Part 8
Nathan shut the heavy notebook with a sigh, realizing he'd read the same page probably six times without comprehending a word. Leaning back in the chair, he scrutinized the waiting room with tired eyes.
It was quiet now, the late afternoon sunshine streaming through slightly tinted windows. The large family that had been celebrating the tenth birthday of one of its members as the father/grandfather-desperately ill, probably dying from cancer - looked on encouragingly, had pretty much left. A few lingering members stayed behind, ready for their nightly vigil.
For maybe the tenth time in an hour, Nathan pulled his cell phone - muted in accordance with hospital policy - from his belt, glancing at the message indicator. Still blank. Muttering, "Damn," under his breath, he walked out to the corridor, looking down toward Buck's room. The uniformed police officer playing sentry looked up and nodded once.
Nodding in reply, Nathan returned to the waiting room, wandering back to the table and his books. He'd come out here when Dr. Culver had walked into Buck's room with the resident who'd been popping in regularly all day. Once Nathan had looked up and seen Buck's primary physician at the hospital on what Nathan knew was his normally-sacrosanct day off, he'd known that his fears about Buck's gradually worsening condition were well-founded.
He glanced down at the books. He should be worried about the paramedic recertification exam. Hell, he was worried about it. The new test handed down by the State Board was rumored to be a killer. Less than one-half of the paramedics in the first exam group had passed. Nathan was scheduled to be part of the second group, with the test in five days. That exam was the reason Chris had bumped Nathan from this assignment. Well, the supposed reason. Nathan knew Chris hadn't wanted Buck left alone, either.
He drew his phone again and looked in vain at the message indicator. 'Come on, come on, call!' He mentally implored. The bust was going down right now, he was sure. Should have been over already. But Chris, or Josiah...one of them would call as soon as they could. He was sure of that.
As sure as he knew the message he had to give them in return wouldn't be good at all.
He looked up as Dr. Culver appeared in the doorway. For the first time since this whole nightmare had started, Nathan saw the man dressed casually in a sports shirt and pressed khakis, with his sparkling white lab coat nowhere in sight. He looked tired. Being the head of Trauma at the University Medical Center was no easy job. Which made it all the more ominous that the staff had called him on his day off to examine Buck.
"It's not good, is it?" Nathan questioned.
The doctor sighed and shook his head. "Pneumonia was always a possibility, with his injuries." He rubbed tension away from his neck, then went on, "But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't cause for worry."
Nathan sat down heavily. For just one second he fiercely damned his medical training - training that made it impossible for him not to realize how serious Buck's condition was. "What now?"
Culver sat opposite him. "I've started him on IV antibiotics and increased the oxygen. And I've ordered breathing treatments - nebulizer only, can't risk chest percussion with those broken ribs." He hesitated. "I want to try to avoid putting him back in ICU, if at all possible. But we might have no choice. When does the rest of your team get back into town?"
Nathan reached one more time for his cell phone. No messages. "I haven't heard. The bust was scheduled for this afternoon..."
Culver stood up. "You need to get some rest," he said kindly. He pointed down to the books. "Give yourself a break. Buck's got a lot going for him." He smiled. "He has six friends even more stubborn than he is."
Hugo, Oklahoma
"I like your merchandise, Carter," Daniel Travers told Ezra.
Ezra smiled. "I'm always happy when my customers are happy," he said smoothly. "Then I take it there is no objection to the price?"
Travers motioned to one of his men. The man stepped forward, extending a canvas tote bag, incongruously embroidered with beaded hummingbirds. Ezra didn't take it; instead he looked at Bobby. Bobby didn't move.
"Robert?" Ezra finally said. "Would you mind accepting the payment?" His voice was tight. He looked back at Travers. "I trust there will be no objection to my young friend there counting it? I do like to take care of all these accounting matters on the spot."
Travers grinned. "No problem with that. I don't cheat a man who deals straight up with me, Carter. I think you and I can do a lot of business together."
Ezra smiled, a wide, pleased smile. "That does sound promising. But I might be better able to serve you if I had a more exact idea of your current status of armament."
Travers hesitated, glanced at the two oldest men as if seeking their input. Finally he nodded. "Could do with a cold beer anyway." He started toward the barn, waving Ezra to come with him. Most of the men followed, but a few, including the young red-haired kid, stayed behind. They watched as Bobby Fewell took bundles of bills from the bag and laid them on the hood of the SUV.
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"What the hell-" Chris' voice sounded in Vin's ear. "Where are they going?" Although JD and Chris could hear what was said, they were visually blind.
"Looks like the barn, Cowboy."
Chris swore. "The locals said they searched it!"
"We did!" Came a protesting voice. Vin could hear Josiah calmly telling the man to shut up.
