Just Another Day: Chapter 13
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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2:46 p.m. on May 14, 2012, At San Francisco General Hospital and Trauma Center in San Mateo County, California
Jennifer Blackard lies in a hospital bed on the fifth floor of the facility, in room 522. Thankfully, the pain medications that have been provided have kicked in, and the pain in her shattered arm has decreased from unbearable madness to greatly annoying.
She will take this as progress.
She alternately closes her eyes, then opens them, staring at the round clock on the wall some fifteen feet away that tells her it is 2:39 in the afternoon. If the nurses have been truthful – or at least accurate – then they should be coming to get her in the next fifteen minutes to take her to surgery.
As she anticipated, the emergency doctors have told her that an external apparatus will be applied during surgery. In her mind, she is far beyond this, however. Her mind is on the future, wondering and hoping that this injury will not be career-altering for the rising detective.
And, of course, her mind is on the fact that her brakes were cut.
Trying to apply her brakes going into the intersection and having nothing happen is a feeling, a memory, that she will not soon – if ever – forget. Someone has tried to kill her. Okay, she's a cop, it happens. She expects it. It comes with the job, every cop understands this.
But this is different.
Someone came to her home. Into her garage. Got under her car. Damaged her brake lines.
Without her knowledge.
She feels violated in a manner only those who have experienced home robberies can understand.
And she is pissed.
Her door opens noiselessly, and it is only because she is glancing at the clock, eyes open, that she hears the man walk in. Another nurse, as the green pullover shirt is a dead-giveaway.
"A little cocktail to get you ready for surgery, detective," the male nurse remarks, walking toward the right side of her bed, where the tall IV machine stands. He reaches into his pocket covering his chest, retrieving a syringe. All is normal – nothing out of the ordinary – as she knows they are prepping her for surgery. There will be quite a bit of activity in and out of her room.
Suddenly, against her groggy nature, her police instincts kick in.
"How would he know I am a detective?" her mind screams at her.
She reaches out with her good right hand, quickly grabbing the arm of the nurse that holds the syringe – that she now would stake her life on – is destined to harm her. It is not a gamble she is willing to take. She, however, being incapacitated and one-armed at the moment, knows this is only a temporary reprieve. She can tell that this man is strong.
She isn't going to last long at this.
"Help! Help!" she screams as loud as she can, now wishing she could press the nurse call button with her other hand . . . but knowing she cannot use that useless appendage at the moment. She is going to have to hope someone hears her.
"Help!" she screams out again, this time as loud as her lungs will allow her. Suddenly, the man breaks free of her grip, forgetting the syringe and his sinister purpose. His mission has now changed.
"Now, now, Detective Blackard," he begins. "Are you going to let your final moments in this life be spent screaming for help? That's how you want to be remembered?"
He quickly takes a roll of tape from his pants pocket and slaps a quick roll across Jennifer Blackard's mouth. He reinforces the swath of tape with a second roll for good measure. Turning toward the IV stand, he reaches for his syringe again, only to be met with an unexpected hard right uppercut to his jaw from the clearly-not-so-helpless patient who is now sitting up in the bed.
Broken arm or not, Jennifer Blackard has decided she is not going out like some helpless waif, without a fight. If one arm is all she has, then one arm it will be.
Her uppercut has stunned the would-be-assassin, knocking him a few steps away from the bed, toward the door, as he stumbles and falls to one knee.
Jennifer sits up now, swinging her legs around to stand up from the bed, tears streaming from the pain exertion on her damaged left arm. She rips the tape from her mouth with her good right hand, now facing her would-be executioner, who has pulled himself back into a standing position.
"You will regret this, bitch," he tells her. "I was going to give you a silent, peaceful sendoff. No more. We play this my way now."
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Some five minutes ago, at 2:41 p.m. on May 14, 2012, on the rooftop at San Francisco General Hospital and Trauma Center in San Mateo County, California
Ron Daniels gently lands the helicopter atop the roof surface of the hospital facility, and before he can shut the blades down completely, Kate Beckett is out the door, her head low as she sprints toward the roof door entrance.
They are more than fifteen minutes delayed in this landing, as there was already a craft atop the roof making a drop-off at the hospital. This was something Kate Beckett and the team did not account for in their calculations, and that was the possibility that other aircraft would be making pick-ups and drop-offs due to injuries from the earthquake. Their time hovering in the skies above, waiting for the craft to finally depart were some of the longest minutes of her life . . . and given the lifetime of experiences of Kate Beckett, this is saying something.
Kate can only hope that Sam Carlos' call to the chief of this particular facility was successful, and she doesn't have to go through any administrative nightmares to get her friend out of here.
Jennifer Blackard.
She is through the door, now running down the stairs. She doesn't know why, but there is that sixth sense that every police officer develops over the years. This sense has never let her down, and right now it is screaming to her that she is out of time, and her friend, Jennifer, is in trouble. She knows the room number that Carlos has given her where Jennifer should be. That is where she will start.
"Dammit, two more floors to go," she mutters aloud, pacing her breath while sprinting down the stairs. The facility has nine floors, and she has just passed the door in the stairway with a large '7' painted on it.
She continues her trek down to the fifth floor. Seconds later, she bursts through the door from the stairwell from the roof onto the fifth floor, her eyes immediately searching for signage that will tell her directions to the various rooms. Finding the numbers 501-525 with an arrow pointing to her right, she takes off at a sprint toward the doors down the corridor, hoping against hope that 501 is at the end of the corridor. That would mean that 522 is just a few feet away.
She frowns as she passes the first door with a sign that says '501'.
