Kay David - The Target

Dr. Barroso asked his usual questions, then made notes on Quinn’s chart. After a few minutes he tossed the clipboard down and examined Quinn’s battered body. When he finished, he pursed his lips. “I think it’s almost time to kick you out of here, McNichol.”

“Sounds great. I’m ready.”

“No, you’re not,” the doctor said. “But we need the bed.” He grinned at his own joke, then his demeanor went serious. “You still planning on going to St. Martin?”

Quinn’s complete recovery would take months and they’d already discussed the fact that he needed somewhere quiet to recuperate. He’d decided that place was where he’d spent his childhood. An hour from New Orleans, St. Martin was a small town, up the river from where he still owned property that had been in his family forever. On temporary medical leave, he could retreat to the bayou and exercise until he dropped. Then Barroso would examine him again and reinstate him. Or at least that was the plan.

“Absolutely. In fact, I’ve already talked to the physical therapist who lives there,” Quinn said. “He sounds pretty good.”

“He’ll be able to help you quite a bit.” The doctor’s eyes met Quinn’s, his brown gaze as direct as his words. “But he’s not going to make you into the man you were before this, Quinn. He’s not a miracle worker.”

They’d discussed this before, too. Quinn tensed. “I’m going to return to the team. I’m going to recover.”

“That’s certainly a possibility. But you and I both know there’s another one. You might not be able to work again. Don’t pretend that chance doesn’t exist, my friend.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Quinn’s voice was level. “I won’t let it. If I work hard enough, I’ll be—”

“You’ll be fine,” the doctor interrupted smoothly. “But you might be fine while having a different career.” He reached across the bed and tapped Quinn’s leg. “Your injuries were very severe. Your recovery, complete or otherwise, is not going to happen overnight. I don’t want to see you in here again because you’ve hurt yourself trying to do something you can’t.”

“Can’t means won’t, Doc.” Quinn paused. “I will return to my team.”

The doctor sighed then nodded, picking up the clipboard to make a final note. “I guess you can tell your lady friend you’ll be all hers after next week.” He shook his head and walked to the door. “Qué mala suerte! May God be with her…”

Quinn chuckled at the suave doctor’s drama, but when the door closed and he thought about what was ahead, his laughter died. He had to come back to the team. His plans did not include staying at home and letting Hannah support him. Quinn didn’t care what the doctor said—there was no other option.

His daily routine of meds and therapy began shortly after that, and he didn’t return to his room until after lunch. Hannah’s chair was still empty.

At six that evening she still hadn’t arrived. He was trying to decide if he should call her when the door to his room opened. Assuming it was her, he smiled in anticipation.

Mark Baker and two more techs stepped inside instead.

“Hey, guys…” Quinn struggled to get up, but they all waved him down, each coming closer to shake his hand and say hello. Since his hearing had returned, the whole team had been in at one time or another, but surprisingly, Baker had been his most frequent visitor. They’d developed an uneasy friendship, partially, Quinn surmised, because he was now off the team, at least temporarily. His expertise and experience no longer posed a threat to the young tech.

Quinn watched the men situate themselves around the room, then he noticed they all looked tired and dirty. They’d obviously been on a call, but the usual, boisterous aftermath that followed a situation was missing.

“You guys been out?”

Mark sat down in the nearest chair and answered Quinn’s question with a nod. “Yeah—some kids over on Toulouse got their school computers cranked up and learned how to build pipe bombs. They planted five of them in and around the mailboxes in their neighborhood and Metro called us. We went crazy trying to retrieve the damn things before somebody found one and blew off their freaking hand.”

Quinn shook his head in commiseration as the other techs added their comments about what had happened. He listened, but all Quinn could really think about was Hannah. Where was she? Did her absence have anything to do with the men’s subdued attitudes?

When the conversation lulled, he spoke casually. “Hannah go out on this?”

They took too long to answer. A warning bell sounded inside Quinn’s head.

“She was there.” Mark shot a look toward one of the other men and a silent communication took place. Quinn had sent enough signals like that himself to know something was up.

“What happened?” he asked. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s fine,” Mark said quickly. “Just fine. But we had a little problem….”

“What kind of little problem?”

Mark glanced again at the others.

“Just tell me what happened, dammit.” Still in his bed, Quinn managed to make the younger man jump.

“She dropped one of the pipe bombs,” Mark blurted out. “But she’s okay—she’s okay, I swear.”

Quinn’s heart stopped for a single moment, then it restarted, the rhythm faster than it should have been.

“I take it she wasn’t holding it at the time?”

Mark shook his head. “No, no… The Andros had it.”

The men looked at each other uneasily. They were a team, and teams had rules, one of which stated you supported the other members, regardless. But this was different. Quinn had to know more, whether they wanted to tell him or not. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed, but as he stood, a quick knock on the door startled them all. It opened and Bobby was poised on the threshold, his expression grim, his demeanor unhappy. The men took one look and started edging past their boss, their muted goodbyes ignored by Quinn and Bobby both.

With the room empty except for them, Quinn stared at the other man, his mouth suddenly dry. Obviously there was more to the story than Mark had revealed. “What is it?” he asked without preamble.

“Sit down,” Bobby said, pointing to the bed. “We gotta talk.”

HANNAH SAT IN THE DESERTED bullpen, her head on her desk, her eyes closed. She was completely alone and the lights were off because everyone else had gone home to hug their kids and make love to their spouses.

She knew that’s what they were doing because that’s what she wanted to do. Almost getting blown up tended to bring out that need in a person.

She’d made a very stupid mistake tonight, and if things had ended even slightly differently, someone would now be knocking on her mother’s door to tell her that her daughter was dead.

Hannah lifted her head and slowly banged it against the scarred and pitted wood. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have been so blind? In her time as a tech, she’d never come so close to making such a major blunder.

After the first bomb had detonated, she’d looked at the pieces and assumed the devices were all identical. X-raying the homemade disaster, she’d seen the same thing she’d seen in the initial bomb, which confirmed—or so she’d thought—her assessment. She’d explained the setup to the other techs, then sent in the Andros to pick up the sawed-off aluminum baseball bat, lying next to the mailbox.

Unfortunately two different kids had made the bombs, and the second teenager had been smarter than the first. He hadn’t inserted an ordinary fuse; he’d used negative pressure instead.

She’d misread the X ray. And then she’d mishandled the robot, her hand shaking from exhaustion. The machine had dropped the device. If the bomb had been a fused one, as she’d thought, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. But it wasn’t—the fuse was a decoy. The metal cylinder had landed on its edge and the plastic cap had flown off. The bomb had been aimed away from them, but by then it had hardly mattered.