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Ezra looked around the cavernous interior, puzzled, although he knew his face didn't show it. The barn appeared empty save for a battered refrigerator in one corner and piles of dirt and gravel in another. He looked at Travers. "You've discovered a process for making weapons invisible?" He raised his eyebrows.
The other man looked pleased. "Something like that." He walked over to the wall, digging his fingers into what looked merely like a flaw in the wood. The whole section of wall slid aside, revealing the hidden compartment, approximately six feet deep and the height of the main chamber. He chuckled at Ezra's wide eyes. "Runs all the way around three sides," he boasted, gesturing. "Lead lined, too."
"How inventive," Ezra breathed. He tensed up, knowing that Chris would be giving the command to move in at any time - now that they knew where the weapons were. All Ezra had to do now was figure a way out of the line of fire.
Before he could think, though, or even move, loud, angry yelling sounded from outside.
Then gunshots.
Then all hell broke loose.
Denver:
His mind was a million miles away as he gathered up his books and notes and prepared to return to Buck's room. 'No, not a million,' Nathan corrected himself. 'More like nine hundred miles. Why the hell don't they call? Did something go wrong?'
He hated the idea he wasn't there. Hated the team being split up. Hated that Buck - lovable, irreverent, loyal-to-a-fault Buck - was lying in this hospital.
He turned too fast and almost plowed into the man that had been staring out the window earlier. "Oh, damn, I'm sorry!" He dropped one of his books as he reached out to steady the man.
"No harm done." The other man reached down for the text and glanced at the title before handing it back. "Human Anatomy?" White teeth flashed in a tanned face. "Sounds like a page turner."
"Not hardly." Nathan accepted the book. "How's your dad doing?" he asked, knowing that he'd seen the man around a lot the last few days and assuming he was part of that big family that had had the birthday party earlier.
The man shrugged. "He's a fighter," he said easily.
"Yeah." 'Buck's a fighter too. Have to hang on to that. He's not going to just give up.' He turned to leave. "Sorry again for almost bowling you over," he said, managing a faint smile. "Good luck with your dad."
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Bolo Orlowski watched in some amusement as the tall black man walked down the hall to Wilmington's room. Damn, but he loved hospitals, especially big busy teaching hospitals like this one. It was so easy to fit in. Put on a lab coat and everyone assumed you were a med student or a new resident. Wear casual street clothes and hang around in the waiting rooms with an abstracted air and everyone assumed you were a worried family member. Hell, he'd heard almost every word of that doctor's discussion with - Johnson? No, Jackson. Nathan Jackson - and neither man had given him a second look.
He nodded at the nurse behind the desk as he boarded the elevator. He'd been studying the situation at the hospital for two days. He needed to strike soon, he knew. With most of Team Seven gone it would be easier to get to Wilmington. He dismissed any worry about the Denver PD guard on the door. From what he had seen most of them were bored stiff with the assignment and wouldn't notice if Rin Tin Tin marched in with Moby Dick, paw in flipper. Jackson might be a problem but he doubted it. The black man looked like he was exhausted. With luck - not that Bolo Orlowski needed luck - he'd have killed Buck Wilmington and been on his way before Jackson even woke up to what was happening.
He'd reluctantly dismissed the idea of using another bomb. Not because of any concerns about security but because in the hospital setting it would be too hard to ensure no one but Wilmington was killed. So he'd have to think of something else. Not too difficult, he was an assassin after all, not merely a bomber.
He just preferred bombs.
They made everything so...devastated.
But he'd have to do something else this time. He'd gotten a vague idea listening to the doctor and Jackson. He'd need some help from home.
He drove to the moderately-priced business hotel he'd booked into. Once in his suite, he pulled out his cell phone. Wouldn't do to make this particular call on the hotel's phone.
It was answered after half a ring. "It's me," he identified.
"I was getting worried."
"No reason. I've been scouting the location. I need you to pull some information together and email it to me."
"There's something you need to know first."
Orlowski shook his head. He never seemed to be able to convince his employees not to try to overload him with anecdotal information. "Not now. If it's that important, email it to me."
Long silence. "Okay. So what did you need?"
Orlowski told him. "And get it here fast." He disconnected, grinning. 'Mission almost accomplished.'
By this time tomorrow he'd be on his way back to Florida.
And Buck Wilmington would be on his way to the afterlife.
Can't beat that.
In a great mood, humming to himself along with the radio, Bolo Orlowski called for room service.
He needed to keep up his strength.
He had a man to kill.
Hugo, OK
It all went so bad so fast.
Vin tried desperately to spot Ezra through the telescopic site on his high-velocity rifle. He was at just the wrong angle and as he struggled desperately to compensate, his attention was distracted from Bobby Fewell.
