Cliff Ryder - Aim And Fire

“Very good. Please carry on.” After Joseph had left, Sepehr turned to the camera and sat in front of it again. He closed his eyes and calmed himself, wanting to appear as the epitome of a man in control, then hit the remote, waited for the green light to come on at the top of the camera, and began speaking the words he had waited to say for many, many years.

“People of the world, my name is Sepehr al-Kharzi, and in the name of Allah and his people, I am sending this message to claim responsibility for the attack that has crippled the nation of infidels, the United States of America….”

What the hell have I gotten myself into? Tracy wondered for about the hundredth time as she lay under a light blue sheet on a hospital bed in Providence Memorial Hospital, her head covered in a hastily wrapped bandage. Although she appeared to be dressed in the regulation hospital gown, underneath she was fully clothed, including a Level II ballistic vest. Her pistol was tucked under her right leg, and Sharon had hooked her left finger up to a simple heart monitor, which displayed her heart rate and pulse readout.

After they had dropped Lopez off on the outskirts of town, Nate had cut through the heart of El Paso to get back to Providence Memorial as fast as he could. When they arrived, he flashed his badge at the night-shift supervisor and let him know they had reason to believe that the immigrant they had brought in earlier could be in danger from local gang members. He said they wanted to isolate her and set up a sting operation to catch anyone who might try to hurt her. The supervisor, a kid who barely looked thirty, was overwhelmed by Nate’s no-nonsense demeanor and authority, and quickly agreed to let them set up in the Mexican illegal’s former room, 305. He’d also offered the loan of their security officers. Nate politely declined, saying that too many visible guards might scare the suspects away. He left instructions that the men should be directed to the proper room, and they would take care of the rest.

Now Tracy found herself lying on the hospital bed in near darkness, waiting for two or three potential assassins to come through the door. They had set up Sharon as the night nurse on duty in the quiet hall, and Nate was poised and ready in the bathroom, with the outer door open just enough for him to see the rest of the room. All they could do was wait. Nate had given Sharon explicit instructions to let any visitors through, even though normal visiting hours wouldn’t start for another two hours.

Tracy stared at the ceiling and tried to stay calm, aware that her every heartbeat was actually visible on the monitor.

It was tough to do—her nerves were already jangled from the night’s events, and every noise in the hospital seemed amplified. Every squeal of a wheel on a cart as it came down the hall and every rubber-soled footstep could herald the approach of men who were coming to cut her down.

She had been lying there for about forty-five minutes, but it had seemed like forty-five hours.

The squeak of shoes on the linoleum made Tracy grip the butt of her pistol tighter. She moved her head on the pillow so she could see the door, which was half-open. A white-uniformed nurse appeared, framed in the light of the doorway, and Tracy, letting out a sigh of relief, recognized Sharon.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Nate snarled from the bathroom, raising his pistol from where he had almost taken aim at her.

“Sorry, Nate, but Tracy’s phone keeps vibrating, and I thought it might be important. No one’s come by in the past fifteen minutes, so I thought I’d bring it in on my rounds.”

The nurse held out the phone that Stephanie Cassell had given the DHS agent. Tracy had left it with Sharon, not wanting it to distract her at a crucial moment or to startle whoever came to call.

“If the FBI keeps calling, maybe they’ve found something. Let me see.” Tracy flipped the phone open, but no one was one the other end. Instead a text message appeared.

Tracy,

Contact me ASAP. Have a lead on group that may be involved in plot. Check out a local company called Spaceworks—

As Tracy read, she heard the chime of the arriving elevator. Sharon looked out in the hall. “A Middle Eastern-looking man just came out. He’s wearing a doctor’s coat.

Let me see what’s going on.”

“All right, but be careful. This might be them. Tracy, wrap it up.” Nate shrank back into the bathroom.

Tracy flipped the phone shut, shoved it in her pocket, then leaned back and feigned sleep again, slipping her right hand back under the sheet. She heard the mutter of voices at the nurses’ station, then the soft pad of footsteps.

Sharon’s instructions had been to direct the men to the room, then to leave the station immediately. Dread gripped Tracy’s stomach as she realized they might kill the nurse outright to eliminate witnesses.

The footsteps stopped outside the room, and Tracy heard an indistinct noise that might have been a whisper or two, then the gasp of someone drawing a startled breath.

What’s going on out there? she wondered.

Another shadow appeared in the doorway, but something was wrong. Through her slitted eyes, Tracy saw that the shape was too big to be one person. She grasped the butt of her pistol and inched it up to the top of her leg.

Sharon edged into the room bit by bit, forced inside by the man standing behind her, his white-clad arm wrapped around her throat. Tracy couldn’t see a weapon, but assumed that he had one. She kept perfectly still, waiting for the right moment.

“See, I told you there are no guards in here.” Sharon’s voice quavered, but she remained calm as she stood stock-still in his grasp. “They were called out about a half-hour ago—”

“Shut up, bitch!” The man’s voice was low and guttural, definitely accented. “If you remain still and do as I say, you might live to see the morning.” The man, who was barely taller than Sharon, remained in the doorway, peering into the darkness.

Tracy’s gaze flicked over at the bathroom door, which was still ajar. Nate hadn’t moved, but that made sense, since he couldn’t see his target yet. She couldn’t risk taking a shot, since the man was standing behind Sharon, with only his head and arm visible.

“Take two steps forward and stop,” the man said.

Sharon grunted as the man pushed her forward, but she stepped far enough inside so that she was even with the bathroom door. Tracy thought she heard the thick door squeak just a bit, but didn’t see it move. She returned her attention to the assassin and his hostage.

“Walk to the foot of the bed.” The man punctuated his command with the thrust of the pistol that Tracy now saw was jammed into Sharon’s lower back. But then the killer moved around her so that he was protected again.

My only chance is to fire when he raises the pistol to shoot me, she thought, hoping he would aim for her chest.

But she’d have to throw back the sheet; otherwise, there was too much risk she’d hit Sharon. Jesus, what would Nate do in this situation? she wondered.

The answer came a split second later. The assassin, still keeping his arm clamped around Sharon, raised his pistol to aim at Tracy’s cloth-covered form. The moment the barrel wasn’t pointed at either woman, the bathroom door burst open as Nate lunged for the man. Startled by the sudden movement, the lab-coated killer instinctively swung his gun toward his attacker, but Nate grabbed his wrist and wrenched it up before the intruder could draw a bead. The sound-suppressed semiautomatic pistol coughed once, and Tracy heard a bullet smack plaster as it burrowed into the wall.

The assassin shoved Sharon toward the bed and used his suddenly free hand to try to force the gun back down toward Nate. The two men struggled for an advantage, while Tracy kicked off the sheet and leveled her pistol, shouting, “Homeland Security, don’t move!”