Patrick groaned and snapped his eyes open. “Ann? How is she?” Without waiting for a reply, he passed out.
The brief question did wonders for Ann’s optimism. She swiped at hot tears with her forearm, trying not to get her partner’s blood all over her face. Spotting her dazed friend standing on the other side of Patrick, Ann called, “Rachel! Rachel, are you okay?” Her friend didn’t answer. Then, Ann noticed that Rachel was staring at the small figure draped across Patrick’s stomach. As gently as possible, Ann moved the girl’s tiny body off of Patrick and checked for signs of life. A weak pulse met her fingers.
A child’s wail pierced her shock enough so she could speak. “She’s alive,” said Ann tightly.
“Help her!” said Rachel, her voice barely more than a whisper. She sank to the ground next to the girl and gathered the sobbing boy into her arms.
Ann didn’t blame him. The only reason she didn’t join him was that her emotions were already too strung out. She was functioning purely on instinct now. Her throat burned with rising bile and her stomach heaved. Not knowing what else to do, Ann pressed her right hand over the gaping hole in the child’s side. She couldn’t even give the girl her shirt since it was trapped beneath a bulletproof vest. Emily would bleed out by the time Ann worked through half the straps to remove the vest. She could steal back the jacket she’d tucked under Patrick’s head, but the material wasn’t exactly ideal for stanching blood.
“Rachel!” A man Ann recognized as Jonathan Parker rushed up clutching a deadly sniper rifle. He dropped the gun, wrapped his arms around Rachel, and gently cradled her and the boy. His eyes never left the tiny figure Ann knelt beside.
For several minutes, only choked sobs broke the stillness of the early summer night.
A breeze ruffled Ann’s honey brown hair, and her senses returned.
We’ve got to get out of here!
She hesitated, torn between staying with the child and getting her phone to call 911. Spotting Patrick’s phone, Ann leaned over to retrieve it from the case clipped to his belt while still keeping pressure on Emily’s wound.
Sheriff Heckle lumbered up just as she started dialing 911.
“I already called for backup,” the sheriff announced, softening his normally gruff voice. The man reminded her of a plush teddy bear. He moved to the girl’s side and took over the task of trying to stop the bleeding.
Yeah, so did we several minutes ago.
Ann gulped but couldn’t find words. She wanted to help with either patient, but she didn’t want to do anything that would make Patrick’s wound worse. As Sheriff Heckle tended to the girl, Ann felt helpless.
Father, spare them, she thought, thinking of her partner and the little girl.
Ann felt Sheriff Clayton Heckle’s sympathetic gaze as she waited by her unconscious partner for a full five minutes. Suddenly, she remembered the sniper. She needed to do something about him. Grimly, Ann wiped her bloody hands on her pants and grabbed Patrick’s handgun which lay uselessly next to him. A quick check told her the gun still held six bullets.
“Where are you going?” asked Sheriff Heckle.
Ann knew she should answer the man, but she couldn’t find any words, let alone the right ones. Ignoring protesting muscles, she raced to Morton’s truck and retrieved her phone and the flashlight that had rolled to the floor. She shuddered at the gruesome sight of Morton’s body. Steeling herself for the task ahead, Ann stopped long enough to pick up her own gun and tuck it into its holster before trudging toward the place where the last shot had come from.
What will you do when you get there? She swept the question from her mind, tightened her grip on Patrick’s gun, and marched grimly onward.
Using the powerful flashlight from Paul Morton’s truck, Ann quickly found the sniper lying on the ground behind his gun. Distantly, she heard the reassuring thump-thump of helicopter blades. She ignored it, letting anger fuel the rest of the journey to the sniper’s side.
Ann flipped the man over and checked for a pulse. He groaned just as she found a faint indication of life. A second later, she had the gun’s safety off and the muzzle pressed firmly over the sniper’s heart. It took all of Ann’s willpower not to pull the trigger.
“Do you like my handiwork?” asked the sniper weakly. A pleased grin crossed his bearded face. “How is the child?”
“Why?” Ann croaked.
Why shoot a child?
