Page 22 of Cross Down
“Sir.” A short, wide-shouldered woman wearing the uniform of the Virginia State Police and carrying an M4 automatic rifle steps forward.
Maynard says, “You enjoy being the armorer?”
“Sir, it’s what I’m trained for.”
“Good,” he says. “Our next drill is in thirty minutes. Between now and then, I want all magazines emptied and placed on the weapons table. We’ve been using blanks in our training modules. That changes now. Each magazine contains fifteen rounds. I want two live rounds randomly put into every magazine.”
“Sir…” says someone in his assembled team.
Maynard says, “When the next training starts and you’re firing off your weapons, you won’t know if the one coming at you is a blank or the real thing.” He steps away and heads to his own tent. “I expect to see an impressive improvement in the next drill. Any questions?”
Not a one.
Now Maynard is in a better mood.
Chapter
24
In the longseconds after Bree tells the surgeon that he can say whatever he has to say to all of us, I picture those ancient insects stuck in amber, frozen forever in time. I feel exactly like that.
I’m remembering meeting Alex when we were just kids, the hell-raising we did as children when Nana Mama brought me into her house, and the work I did with Alex over the years after we reconnected at Metro PD. I saved his life numerous times, saw him marry and grieve and then marry again, and I’ve been present when he’s solved the most heinous crimes known to man.
And, most important, I’ve watched him raise a family any man would be lucky to call his own.
Dr. Babak says, “He’s alive and—”
His next words are drowned out by sobs, handclaps, and a murmured “Thank God” from Jannie. Bree hugs the surgeon, and he smiles, gently pats her on the back, and steps away.
“My assistants are finishing up now, and soon he’ll be on his way to recovery, and after that, he’ll go up to the trauma ICU on the sixth floor,” Dr. Babak says. “When Alex arrived, he was in critical condition, with a bullet wound here.” The trauma surgeon taps the left side of his chest. “He has two broken ribs, and his left lung collapsed. Air got into the chest cavity and couldn’t get out, and the pressure built up until it was crushing his heart. For a brief moment in the ambulance, his heart stopped, but the paramedics with him were able to insert a needle and relieve some of the pressure so his heart could beat again.”
He pauses as if he’s expecting lots of questions to be tossed at him, but for once in the history of the world, the Cross family and I are at a loss for words.
The trauma surgeon goes on. “In the operating room, we repaired some of the damage and did a thorough examination. The bleeding has stopped, but he’s on a ventilator and in critical condition.”
We stand there, quiet, and I find that we’re all holding hands again.
“The next few days will be important,” he says. “His oxygen level is quite low, possibly because of the damage to the lung, and the ventilator is breathing for him. If we see an improvement, we’ll try to get him off the vent.”
Voice trembling, Bree says, “And if the oxygen levels don’t improve? What then?”
Dr. Babak gives her a patient but understanding smile. “We have other options available to us, but let’s wait and see what happens.”
I ask, “Where’s the bullet?”
“Still in him,” the doctor says.
“What?” Bree asks. “Why?”
“About ninety percent of the time, it makes medical sense to leave the bullet in a patient,” he explains. “If it’s not near the skin or close to a vulnerable part of the body, it’s safer to leave it in than to try and dig it out. The more surgery you do, the higher the chances of complications.”
Bree nods, biting her lower lip. “I understand.”
Ali says, “Can we see him?”
Dr. Babak says, “Absolutely, but only two people at a time. Fifteen minutes per visit. Don’t be surprised at how he looks. His face is swollen and there’s a ventilator tube down his throat. And another thing—be careful what you say.”
Alex’s daughter, Jannie, says, “What do you mean?”
