fedorov had made it back to the squad car. There were two other squad cars assembled there, the four officers from them standing around, weapons ready.
"Forget it, boys, they got away," Fox said. Fedorov blotted his head wound with his handkerchief, happy to see the cut that raccoon gave him had finally stopped bleeding. He tossed the stained cloth into a nearby waste can. The police officers spoke for a few moments, the detectives explaining what had happened, then they got back into their cars and dispersed, going back to a night of seemingly aimless driving on patrol.
"You still want to see the bank?" Fox asked when Fedorov had gotten situated in his seat. Matkovich shook his head with a little grin.
"Nyet, it is okay, my friend. I'm going to return to my hotel and, uh, crash?"
"Yeah, sure. No problem," Fox said, irritation saturating her voice. She wasn't bothered by Fedorov, but by the wound re-opened by losing a criminal in the chase. She started the car and headed for Fedorov's hotel. She'd do the paperwork in the morning.
He was in surgery for four hours, the doctors fighting for every second of life. Finally, at about five-thirty in the morning, a gurney was rolled out of the OR and into intensive care. A clipboard was hung at the foot of the patent's bed; Stable. Although he didn't know it, the nurse who handed the surgeon his tools and kept his forehead dry was actually at the bank three days ago. She still shook slightly at night from the experience.
Henry Marvin Willis had his life literally stitched back together. In a mound of bandages, his brain was just fine. There would be a severe concussion, but that would heal. It was a superficial bruise. After a few weeks of recovery, he would be back on his feet, good as new.
Abercrombie stormed into the warehouse. The five IRA merc's he'd hired were sitting around, doing nothing. Two were cleaning weaponry, the other three were playing a game of poker.
"We're moving!" Ethan announced as he strutted to the poker game. Moser looked up from a straight and held his cigar in his teeth as he spoke.
"Moving?" he asked, looking back down to toss some chips into the pot. "Sixteen."
"Yes, moving," Abercrombie said in his best American.
"Hey, where's Marv?" Else asked, noticing that Abercrombie's right-hand-man was missing.
"Dead," Ethan said, leaning over the poker game.
"We're moving. Get the gear loaded, I'll see you in the Belgium garage at eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. That's twenty-nine hours from now. Have a nice drive." Abercrombie pushed off the table and walked out the door, slamming it behind himself.