Page 19 of Cross Down
So many memories of Alex and me growing up together and raising hell as Nana Mama tried to keep us safe and away from the deadly temptations of the streets. School saved Alex, and the army did the same for me, and our paths came back together at the Metro Police.
I feel useless in this corner of the trauma bay. I remember seeing my wife, Billie, in a similar situation, on the edge, fighting for her life, until her heart finally gave out.
I blink away the tears.
“Good,” an ED physician says. “Molly, call the OR, prep them. Trauma team will be up there in ten minutes.”
“On it,” a gowned nurse says.
The attending trauma surgeon says, “Good job, people. Let’s prep him for transport, all right?”
Empty bags and other debris are swept aside, and the monitors are unplugged, and in my overwhelmed mind, it’s like a very slow-moving parade. I catch a glimpse of Alex, oxygen mask over his face, his eyes closed, and I reach out to squeeze his hand but I can’t make it through the crush of people slowly moving him, holding the portable medical gear and monitors as they roll along with the bed.
I try to follow the procession, but the male nurse who gowned me—Jack—holds me back. “Sorry, Detective, they’re going to the OR. You can’t go in there with them.”
“I’ve got to go somewhere.”
“There’s a room on that floor for family and friends to wait. I’ll show you where it is.”
Jack strips off his gown, mask, and gloves and tosses them into a heavy blue plastic bin. I follow him and do the same, then wipe at my face. Jack looks like he’s in his early twenties.
“How…” I start. “I mean…”
Jack says, “The patient you brought in is stable for now, stable enough for surgery. That bullet tore him up pretty good and damaged his left lung. But he’s a lucky guy. The trauma department here is the best in the world. Your patient is critical, but he’s got a chance.”
I say, “He’s not my patient.”
“Oh?”
“He…” I choke up. “He’s my best friend,” I manage to get out. “He’s my brother.”
Chapter
21
Maynard has astatus meeting with the whole team after the morning’s unsuccessful mission; he spends some time reviewing their upcoming operation, then says, “Everyone out except for Lisa.”
The eight other men and women file out, and he says, “Lisa, have a seat.”
“Sure,” she says. She takes a folding metal chair and sits in front of his battered wooden desk. They are in the large basement of a McMansion that’s owned by a mortgage company in Cincinnati and that has been on the market and empty for three years. The basement has been crudely divided into an office and sleeping, kitchen, and dining areas; all the windows are carefully blocked with black cloth.
Lisa is a short but tough-looking woman, and today she’s wearing jeans and a black jersey tank top that shows off some serious ink, mostly American flags, eagles, explosions, and bullets. Her black hair is thick, luxurious, and carefully styled.
“What’s up?” she asks.
Maynard says, “How goes the training?”
“It’s going good. I’m impressed by how well the team has come together. Except for McCaffery.”
“What’s McCaffery’s problem?”
A slight shrug. “He doesn’t like taking orders from a woman.”
“Do you want me to handle it?”
Lisa smiles. “I already took care of it. Broke his index finger. He listens to me now.”
Maynard says, “We’re going to need him. He’s on the breach crew.”
