Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘Let’s flush the son of a bitch out,’ Cronin said. ‘Alpha Team, move into position. Jackman, report.’

Borgia watched tear-gas canisters being launched and then the sound of shattering glass filled his headphones. A quick glance to another monitor and Borgia saw Alpha Team, wearing gas masks, funnelling through the front door.

Three gunshots rang out over the headsets.

Cronin again: ‘Jackman, report.’

Over his headset Borgia heard coughing followed by a Darth Vader-like breathing.

‘CP, this is Jackman. I’m hit.’ Jackman’s painful wheezing voice had a mechanical, robotic tone; he was speaking over the gas mask’s voice-amplification system. ‘Tango is armed and on the move. Fired three return shots.’ A long wheeze and then Jackman said, ‘I think he’s hit.’

Borgia stirred with excitement. Fletcher had been inside the house, but where? Where had he been hiding?

‘Stand by, Jackman, help is on the way.’ Cronin covered his mike with his hand and, turning over his shoulder, barked at the room: ‘Move SWAT paramedics into position.’ He released his grip on the mike. ‘Snipers, if you have a clean shot, take Tango down. Jackman, keep talking to me, son.’

No answer from Jackman, just that sickly wheeze. Had he been shot? All the operators wore bulletproof vests. But if Fletcher had used armour-piercing rounds…

Borgia prayed to God Jackman had managed to get in at least one critical stab wound. If he had, Karim would die before he reached hospital.

Borgia’s stomach climbed with equal measures of hope and fear. Please, God, let Jackman be dead along with Karim. Three could keep a secret if two were dead.

Cronin again: ‘Talk to me, Jackman.’

On another monitor, grey smoke billowed from the front doorway and scattered in the rough wind. Over the headsets came the sounds of heavy boots crunching over broken glass. No gunshots, not yet.

Elbows on the console top, Borgia rested his chin against his folded hands and stared at the front door, watching and waiting.

HRT operators emerged from the smoke, one of their own slung between them — Operator Jackman, head bowed and bobbing, chest and gas mask smeared bright with blood. Jackman’s boots bounced against the steps as he was dragged away. When the trio came into closer view, Borgia caught sight of the bullet holes on Jackman’s chest, right above the heart. If Fletcher had used armour-piercing rounds, Jackman was as good as dead.

SWAT paramedics came next, holding a gurney, an unconscious Karim strapped down to it. The man’s head swayed back and forth as he was whisked down the steps. Borgia nearly collapsed in relief when he saw the large amount of blood covering the man’s clothing, the multiple pressure bandages covering the man’s chest and stomach. No way Karim survived that.

Borgia thought of Fletcher, felt his heart tripping with pleasure at the thought of standing in front of all those cameras, telling the story of how he’d found and captured the former profiler. His story would hold up, even if Karim survived. It would be Karim’s word against the actions of an FBI agent with a pristine record. Karim had hidden a wanted fugitive. He had attacked and, God willing, killed a federal agent. If Karim survived, he would spend his remaining years behind bars.

Karim didn’t matter. Fletcher was the prize, and Fletcher was pinned down somewhere, in agony from the tear gas, choking on it. Any second now and they would have him. The monster couldn’t ride or hide any more.

A full minute passed with no word.

They’re moving slowly through smoke, taking no risks, Borgia thought. Fletcher spooked them — and with good reason. The monster might have the investigative mind of Sherlock Holmes, but he was as cunning and bloodthirsty as a vampire.

Ten minutes passed and the smoke was no longer drifting through the front doorway or shattered windows.

Borgia’s eyes narrowed in thought, his insides turning to water even before a new voice spoke over his headset: ‘CP, we’ve found a body hidden inside a closet — hidden inside what looks like some sort of panic room. It has — ’

‘Is it Fletcher?’ Cronin asked.

‘No, sir. He’s one of ours. Danny Jackman.’

The SWAT tactical paramedic kneeling in the back of the swaying ambulance went to work applying new pressure bandages to the comatose stabbing victim strapped down to the gurney. The paramedic had completed two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan; he had seen the many ways in which the human body could be torn apart by high-velocity bullets and roadside bombs. This victim was relatively easy compared to those miseries.

Two stab wounds: the lower left quadrant of the abdomen and the other on the chest, just below the left clavicle. The attacker had been aiming for the heart. The vic had worn a bulletproof vest but had opted out of using a steel-plate insert. If he had, the long blade wouldn’t have punctured the lung.

The stabbing vic was intubated and had a breathing tube inserted through the trachea to protect the airway. The problem now was blood. The vic had lost a lot, maybe too much. He’d been found lying in at least a litre, and his abdomen was rigid and distended from internal bleeding. Every time he coughed, a fine red mist sprayed the inside of the breathing tube, a sure sign his lungs were filling up.

The paramedic started two large bore IV lines to replace the lost blood, hoping to God the intravenous fluid would keep the victim’s brain and vital organs alive without accelerating the internal bleeding. Then he went to work suctioning blood from the man’s endotracheal tube to keep the airway open and oxygenated.

The second victim riding in the ambulance was an HRT operator named Jackman. He had suffered blunt-force trauma from the lead slugs that had struck his chest. The man had been shot three times — once above the heart, the other two dead centre of the chest. His vest had a steel plate, and it had saved his life.

And Agent Jackman had possibly saved this other man’s life. Entering the bedroom filled with smoke, the paramedic had found the stabbing vic’s vest already cut off, a HALO chest seal on the bleeding wound.

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.’