The paramedic had tried to take off the agent’s gas mask to rinse away the tear gas, but Jackman had waved him off, saying in a mechanical voice over the mask’s speaker that he had on a vest and was fine, just in severe pain. The HRT operator kept pointing to the stabbing vic, who was certainly more in need of help.
The operator was sitting up now. Christ, he’s one big son of a bitch, the paramedic thought, stripping out of his bloody gloves. He turned to the radio and called the Cape Regional Medical Center. It had an excellent trauma unit, from what he’d been told.
‘Cape Trauma, this is Tac Medic One, do you copy?’
‘Tac Medic One, this is Dr Notestine, I copy, go ahead.’
‘We’re en route to your facility, code three with an ETA of ten minutes,’ the paramedic said. ‘On board we have an older male patient with multiple stab wounds. Wound one is on the left chest, mid-clavicular fourth intercostal space. Wound two is left upper abdominal quadrant. Knife was approximately two-inch-width blade, length of five inches. Patient is unconscious and unresponsive, estimated external blood loss at one litre. Skin is cool and diaphoretic with a delayed capillary refill. Blood pressure 80 over 40, heart rate of 144.’ A glance at the monitor and he added, ‘He’s showing sinus tachycardia.’
Out of the corner of his eye the paramedic saw the HRT agent stripping out of his jacket. ‘Patient is intubated with a number eight endotracheal tube,’ he said. ‘Lung sounds are diminished on the left, right lung fields are clear. There’s blood in the tube on expiration. I have two large bore IVs infused with approximately 500cc of normal saline. Patient was found comatose. Medications, last meal and medical history unknown, over.’
‘Copy, Tac Medic One, we’ll have operating room standing by. Do you know patient’s blood type?’
The paramedic couldn’t answer. A powerful arm had wrapped around his neck, squeezing the carotid artery and cutting off the much needed blood to his brain.
‘My apologies,’ Agent Jackman whispered, but it was too late for the paramedic to answer.
Nineteen-year-old Mindy Williams had been driving her boyfriend’s pickup when she heard the wailing ambulance. Unlike some of the other vehicles, she pulled over to the far side of the breakdown lane to give the ambulance a wide berth.
After it whisked past her in a wail of sirens and flashing lights, she pulled back on to the two-lane highway, reviewing what she needed to pick up at the mall, when she saw the ambulance’s back door fly open. She immediately slammed on her brakes. The seatbelt kept her from smashing against the steering wheel.
A paramedic stood by the opened door; she was close enough to see the bright blue jacket with its reflective bands, the large EMS emblem stitched on the breast. His hands were bloody. Whoever was riding in the ambulance must’ve been in one hell of an accident, she thought.
The paramedic didn’t shut the door. Incredibly, he stepped on to the back bumper.
Then he jumped.
Car horns shrieked and tyres skidded, and she watched in fascination and horror as the man hit the fast-moving ground, tumbled and rolled, tumbled and rolled.
What the hell is going -
Her thought was interrupted by a new sound: police sirens. She glanced in her rearview mirror and in the far distance saw a cavalry of flashing blue-and-white lights — police cruisers and undercover vehicles were driving at rocket speed as if trying to outrun an atomic bomb. Mindy Williams looked back at the highway, catching a flash of the paramedic’s blue coat before the man disappeared into the woods.
58
Malcolm Fletcher spotted the gated parking lot and stopped running.
His broken ribs had been aggravated by his tumble across the highway, the bones feeling as though they had been turned into shards of glass, the jagged ends shredding his muscles and lungs. His legs fluttered, threatening to give out, and his vision swam with pain. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and quickly tried to catch his breath.
The gated lot was for people using Cape May’s small Woodbine Municipal Airport. The entrance and exit were in the same location, manned by a pair of automated machines that created parking tickets and collected the fees.
The wailing sirens had reached a piercing pitch; the FBI had discovered HRT Operator Jackman’s body and realized that it wasn’t Jackman riding in the back of the ambulance. Fletcher suspected a small army had been dispatched for him. He ran for the lot, legs shaking and ribs screaming in protest.
His tactical belt, slung across his chest like a bandolier and hidden underneath the bright blue paramedic jacket, did not contain the necessary tools to pop open a steering column. He needed to find a new vehicle with an auto-ignition system and make quick work of it.
This sedan would do — a four-door tan Toyota Camry. He found the Vehicle Identification Number conveniently displayed on the windshield’s lower corner, the parking lot’s ticket sitting on the dash. The ticket was stamped with that day’s date and time.
Smartphone in hand, Fletcher called up the necessary piece of software. Then he entered the Toyota’s VIN. A moment later he had the frequencies to unlock and start the car.
Sitting on the passenger’s seat was a baseball cap with the words KOREAN WAR VETERAN printed across the front. Even better, he found a pair of sunglasses clipped to the visor, the kind favoured by elderly people plagued with vision problems — wraparounds with big square lenses that fit neatly over a pair of prescription glasses.
Fletcher had slipped the HRT Operator Jackman’s roomy tactical trousers over his own. He pushed them down now so he could reach Karim’s phone. He removed it, along with the battery. He placed both items on the passenger’s seat for the moment.
Cap pulled down across his forehead, Fletcher paid the parking fee in cash and exited the lot. He left the window open, wanting to relieve himself of the atrocious odour baked into the leather’s sweat-stained seats: menthol and methyl salicylate, the two primary chemicals used in the pain-relieving ointment Bengay.
Fletcher navigated his way through the quiet back roads. The paramedic coat he’d taken from the back of the ambulance hid the blood on his T-shirt but not the dried blood on his hands. He kept them on the bottom part of the steering wheel, where they were safely out of view.
Watching the streets and searching for any signs of police, Fletcher replayed the moment when he left the panic room to find Karim lying on the floor and bleeding out from multiple stab wounds. Jackman, considerably taller and heavier, was straddling Karim; the agent’s legs were pinning Karim’s arms to the floor. The agent was pressing one hand against Karim’s mouth, while pinching his nostrils shut with the other, wanting to cut off the airways and ensure Karim’s death before any paramedics arrived.
Operator Jackman had pulled out a folding knife and dropped it to the floor to stage the scene. He had turned off his weapon-mounted video camera so there would be no record. Alexander Borgia had brought the man into the treatment room and dismissed the two agents so there would be no witnesses. Borgia had brought Jackman with him so Jackman could kill Karim while Borgia left to check on Karim’s gun permit.
Right now Karim was lying on an operating table, clinging to life. If he survived, would Alexander Borgia find another way to strike?
Fletcher needed to speak to Emma White, needed to warn her, but could he risk calling? When Borgia listed the evidence against Karim, he hadn’t mentioned a wiretap. That, however, didn’t mean the FBI wasn’t monitoring Karim’s phones and, possibly, those of his personal assistant.
Fletcher had no choice; he had to risk calling before Karim was put in further danger. He slid the battery into Karim’s phone.
Emma White’s contact information was listed on the BlackBerry. Fletcher dialled the cell number first, as cell signals took time to triangulate.