Doctors and nurses did that a lot, Troy had noticed. They pointed to body parts as they spoke. It seemed like they were constantly reminding themselves of the human anatomy as much as they were showing others what was going on. It was probably something they picked up in medical school. He’d been stitched up enough times to recognize the habit, and maybe that was another reason he hated hospitals — because he’d been in them so often. Sometimes to heal his own wounds but more often to visit others who’d fallen victim to something he’d been able to avoid.
“She’s lucky,” the older man continued. “It’s a one-in-a-million wound.”
The doctor was tall and silver-haired. He reminded Troy a little of Bill, but his tone was more amiable. So was his manner. “What do you mean?” he asked as he moved close to where Jennie lay.
“She’ll live despite the bullet she took in her back. Somehow no vital organs were hit. She was very lucky.” The doctor grimaced. “The shooter didn’t know what he was doing.”
“I doubt the shooter was actually aiming,” Troy countered. “If I’ve read the preliminary reports on these attacks correctly, it was a spray-and-get-away deal. It was like that with all eleven attacks, from what I understand. I doubt any of the death squads were in the malls for more than fifteen to twenty seconds before they split.”
“I think they were on the scene for longer than that at Tysons.”
“Was there a witness who said that?” Troy asked. “I didn’t hear about one.”
“No.”
“And the cameras set up to watch the entrance were shot out early, so those tapes are worthless.”
The doctor held his hands up. “Believe me, I agree with the spray-and-get-away theory as far as her shoulder wound goes. But it doesn’t jibe with the one in her back.”
“Why not?”
“There was gunpowder on her jacket.”
Troy glanced at Jennie, then back at the doctor. “Are you saying the assassin put the gun right up against her body with that shot?”
“Yes. And she was lying thirty feet inside the entrance when the EMTs got to her. Whoever shot her in the back would have had to run into the mall where she was lying. You know, after she’d been hit in the shoulder from the initial burst. That alone probably would have taken longer than fifteen seconds.”
“Are you saying the shooter was making sure she was dead?”
“When the authorities get the ballistics report back from the lab concerning the bullets that were found at the scene, I think the evidence will show that at least several of the rounds were fired from a pistol. Probably a twenty-two, judging by the wound. I’ve seen enough of them to recognize it,” he added ruefully.
“A twenty-two? Are you saying these guys used pistols to carry out the attack, Doctor?”
The doctor shook his head. “No, I’m saying they used automatic weapons initially, probably small machine guns. Most of the wounds in the other victims are consistent with those kinds of bullets.” He nodded down at Jennie. “However, the one in her back isn’t. And two other victims at Tysons had wounds that I believe were inflicted by the same pistol.”
“So after they mowed people down, at least one of the guys went farther into the mall and executed people he thought were still alive.”
“Yes. He was making absolutely certain those people were dead.”
“Because they didn’t want to be identified.”
“I assume.”
“But there were others who were wounded and weren’t executed.”
“They were farther from the entrance, much farther. Maybe whoever it was got nervous. Maybe he knew there were other survivors, but he realized he needed to get away and figured the ones farther in couldn’t ID him anyway.”
“Right,” Troy agreed. “It just seems so crazy that the wound in her back didn’t kill her, that it didn’t hit anything vital.”
The doctor shrugged as if he couldn’t believe it, either. “Like I said, it’s a one-in-a-million wound. Now let’s get out of here before she—”
“Did the assassin shoot the others the same way from close range?” Troy reached around his back and pointed to the spot the doctor had. “Did he put the pistol barrel in the same spot on the other two?”
The doctor hesitated. “Um…yes, I believe that’s right.”
“And those victims died.”
“Uh, yes.”
Something didn’t sound right. “Is that strange? Does that—”
“She’s a real hero,” the doctor interrupted, smiling wanly.
“Why?”
“She saved a six-year-old girl’s life.”
“How do you know?”
“The little girl told us. She lost her father in the attack, and Jennie saved her after he was shot right in front of her. Fortunately her mother wasn’t at the mall at the time, and the little girl’s with her now.”
Troy glanced down at Jennie. The more he looked at her, the more she reminded him of Lisa. “How long do you think until I can talk to her?”
The doctor bit down softly on his lower lip as he thought about it. “I’d say a couple of days. Probably,” he cautioned after a few moments. “She’s coming around really well so far. But it might be more.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to have a team of bodyguards up here in fifteen minutes.” Troy was worried that if the word got out she’d lived, someone might try to finish her off. She’d been closer to the attackers than any other survivor, and if he could jog her memory effectively, he might get something vital out of her. “They’ll be with her around the clock,” he continued, “until I say so. If you need to move her to a quieter area of the hospital, Doctor, I fully understand. In fact, I recommend it.” Troy pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket and chambered the first round. “But let’s wait until the team gets here to do that,” he added, slipping the now-battle-ready gun back into its leather cave and then pulling out his cell phone and pressing the number of a contact on his list. “Until then, I’ll stay with her.”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, son?”
“I’m with the National Intel—”
“I know what they told me before you got here. I got the official story.” He paused. “But who are you really with?”
CHAPTER 13
Shane Maddux moved down the basement steps quietly. Even though she knew he was close, he still wanted surprise on his side. He always wanted surprise on his side.
But what he really wanted was shock. Shock had the power to paralyze, mentally and physically. That paralysis made his victims weak and engendered honest responses. And in this case, he could get that shock because she had no idea who he had with him.
At five-six and 140 pounds, Maddux was a small man. But he wasn’t bitter about it. He had been, as a kid, when the class studs smacked him around for kicks in the hallways of his public high school, then ran all over him on the athletic fields in the afternoon. He could admit it now that his place in the world was rock solid and he couldn’t be more certain of himself and his objectives.
In fact, at this point he regarded his lack of size as an advantage. Being slight enabled him to slip through life undetected, like a specter sliding through the shadows. His uncanny ability to do that had done nothing but bolster his reputation as a coldly efficient killer — which he’d become over the last decade. To mythical proportions in some circles of the intel community, he knew.
His natural stealth convinced others he was close when he was far away. It scared them to death even when they swore it didn’t, which gave him an advantage at the moment of truth. They were already so terrified of him by the time he was actually upon them that they froze like deer in the headlights. For Maddux, for anyone in this line of work, success was all about having as many advantages as possible.