Anger coursed through her like a spreading fire. “Why?” she demanded again, louder this time. Ann dropped the flashlight and gripped the gun with both hands. “Tell me why you fired! The fight was over!”
The sniper glared at her, and said, “Shoot me.”
Ann’s trigger finger itched to comply.
You can’t. It would be wrong.
Studying the man’s hardened expression, Ann felt a strange rush of cooling pity sweep through her.
Save him! That thought set off an epic battle of wills between Ann’s heart and mind. Her heart wanted to reach past the man’s anger and contempt and her head wanted to let him rot for the evil things he’d done. She felt the lesson of Jonah press upon her. He’d been sent to a completely wicked city to redeem them. Ann’s heart finally won the fight and began racing with a new purpose.
God give me strength.
A shiver ran down her spine at being so close to blatant evil.
The man’s cold eyes met Ann’s as he said, “Orders … just orders.” The sniper began breathing in short, shallow gasps and blood oozed out of three bullet holes in his left shoulder.
A glance at the sniper rifle remains told her where most of the other bullets had gone.
Coming to a decision, Ann put the safety on Patrick’s gun and tucked the weapon into the space at the small of her back. “You don’t deserve to be saved, but neither does anybody else. Call out to the Lord to save your soul.”
The sniper laughed again, weaker this time. “You a preacher?”
“No, just a messenger,” Ann replied. “God always wants a repentant heart.”
The man shook his head slowly. “I won’t be a last minute crawler. Go to—”
“Don’t let your pride doom you,” Ann interrupted. “I’d love to tell you all the facts concerning God’s grace and love for all sinners. But there’s no time!” Impulsively, she leaned forward and grasped his dusty hand. The day’s events tried to render her unconsciousness, but she fought the weariness.
No! Not yet. She said a quick, silent prayer for the dying man as her eyes held his.
He glared at her until his body shuddered and became lifeless.
“So that’s that,” Ann whispered sadly. She picked up the flashlight, dragged herself to her feet for the umpteenth time that day, and slowly walked back to the lit area.
Sheriff Heckle waved her over to the place where Patrick had fallen. “They’re flying your friend, her children, and your partner to St. Mary's Healthcare Center,” he said hesitantly, as if speaking too loudly would break some spell. “The ATFE guys are here to take over, so I’ll drive you to the hospital when you’re ready.”
Ann didn’t really feel like talking, but she figured she owed the man an explanation for her odd behavior. “Thank you, sheriff.” She paused to gather her thoughts.
Before she could say anything, Sheriff Heckle said, “There’s a towel and a water bottle in my truck. You can use them to clean off some of the blood on the way.”
A wave of despair and worry crashed over Ann. She nodded her thanks, afraid that speaking would shatter her composure. Her expression betrayed her feelings anyway.
“Everything will be all right, ma’am. I’m sorry about your partner,” Sheriff Heckle said, trying to soften his gruff voice.
As she climbed into the sheriff’s truck, Ann thought, Don’t die, Emily! Your mother needs you. Patrick, please, please live! I need you.
Chapter 17
A New Race
St. Mary's Healthcare Center
Pierre, South Dakota
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Upon reaching the hospital, Ann thanked Sheriff Heckle again and wandered a bit before a distracted nurse directed her to the waiting room. She hurried there, fearing exhaustion and worry would cause her to collapse in the middle of the blindingly white corridors. The hospital waiting room was full of hard chairs and old magazines. A modern painting meant to cheer the room lent a sterile chill to the atmosphere. Ann shuddered.
Rachel sat in a hard chair, and Jon stood in the far corner. “Ann?” Rachel asked, bewildered.
“I’m here, Rachel,” she replied.
The two friends embraced tightly, causing Ann to wince.
Feeling the bulletproof vest, Rachel stiffened, looked down, and immediately spotted the bullet hole. She stumbled back a step, horror crossing her face. “You’ve been shot!”
Grateful no one besides Jon was in the room, Ann hastily said, “It’s not bad. The vest did its job—”
“You’ve been shot,” Rachel repeated, stunned. A dozen emotions swept across her face before a cool, professional expression took over. “Come,” said Rachel, latching onto Ann’s sleeve and hauling her through the heavy double doors.
