Page 17 of Cross Down
“Your plan?”
“Clean up and clear out,” Maynard says. “Wait to hear back from you.”
“At last you’ve said something that makes sense. I’ll contact you again this afternoon. And when you clean the place, I want it spotless. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You sure I don’t need to explain it?”
“No, sir,” Maynard says, voice tight.
“Good,” the Boss says in his funny mechanical voice. He hangs up and Maynard goes back into the garage. Pope has packed everything away in the black unmarked van. Clyde is still on his back, moaning.
Maynard notes with approval that Pope had the foresight to put a thick plastic tarpaulin underneath the blankets the wounded Clyde is lying on. He gestures for Pope to join him in front of the van. “His condition?”
“Took a round to the upper arm,” Pope says quietly. “Looks like it nicked a major artery. He bled a lot before I got a tourniquet secured. The only way he’ll make it is if he gets to an ER in the next few minutes.”
Maynard nods, reaches into his waist holster, takes out his SIG Sauer nine-millimeter pistol. “All right,” he says, “let’s get this done.”
Maynard, followed by Pope, goes over to Clyde. Maynard recalls that Clyde is from Arizona, served with the Tenth Mountain Division in Afghanistan back in the day, and was a good scrounger when you needed something quick.
He goes down on one knee next to Clyde, hiding the pistol behind his back. “How’s it going, Clyde?”
Clyde’s face is the color of old paper. “Not good…it hurts like shit. Can you do something for the pain?”
“Can’t take you to a hospital. Too many questions. But you knew that when you signed up, right?”
Maynard brings forth the SIG Sauer and Clyde whispers, “Take care of my parents, will you?”
“Of course,” Maynard says, and he puts the muzzle against Clyde’s forehead and pulls the trigger once.
About fifteen minutes later, Maynard, Franklin, and Pope are ready to leave. The body of Clyde, wrapped in the tarpaulin and secured with duct tape, is in the rear of the van. The garage smells of bleach.
Pope says to Maynard, “I can help you.”
“What?”
Pope says, “I heard what Clyde said, about taking care of his parents. I know their names and where they live. I can give that to you so you can keep your promise.”
Maynard opens up the front passenger door of the van. “You believed that shit?”
Chapter
19
Still on myknees, I hear the paramedic named Rachel say, “Not today, bitch. Trudy, chest dart.”
Trudy fumbles in a drawer for a moment, tears open a sterile plastic wrapper, pulls out a large needle, hands it to Rachel. From the front of the ambulance, the driver yells, “ER in sight! Thirty seconds!”
Alex’s eyes are wide open, and the raspy breathing has stopped. From experience, I know that for paramedics,bitchis another word fordeath.
Rachel smears some sort of antiseptic just below the middle of Alex’s clavicle, on the same side as the gunshot wound, and shoves the needle in at a ninety-degree angle. I wince. There’s a hiss of air. She pulls out the needle, leaving the catheter around it in place, and says, “Jesus, I’m good.”
I feel the ambulance turn, and the interior darkens as it goes through the bay for the GWU Hospital emergency room.
“Rachel.”
“Hold on, Trudy.”
