Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

Tim lowered himself against the hinge of the open door, presenting as small a target as possible. Figuring he'd die either way in an exchange of shots, he aimed his. 357 at Den. If lead started flying, he'd rather take out the head man before going down. Imminent death registered as a throbbing at his temples and wrists. He felt his desire to pull the trigger as a craving, maddeningly reined in by thoughts of his family and the loathsome necessity of thinking tactically in a blood standoff.

They squared off, no one eager to start the fireworks.

Then the Sinners pulled back to their bikes, Chief and Den keeping their weapons aimed at Tim's head. As desperately as Tim wanted the takedowns, he weighed the situation. There was no imminent threat to a civilian. If the nomads continued their ordered retreat, his life wasn't at risk. If he initiated a gunfight, he'd be able to take out one nomad at most, and at high cost.

Rather than search for his keys, Den threw a switch on his bike, bypassing the ignition-another design trick to catch law enforcement off guard. The bikes fired up, one after another, and they were off in a cloud of smoke. They spread at the fork like a squadron breaking formation and faded into the darkness, dispersing through the hillside.

Tim took off after the last bike, getting back on the radio. "I lost them. Alert every agency. Send manpower. Redirect the units that are en route. These canyons are a sieve-let's do our best to seal them off. And get the Chippies out all over the surrounding highways in case they make it out." He rattled off Den's license-plate number and spit a gob of cottoned saliva out the window. "He's without a helmet, but the others have them on. They're wearing plain black leathers, riding chopped hogs-four Harleys and an Indian. They're traveling alone but staying in the same vicinity. They're armed and dangerous. They have weapons in their possession and built in to their bikes. Do not approach them on their bikes. And do not approach without backup."

Only when he clicked off did he note his heart double-thumping with adrenaline. He tried to slow his breathing, but every few minutes a motorcycle whined past, heading for the Rock Store, quickening his pulse. He fought the convoluted landscape, chased down a few bikers for a closer look, returned to search the dirt apron, all the while updates pouring in on federal and local frequencies. Nothing and more nothing.

When he glanced at the clock, forty-five minutes had passed. By now the nomads could've wound their way free of the canyons or holed up in a safe house within the maze of roads. The night air smelled of brush and distant smoke. The Buick pushed an orb of light before it, seeming to generate the road it was driving on. The canyons grew quiet, but Tim continued to navigate, his nerves frayed, the radio abuzz, his apprehension growing.

Near the hour mark, a shaken sheriff's dispatcher radioed in to advise that a pregnant deputy in Moorpark had been shot point-blank in the chest.

He didn't remember turning the car around or the drive to the hospital. He didn't remember parking or the walk across the ambulance bay. His first flash of cognizance came when Bear appeared in the emergency-room lobby, running toward him, gear jangling on his belt.

Bear halted, winded; his voice was high. "She called in a high-risk stop."

Tim felt his veins go to ice. "Who?" he asked, though he already knew.

"Den Laurey."

Tim's vision narrowed again. When he came out of it, a doctor was midsentence with Bear, thin hand on his chest to stop his advance through the swinging doors. A nurse at Tim's side was trying to comfort him with facts, but he couldn't quite keep up with the words. "-medevacked her. We're the closest trauma center with a helipad-"

He looked around blankly. "Where are we?"

The nurse's face registered concern. "UCLA Medical Center."

Bear lifted the doctor by both shoulders, moved him out of his way, and set him back down. The security guard took one look at Bear and stayed in his seat but kept his hand on the phone. Tim followed Bear through the doors, down the sterile corridor.

Bear froze up ahead, peering through the windowed doors to Procedure Room Two. Filled with dread, Tim drew to his side and looked through the glass.

Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 03

Troubleshooter (2005)

Surrounded by nurses and doctors, Dray lay naked, her pallid skin smeared with blood. The blue tint of the fluorescents and her position-supine, elevated, focal-gave the scene a religious aspect. A fat needle stuck out an inch below her left clavicle, and a web of blackening blood glittered on her side. Her brilliant green eyes were cloudy, or maybe it was just the lighting.

Tim heard the shuffle of boots walking in unison-the approach of the guards-but he couldn't tear his eyes off his wife. One of the doctors glanced up, then stepped away, moving toward them. He shot his gloves on the way through the doors and stepped between Bear and the guards. "I got it fellows." When he pulled down his mask, Tim recognized him as the doctor who'd treated him last year. As the guards backed off, the doctor shot Bear a stern look. "Behave yourself and you can stay back here. Don't go in that room."

He took Tim's arm and drew him into an empty exam room. He started with details and hard facts-a good read on what Tim required right now.

"She took a blast from a twelve-gauge, double-aught buck. The vest absorbed the brunt of it, but a pellet got through the armhole, penetrated beneath her breast at the fourth intercostal. It pierced the pleura, the sac surrounding the lung, and caused the lung to collapse." He moistened his lips. "When the paramedic got to her, she wasn't breathing. Unresponsive, no pulse, blood pressure was at fifty. He bagged her and did a needle decompression in the field, but she'd been down for a while. She didn't have oxygen to her brain for seven, maybe eight minutes. There might be brain insult."

Tim took it standing. The doctor gave him a moment to digest this, waiting for his eyes to pull back into focus.

"She may have had some hypoxic injury while she was down. The CAT looks okay, but it's a wait-and-see."

"She stable?"

"She is now. We put in a chest tube. And she started breathing on her own-clear airway, good breath sounds. But the chest tube put out some blood, and she's not waking up. Because she's pregnant, she has a lower resting blood pressure to begin with…" He wiped his forehead with the abbreviated sleeve of his scrub top. "We did an ultrasound, and the baby's heartbeat is regular. We want to keep the baby inside her, but we need to know… If an operation is required and we think we might lose your wife on the table, do you want us to perform an emergency C-section or devote our full resources to your wife first?"

Tim tried to think of what Dray would want but heard himself say, "Devote your full resources to my wife." He put his hand on the exam table just to make sure he had hold of something solid and unyielding. "If you lose her, can you still…?"

"Perform a postmortem C-section? Yes. But let's hope we don't wind up there." The doctor rested a hand on Tim's shoulder. "I heard about what happened. Your stopping the bikers."

"They put it out over the PA?"

"The deputies were talking." He regarded Tim heavily. "You can play the guilt game-" He opened his mouth, closed it, wiped his lips with his hand though there was nothing to wipe. "I lost my first wife. You can play that game until you've got nothing left to play with." When Tim didn't respond, the doctor took a little step back, angling toward the door. "I'm going to go check on her. Want me to leave you in the room?"

"For a moment."

"We're going to do everything we can."

"I know. Thank you, Doctor."