Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

In the chaos, Mike used his vague familiarity with the corridor from his exercise trips back and forth to his room under the watchful eye of a nurse. Each time, he’d pushed his body a little harder until he was able to reach the ER’s patient registration area before being asked to turn around.

It was dark, but he used that to his advantage to quickly close the gap between himself and the source of the gunfire. He’d just reached the large double doors that separated the recovery wing from the reception desk when two bullets zipped down the corridor and slammed into the medications cart behind him.

Mike pressed his body against the door of a utility closet, using the eight-inch doorjamb to provide some semblance of ballistic protection. His heart was pounding, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, as he could feel the presence of the shooters in the dark not more than thirty feet away.

Seconds later, one of the gunmen fired again. The muzzle flash grabbed his attention first followed by the sharp smell of gunpowder that filled his nostrils. The sound of brass casings clattering across the floor provided Mike the ability to identify the man’s location. He used the opportunity to dart across the corridor so that he had a view of the entrance, which was slightly illuminated by a battery-powered EXIT sign.

The gunman was standing in front of the reception desk and shooting at anyone who tried to enter the ER from the outside. The two sliding doors in the center of the outer wall had been forced open, and a gurney was toppled over on its side in between them. Between the gunfire and the open doors, smoke and haze mixed with wind-driven rain filled the reception area.

Panicked screams could be heard over the howling wind outside. They were coming from the direction of the ER’s trauma rooms. Mike knew the surgery suites were on the floor directly above them. However, for less serious wounds like his, the trauma rooms enabled physicians to provide all manner of treatment short of extensive major surgeries.

Mike couldn’t see the entire reception area, but the lack of chatter between the gunmen was an indication that the man standing just around the double doors from his position was acting as a lookout while the other one undertook whatever his goal was.

He took a deep breath and winced. The rush of adrenaline was wearing off as he calmed his nerves, and the pain medication he was due to take had worked its way out of his nervous system. All of his rushing about made the pain excruciating as he sucked in air. It felt as if someone had pushed a hot fireplace poker into the same spot Patrick had stuck him.

Mike took a chance to ease his head around the open door. Like before, he dropped to a low crouch. A nervous shooter tended to surveil his surroundings by searching for faces and eyes to determine if they were a threat. Rarely did they focus their field of vision below their waist.

In the dim ambient light, Mike could make out the man’s hunting rifle. While he couldn’t pinpoint the brand or caliber, it looked like a Remington-style rifle that used .223-caliber ammunition, very popular for hunting and home-defense use. For Mike, under these circumstances, it was a bulky weapon that couldn’t be wielded with accuracy by a nervous gunman.

He pressed his back against the door and listened. He had to get eyes on the shooter, so once the man turned his attention and the barrel of the rifle toward the other corridor, Mike could make his move.

The collision would hurt like hell and quite possibly break open his sutures, but at least he was in a hospital, where they could quickly patch him up.

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

The opportunity came less than a minute later. Someone made the mistake of breaking through the swinging double doors leading into the trauma corridor. Startled, the gunman swung wildly toward them. The bullets ricocheted off the stainless-steel doors and embedded in the drywall inside the hallway. The woman shrieked and fell to the floor, making Mike think she’d been hit. The gunman raised his rifle and walked toward her body.

He didn’t hesitate as he quickly moved around the propped-open safety door and lowered his head. He hit the back of the gunman at full speed, driving the crown of his head into the center of the man’s back.

The shooter cried out in pain before the ferocity of Mike’s attack knocked the wind out of him. The two men crashed to the floor in a heap, with Mike further punishing the man with the full weight of his body landing on top of his back. The rifle had been dislodged and flew several feet ahead until it came to a rest near the woman who’d emerged from the trauma wing.

Instinctively, Mike reached for his waistband in search of a weapon, pepper spray, or handcuffs. Anything to subdue the man until he could be restrained. The pain of the collision shot through his body. As predicted, blood began to ooze onto his fleece sweatshirt.

The shooter had regained his ability to breathe and was beginning to squirm under Mike’s weight. Mike looked forward and realized he’d be putting everyone in further danger if the shooter was able to shout for his accomplice. He used the only weapons available to him to subdue the attacker. His fists. With several well-placed blows to the man’s temple, he successfully knocked the man unconscious without using too much force that might lacerate his meningeal artery. Mike wanted him subdued, not dead. He wasn’t in the mood to hang around and explain his use of force.

Mike pounced onto his feet and grabbed the gun. He shook his head in disbelief when the people hiding behind the reception desk gasped as if he were just as dangerous as the shooter. He knelt down and helped the distraught nurse off the floor and led her against the wall adjoining the trauma corridor. He forced her to look at him instead of the dead security guard who lay ten feet away.

He spoke to her in a loud whisper. “Do you how many shooters there are?”

She was breathing fast and shallow, most likely on the verge of hyperventilating. Mike needed to get answers before she panicked. He leaned toward the door opening and checked the hallway. There wasn’t any movement, so he turned his attention back to the woman.

“Please, I need you to tell me what you know.”

She took several long, deep breaths and then nodded. “They’re in trauma three. A man had multiple GSWs. He was helped inside by another man about his age. Forties. Tanned or dark skin. I’m not positive.”

“Which one is trauma three?” asked Mike.

“Third door on the left across from the trauma nurses’ station. He’s got several doctors and a couple of nurses locked in the room. I was the last one to leave the trauma wing.”

Mike was pleased that the woman had recovered from her hysteria. “Okay. One more thing. We need to seal off the recovery wing. Pile furniture in front of it, whatever needs to be done. Just don’t let anyone abandon the patients. There’s an old lady just past the entrance on the right who needs attention. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“One more thing. Find the fastest, most reliable person you can and send them to the sheriff’s office for help. Tell them to use my name—Detective Mike Albright.”

She nodded rapidly with her eyes locked on Mike’s. He took a quick glance down the hallway before sending her on her way. He waved to the other hospital personnel and loved ones who’d crouched beneath the reception desk to get out of the building. He admonished them to be quiet so the other shooter wasn’t alerted.

Then he turned his attention to the gunman and the victim of the gunshot wounds. There must’ve been a reason they felt the need to shoot up the hospital to get him treated. Mike intended to find out.