Then yells and a blur of movement from his peripheral vision sent him scrambling in the opposite direction. The canvas bag that had contained the money flew up into the air. Bobby had yanked out his gun, was pointing it at the young red-haired kid. Immediately the other two men were pulling their weapons too. Bobby shot once, missing the kid, and then dove behind the SUV. Automatic gunfire sprayed the area. From behind the SUV, Bobby shot again. One of the men fell, crimson spraying from his ruined chest.
"It's gone bad!" Vin hollered through his microphone.
He could hear Chris cursing, "Go Go GO!" The dead woods came alive as the local cops led by Josiah started swarming on the scene. Knowing JD and Chris would be there quickly to back Bobby, Vin again angled himself for the best view inside the barn, knowing that Ezra was in the middle of a mess with no backup.
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Once - and not all that long ago - Ezra's reaction to being caught in the barn surrounded by men who looked like they were leftover extras from the cast of "Deliverance", while the world exploded around him, would have been the certainty that he'd been betrayed and abandoned by those entrusted to guard his back.
But Ezra's mind-set had changed in the years since his assignment to Team Seven. It had been hard, slow - and taken an immense amount of effort from the whole team - but Ezra now fully believed there were six other men in the world who would go to the wire to defend him. And with everything in his clever, canny and sometimes cynical mind, he had vowed to never let them down.
So, when the first rip of gunfire shattered the stale, warm air of the barn, Ezra's first thought was not, 'I've been sacrificed', but rather, 'Something has gone very awry. And I'm damned if I'm going to die in a barn outside some Godforsaken town that no one has ever heard of.'
Fortunately for Ezra, the men in the barn with him were, if possible, even more startled than he was. "What in blazes...?" Travers uttered, swinging around to stare out the open doors.
'Go for it,' Ezra thought. He leaned over and yanked the pistol from the holster concealed on his leg. Stepping so his back was to the wall and bringing the small weapon up to bear on the open weapons locker, he said, in his normal accent, "Gentlemen. I'm with the ATF. And you are under arrest."
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The first instant he got the inkling something had gone wrong - even before gunfire tore the air - Chris was bolting into the driver's seat of the van and sending it skewing wildly down the dirt road toward the barn. Still in his swivel seat in the back, JD hooked one foot around a support to keep in his chair. One hand managed the equipment, desperately trying to monitor what was happening, and the other clamped his headset tightly to his ears. All his doubts, his anxiety and anger had been temporarily shoved aside. This was his job. His team was depending on him. He'd do his job or die trying.
He heard Vin's shouted warning, Josiah's exhortations to the local cops, and then, Ezra's cool pronouncement to the men in the barn. He knew Chris heard the last one as well; the team leader muttered something under his breath.
The van swerved in a cloud of dust up to the clearing in front of the barn. Chris slammed it into park and lunged for the door, yelling, "JD! You're with me!"
Leaping out of the back of the van, gun drawn, Kevlar vest in place, JD took in the situation with wide eyes. Two men in jeans and work shirts were spraying the area with automatic fire - fortunately with more enthusiasm than expertise. Bobby Fewell crouched behind the SUV, occasionally taking a shot but mostly just keeping his head down. Local law enforcement stampeded toward them from the orchard. The young red-headed kid whirled around, face blanching. His hand went to the belt of grenades.
'Oh, heck, don't do that!' JD silently implored.
His unheard plea was in vain. The kid drew his arm back, preparing to heave the grenade at the approaching and unprotected men. Then a shot cracked out and he was spun half around by the impact, hanging motionless for a second, blood crimson on his shirt, before he crumpled into the dust. For one frozen second everyone stared at him.
And then the grenade exploded.
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Travers' eyes widened as he looked at the man holding a gun on his weapons store. "You've got balls, Fed. But how you think you're going to get all of us with that little peashooter?"
"I don't have to get you," Ezra pointed out. "I only have to fire one shot into this locker."
Travers snorted. He gestured at the men around them. "They'll kill you."
Ezra smiled ferally. "Then we will all die. I am always ready to die. Are you ready to die today?"
Beads of sweat broke out on Travers' forehead. His eyes darted desperately around the cavernous chamber. The men surrounding him looked fearful. One or two started to lower their weapons.
"You're bluffing," Travers proclaimed. In spite of his words, his voice was doubtful. Ezra just smiled again and tightened his finger on the trigger.
"On three gentlemen...One...two...thre-"
"Don't!" Travers yelled. He turned to his men. "Drop them. Now!"
An explosion ripped through the air, followed by a second, louder explosion.
The wall of the barn blew inward, sending debris rattling down on the men within.
tbc...