Barely having the strength to stumble after her friend, Ann figured it best not to protest. She had no idea where they were going, but Rachel obviously did. Finally, they reached an empty examining room and Rachel waved Ann in.
“Hey! You can’t go in there!” shouted a flustered nurse, rising from her seat behind a massive desk.
“I’m a doctor!” Rachel yelled, spinning to face the nurse.
Ann didn’t envy the nurse tonight. Never mess with a woman whose child is in danger, Ann thought as she leaned against the wall.
“My daughter and her partner are in surgery, my son is being examined by a shrink, and I’m going crazy sitting in that blasted waiting room!” Rachel continued at the top of her lungs.
Rachel’s eyes looked ready to launch from her head, and her flailing arms made Ann mighty glad her part of the wall was well out of her friend’s reach. Ann craned her neck curiously and caught the Lady, you need a shrink expression on the nurse’s face.
“Calm down, ma’am!” the woman commanded. The nurse motioned for some others to help her.
I think I’m going to faint.
“Is there a problem here?” inquired a male nurse. He walked up behind the nurse accosting Rachel. His dark skin made him stand out starkly against the white walls. Muscles rippled through his thin scrubs.
Blast, I hate fainting.
Ann’s breaths grew shallow, and her eyes closed for a second.
“Of course, there’s a problem!” Rachel snapped. “Everyone here is too busy questioning me to notice that my friend’s been shot!” Her hand flew to her head and gripped at it like she had a really bad headache.
Ann felt herself falling and noted it with a sort of clinical detachment.
The male nurse, who had stepped forward to prevent Rachel from hurting the other nurse, herself, or anyone else, saw Ann pitch forward and moved to catch her. “Whoa! Hang on, ma’am; you’ll be just fine,” said the man.
Ann felt herself being gently lifted up. Breathing was an effort now. Voices faded in and out. Darkness washed over her vision from all sides.
“Get that vest off of her!” came Rachel’s irate voice. “Hang on, Ann!”
Ann’s eyelids were so very heavy. Sleep sounded like a wonderful idea.
***
Since all the doctors and most of the nurses were busy, Rachel Collins took it upon herself to care for her friend. The work allowed her to relegate the day’s terrible events to the back of her mind. For now, all that mattered was Ann’s health.
Thanking the male nurse who laid Ann on the nearest bed, Rachel promptly shooed him from the room. A young nurse who had followed them into the room insisted on staying and helping. Rachel didn’t have the time or energy to argue so she let her stay. “Help me get her vest off,” she instructed.
Together, the two women removed the shoulder holster with Ann’s gun and the other gun Ann had tucked into the back of her pants. The nurse eyed the weapons nervously. Then, they tackled the clasps that held the Kevlar vest tight around Ann’s body. They worked swiftly and silently.
Rachel feared to look once the vest and Ann’s shirt were removed because she couldn’t determine how far the bullet had penetrated the armor. She had seen wounds before, but she didn’t know how she would react to a bullet in her friend. Her mind flashed to that awful moment when the man had shot Ann in the chest. Rachel shivered at the thought of the man releasing the bullet at a slightly different angle into her friend’s face or neck. Valuing Ann’s life more than her own reaction, Rachel looked and saw a nasty bruise stretched across the lower right ribs.
“She’ll be all right,” Rachel said, even as she worried about internal bleeding.
She didn’t like the fact that Ann had passed out. It could mean nothing more than that a very long, awful day had completely sapped Ann’s energy, but a whole host of scarier options floated around Rachel’s mind.
Once they had done all they could for Ann, including taping the wounded ribs so they wouldn’t move, Rachel smiled her thanks to the young nurse. “What’s your name?” she asked, allowing herself to be led to the other bed.
“Lori Hewer, but you can call me Nurse Lori or just plain Lori.” The nurse bustled about gathering instruments. Efficiently, she checked Rachel’s pupil reactions, temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. The nurse frowned at the blood pressure reading but quickly recovered her nurse-smile.
Rachel responded with a half-smile. “Blood pressure a little high, Nurse Lori?”