"Dammit, dammit," she mutters, willing her legs to go faster. She is halfway down the hallway now, having ignored the hollering from the nurses and staff at the nursing station, hoping they will have the sense to follow her.
Just in case.
She is passing room 518 when she hears it.
"Help!"
She knows that voice. She has known that voice for over a decade. She has partied with that voice, laughed with that voice, cried with that voice.
"No!" she screams aloud, now knowing she is too late as she sprints even faster past the final two doors, slamming door 522 open with a vengeance. She sees her friend, with one arm splinted, her good arm up in a fighting stance.
She sees the back of the nursing orderly – who she immediately recognizes is not a nursing orderly. She makes her mind up quickly. If she is wrong, she can apologize later.
The man turns to her, now having heard the door fly open.
"Not a good idea, lady," he tells her. "You don't want to be in –"
Whatever words were going to be said to complete his sentence are lost forever, as Kate Beckett executes a perfect, low, roundhouse sweeping kick that takes the man off his feet. He lands on the floor with a loud thud, the back of his head bouncing off the tiled floor. Before he can catch the breath that has been knocked clean out of him, Kate pounces on top of him, offering a straight right cross his already damaged jaw.
She watches his eyes roll backwards as unconsciousness greets him, then quickly takes another two steps forward where Jennifer Blackard falls into her grasp.
"How did you know?" Blackard asks her friend, her tone pained from the exertion on her damaged arm.
"Sam," Kate replies. The one word is enough.
"Let's get you out of here," Kate tells her friend.
"You're expecting more," Jennifer voices. It is not really a question.
"I am expecting more," Kate replies. "Now let's go. I know this is going to hurt. Same injury that Rick had. How is that for irony," Kate shakes her head. She places one arm under Jennifer's good shoulder, hoisting her friend upwards.
"Let's go," Kate tells her as they walk toward the door, arm in arm. "If I find a wheelchair we will use that."
"Wait a minute," Jennifer remarks, stopping both women. "Where exactly are we going? And how are these folks just going to let me leave, given I have surgery scheduled."
Kate Beckett takes her arm from underneath her friend, placing both hands on either side of Jennifer Blackard's face, holding her face in place.
"Jennifer, listen to me," Kate begins. "We don't have time for this. I am taking you to the roof. Our chopper is waiting there. You are going to have your surgery, but not here. We are taking you to Chinatown, to the hospital there."
Recognition immediately kicks in for Detective Blackard.
"Sam," she replies.
"Yes, Jen . . . Sam," Kate remarks. "And we've already said that. So, let's get a move on girl, before any more of those creeps come calling."
The two women, again, begin walking briskly, Kate holding her friend up by the good arm, as they pass room after room on the way to the stairwell, before Kate makes an executive decision.
"I don't think you can do the stairs, Jen," Kate tells her, "Not four floors up."
Both women stop at the elevator as Kate Beckett presses the button labeled 'up'. She pauses for a second, her mind made up. She takes her hidden weapon from her ankle holster.
"You really are expecting more," Jen remarks.
"I really am," Kate replies.
The voice from a staff member at the nursing station calls out to them.
"Hey! Weapons are not allowed here," the nurse remarks loudly, moving to hit the silent alarm button.
"Neither is attempted murder," Kate replies, ignoring the woman after her abrupt response. The elevator door opens, and – fortunately – it is empty. Kate replaces her weapon back into the ankle holster, and drags Jennifer Blackard inside. She punches the number to get to the roof access.
"With a little luck, we will be out of here in a few minutes, Jen," Kate tells her. "Hold tight, I know it hurts."
Both women are breathing hard now as the elevator rises to the roof level. Kate Beckett is taking deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Jennifer Blackard is taking deep breaths to . . . well, just to breathe. The pain in her arm is threatening to consume her, blacking her out.
The elevator door opens just in time. Both women see the still rotating blades of the campus chopper. Ron Daniels has seen the door open, and recognizes both women that are staggering toward him at the moment. Seconds later, Kate Beckett slowly and gently eases her friend into the chopper. Jennifer falls back into the jump seat with a thud and a loud groan.
Kate quickly works to strap her in, then takes the seat next to her best friend in the world. It is not lost on her at this moment that she does – indeed – consider Blackard to be her best friend – Richard Castle aside.
She slaps the back seat of Ron Daniels twice.
"We are good Ron, get us the hell out of here!" Kate yells almost too loudly, before she can put the headset back on her head and ears.
Daniels is an experienced flyer, in combat situations. He knows a hostile extraction when he sees one, understanding that some kind of commotion went down while Kate was inside. He also knows that she will tell him what has happened when it is time. But right now, it is not time for that.
It is time for them to escape.
He lifts the chopper off the ground quickly, banking towards the downtown city towards Chinatown. He needs no instructions, as he knows where their next stop is.
Kate takes a deep breath, and glances at her friend, She notices that Jennifer's head has dropped. She places her fingers alongside the woman's neck, nodding with satisfaction at the strong pulse there, and realizing that her friend has simply – finally – passed out from the pain of their exertion.
She takes out her mobile phone, pulling up two contacts that are part of a group message. One Richard Castle, and one Sam Carlos. She begins typing.
"I've got Jennifer. Barely in time. Wolves are afoot. Stay alert."
She hits SEND, then leans back, closing her eyes for a moment. She suddenly reaches for the headset, placing it on her head.
"Thank you, Ron," she tells their friend and pilot. "Thank you. We got her just in time."
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A/N: I hope everyone is doing well. Mother's Day is next weekend. I hope everyone is preparing for a wonderful day for our moms – whoever they may be in our lives. I hope to post the next three chapters in the next two weeks.