Buchanan stared down in blank horror.
Reynolds knelt beside Lee. "How bad?"
Lee looked up in anguish. He couldn't speak.
Reynolds assessed the wound. "Bad," she said. "Slug's still in her. The hole's right near her heart."
Lee looked at Faith. Her skin was already beginning to pale. He could fee the warmth of life spilling out from her with each shallow breath she took. "Oh, God. No. Please!" he cried out.
"We've got to get her to a hospital. Fast," Reynolds said. She had no idea where the closest hospital was, let alone a trauma center, which was what Faith really needed. And searching the local area by car would be akin to signing the woman's death warrant. She could call the paramedics, but who knew how long it would take for them to get here? The roar of the plane engine outside made Reynolds glance at the window. The plan formed in her head within seconds. She raced back to Connie and lifted his FBI credentials from his body. For one brief moment she gazed at her former colleague. She shouldn't feel bad for what she had done. He had been well prepared to kill her. So why did she feel crushed by remorse? But Connie was dead. Faith Lockhart wasn't. At least not yet. Reynolds hustled back over to where Faith lay. "Lee, we're taking the plane. Hurry!"
The group raced outside, Reynolds in the lead. They could hear the plane's engines revving up as it prepared to take off. Reynolds sprinted ahead. She headed for the wall of brush until Lee screamed at her and pointed toward the access road. She raced in that direction and a minute later found herself on the runway. She looked down at the opposite end. The plane was turning, getting ready to roar down the tarmac, lift into the air; their only hope would be gone in seconds. She ran down the asphalt, directly at the aircraft, waving the pistol, the badge, screaming, "FBI!" at the top of her lungs. The plane came racing at her, as Buchanan and Lee, carrying Faith, burst onto the runway.
The pilot finally focused on the woman waving a pistol and coming at him. He pulled back on the throttle and the aircraft stopped its roll; the engines whined down.
Reynolds reached the plane, held up the badge and the pilot slid open his window.
"FBI," she said hoarsely. "I have a badly wounded person. I need your aircraft. You're going to fly us to the nearest hospital. Now."
The pilot looked at the badge, the gun and nodded dumbly. "Okay."
They all climbed on the plane, Lee cradling Faith against his chest. The pilot turned the aircraft around again, went back to the end of the runway and started his takeoff roll once more. A minute later the plane lifted into the air and rushed toward the embrace of the quickly lightening sky.
CHAPTER 53
The pilot radioed ahead and a life-support ambulance unit was waiting on the tarmac at the airstrip in Manteo, which was thankfully only a few minutes of flight time away. Reynolds and Lee had used some bandages from the first-aid kit on the plane to try to stop the bleeding, and Lee had given Faith oxygen from the small canister on board, but none of it seemed to have any effect. She had not yet regained consciousness; they could barely get a pulse now. Her limbs were beginning to grow cold, even as Lee clung to her, tried to give her heat from his own body, as though that would do any good.
Lee rode in the ambulance with Faith over to Beach Medical Center, which had an emergency and trauma center. Reynolds and Buchanan were driven there in a car. On the way to the hospital, Reynolds called Fred Massey in Washington. She told him just enough that he was already running to catch a Bureau plane. Just him, Reynolds had insisted; no one else could come. Massey had accepted this condition without comment. Perhaps it had been the tone of her voice, or simply the stunning content of her very few words.
Faith was immediately taken to the emergency room, where doctors labored over her for almost two hours, trying to get her vitals up, her heart regulated, the internal bleeding stopped. None of it looked good. Once, the crash cart even had to be called.
Through the doors Lee watched in the numbest horror as Faith repeatedly jerked under the impact of the electrical current surging through the paddles. Only when he saw the heart monitor go from flat line to its regular peaks and valleys did he find he could even move.
Barely two hours later they had to cut her chest open, spread her ribs wide and massage her heart to get it going. Every hour seemed to bring a new crisis as she barely clung to life.
Lee paced the floor incessantly, hands shoved in his pockets, head down, talking to no one. He had said every prayer he could remember. He had made up some new ones. He was helpless to do anything for the woman, and that's what tore at him. How could he have let this happen? How could Constantinople, that old, bulky sonofabitch, have gotten that shot off? And him right beside the guy? And Faith, why had she taken the round? Why? Buchanan should be the guy lying on that gurney with people swarming over him, trying desperately to push life back into his wrecked body.
Lee slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, covering his face with both hands as his big body shook.
In a private room, Reynolds waited with Buchanan, who had barely spoken a word since Faith had been shot. He just sat there and stared at the wall. To look at Buchanan, no one would have guessed that anger was building in him: the absolute hatred he was holding for Robert Thornhill, a man who had destroyed everything he cared about.
About the time Fred Massey arrived, Faith was taken to the ICU. She was stabilized for the time being, the doctor told them. The bullet was one of those vicious dum-dums, he said. It had tumbled through her body like a runaway bowling ball, doing considerable damage to organs, and the internal hemorrhaging had been severe. She was strong and for now she was alive. She had a chance, that was all, he cautioned. They would know more soon.
As the doctor walked away, Reynolds put a hand on Lee's shoulder and handed him a fresh cup of coffee.
"Lee, if she survived until now, I have to believe she's going to make it."
"No guarantees," he mumbled to himself, unable to look at the woman.
They went to the private room, where Reynolds introduced Buchanan and Lee to Fred Massey.
"I think Mr. Buchanan should start telling you his story," Reynolds said to Massey.
"And he's willing to do that?" Massey asked skeptically.
At this Buchanan perked up. "Something more than willing. But before I do, tell me one thing. What's more important to you? What I did, or arresting the person who killed your agent?"
Massey leaned forward. "I'm not sure I'm prepared to discuss any sort of deal with you."
Buchanan put his elbows on the table. "When I tell you my story, you will be. But I'll do so on only one condition. You let me deal with this man. In my own way."
"Agent Reynolds informed me this person works for the federal government."
"That's right."
"Well, that's pretty damn unbelievable. Do you have proof?"
"You let me do this my way, and you'll have your proof."
Massey looked over at Reynolds. "The bodies at the house. Do we know who they are yet?"
She shook her head. "I just checked in. The police and agents from D.C., Raleigh and Norfolk are on the scene. But it's too early yet to have that info. But everything's on the QT. The locals have been told nothing. We're controlling all flows of information. You won't see anything on the news about the bodies or about Faith being alive and in this hospital."
Massey nodded. "Good work." As though suddenly remembering something, he opened his briefcase, pulled out two objects and handed them to her.
Reynolds looked down at her pistol and creds.