“Out the roof,” the nurse replied. “You about broke my machine. What happened out there?”
A guarded look washed over Rachel.
“Never mind. Don’t worry about anything right now,” Nurse Lori added quickly. She patted Rachel’s arm. “Will you be okay for a moment?”
Rachel nodded, already drifting off.
“All right, I’m sure Dr. Verni would like you to sleep some. Goodnight.”
***
Most of America slept peacefully that summer night. Absolutely nothing compared to the chaos that swept through St. Mary's Healthcare Center. Staff doctors worked throughout the night, and additional doctors were called in to attend the wounded and dying casualties of the Stanley County mini-war.
Dr. Verni had never heard of such an incident in the hospital’s long history. They were used to car accidents and diseases, maybe single gunshot incidents, not multiple D.O.A.’s and gunshot wounds galore. Two children, one traumatized and the other in serious condition, were given immediate care. Two young men had been brought in, examined, released, and hauled off to jail. One man had died en route, five had come in body bags, and four more were in critical condition. A woman with bruised ribs and a thoroughly ticked off woman suffering from shock were sleeping. One healthy man submitted to a brief examination, answered some general questions, and spent the night pacing, impatient for news of his daughter. The police wanted to question the man further but let him be for the moment, which Dr. Verni thought a wise move.
The man looks frazzled, Dr. Verni thought as he bustled about his tasks. The short, balding pudgy, doctor practically glowed with restless energy. When it came down to it, he could bark orders better than a seasoned army commander.
Just when the head doctor thought everything was settling down, a new wave of government people swept in, escorting another man with a bullet in his arm. They milled about getting in the way, so Dr. Verni had them kindly tossed into the waiting room.
Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Joler spent hours trying to save the little girl. When Dr. Verni saw the expression on Dr. Armstrong’s usually stoic face, he knew the worst had happened. The child had died. He grieved briefly for the family he would have to notify. Slowly, pondering his words, he headed to the waiting room. A thought came to him, and he quickened his pace. There was precious little time to lose.
He found the girl’s father first and asked him the question.
The tired, dazed man closed his eyes and thought for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I’ll say ‘yes’ as long as my wife’s okay with it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dr. Verni said hastily. With that, he raced from the room.
A quick investigation and a frantic jog down familiar, pristine halls brought him to the room where the two women slept. He felt guilty about waking them, but he forged ahead knowing that many lives were at stake.
Reaching the room, Dr. Verni glanced back and forth between the two women. Either one could be the mother. The lady with honey-colored hair on his left stirred so he decided to question her first. Dr. Verni noticed her ribs were taped so he gently but firmly shook her, calling out, “Madam, I insist you wake at once! Please, do wake. This is most important!”
She moaned to protest the rude awakening.
Dr. Verni would not be put off from his task. “Madam, please! I must ask you something!”
She moaned again and woke up. Eyes flying open in alarm, the woman’s left hand shot toward her right side where a gun would be if she had a holster strapped there. “What?” she demanded, half sitting up and then sinking down against the thin hospital pillow.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I had to wake you. I am Dr. Verni. Are you the mother of the little girl who was brought in tonight with a gunshot wound? I’m sorry to have to tell you this but—”
He cut himself off as understanding dawned behind the young woman’s pale blue eyes. Tears spilled down her smooth cheeks and she bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Mutely, she shook her head.
“I see,” Dr. Verni said disappointed. “I won’t disturb you further. I’ll just wake the other young lady and leave you in peace.”
“Wait!” she cried, freezing him mid-stride. She made a weak attempt to get up, winced, clutched her right side, gritted her teeth, and finally sat up.
Confused, he turned back to her.
“Please,” the woman pleaded. “Let me tell her. She’s my friend.”
Dr. Verni thought a moment then nodded. He didn’t think the young woman was up to the task, but a friend was a far better choice than a stranger to break such heart-wrenching news. His old but strong arms helped the woman disentangle herself from the hospital sheets and climb out of the bed. He kept his arms firmly around her shoulders while they covered the space between the two beds. The woman could only manage a drunken stagger so it took them several more shuffle-steps than it should have. “Lean here for just a second and I’ll get you a chair.”