Closure (Jack Randall) (48 page)

S
am paused when he heard the screech of the door opening behind him. It was some distance away, but its meaning was clear. They were coming. He returned to the task at hand and directed the red beam of the flashlight on the last remaining links in the gate. He would have brought bigger cutters, but he had to make do with what would fit in the bag he was currently using. His hands were beginning to get sore from the repeated strain. Another train roared by not four feet away as he cut the last link. He grabbed the chain link section he had cut free to keep it from falling onto the tracks. If this gate hadn’t had the steel plate around the hasp he would have been through some time ago. He was just glad they hadn’t used steel bars. With a grunt against the pain, he quietly set the fencing down. He then looked carefully behind him for a full minute, letting his jaw drop open to improve his hearing. Not seeing any light, or hearing any sounds of pursuit, he could only conclude that they were going to try to head him off, time to move.

Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a set of coveralls. They were not the exactly like the workers here wore, but as close as he had been able to find. They would serve his purpose. He consulted the compass as it glowed on his wrist, before grabbing the gym bag and beginning a slow trot up the tracks to the north. He rolled his feet, as he had been taught, when they hit the ground, and this helped reduce the sound of his travel in the echoing tunnel. He kept the beam of the flashlight aimed just enough out in front to keep him from stumbling. After ten minutes, Sam stopped to listen. He could just make out a voice. Sounded like it was being broadcast through a speaker. He was close. Turning off the flashlight, he proceeded slowly until he could make out the light of the station. When the stairs were in sight, he reached in the bag and pulled out the hard hat. Donning it, he walked directly to the stairs and up onto the busy platform. He was soon surrounded by late night commuters waiting for their trains. The voice announcing arrivals and departures continued to sound overhead. He scanned the crowd for a police presence, but did not see anyone resembling DC police or security. Walking quickly across the station, and using the map in his head, he soon located the locker. Pulling the key from his pocket, he exchanged the bag he was carrying for the one inside. This took only seconds and he was soon making his way toward the nearest bathroom. Once inside, he entered the large handicapped stall on the end. Inside, he stripped off the coveralls, hat and underlying clothes and donned the rolled up shirt, pants and suit from the bag. Over it all, he placed a long winter coat. The tie already possessed a Windsor knot, and was swiftly slipped over his head and snugged into place. He pulled a small tube of hair gel from his new coat pocket along with a bright orange sticker. Kicking off the shoes, filthy from the tunnel, he replaced them with a new set of wing tips. Sam smoothed his shirt with his hands, but the wrinkles could still be seen. He decided they would help more then hurt. He was going to hide in plain sight. Just another government worker who had stopped for a couple of drinks before catching the train home. Satisfied, he placed the bag on the toilet seat and exited the stall. Two men were studying the wall in front of them while they used the urinals. Another was just leaving. Sam shut the door and peeled the backing off the sticker. He carefully placed it over the crack of the stall door and smoothed it down flat. It simply read Out of Order. Perfect. Sam turned his attention to the sink. Wetting his hair, he then applied a large amount of the gel. After combing into the slicked back style he had seen on the street the day before he thought he looked like Michael Douglas in Wall Street. Last thing he did was place the glasses on his nose.

“Handsome devil,” he said to himself in the mirror.

He stooped to pick up the briefcase to complete his ensemble. A quick check of his pockets and he strode back out onto the platform. He headed left toward his train, swinging the briefcase as he went.

•      •      •

Ron jumped into the rear of his ambulance and then turned to guide the cot into the holding brackets. Once the cot was snapped into place, he reattached the bag and gave it two full squeezes. He needed help.

“Danielle, grab a cop. I need someone to bag him.”

“Okay.” She slammed the door and disappeared. It was suddenly very quiet and Ron was all alone with his unconscious patient. A knock on the side door startled him. He looked out to see a man looking in, his hands cupped around his eyes in an effort to defeat the tinted windows. He looked familiar. Ron reached out and unlocked the door. When it opened, he saw the face of the local fire chief. He wore a heavy coat and had a ball cap on. The cap bore the logo of the local firefighter’s union.

“Hey, Ron, need a hand?”

“Man, am I glad to see you. Take this bag will you? This guy’s got a through and through and I need to get some lines going.”

“No problem, where’s the gloves?”

“On the console. What size you need?”

“I’m a large man.”

Ron ignored the joke and got to the business at hand. His patient was bleeding into his chest and was already showing signs of shock. He needed to get some intravenous lines running fluids in to replace the lost blood. The oxygen line was attached to the bag and turned up to 15 liters per minute. The monitor leads were placed on the chest, and a cuff was wrapped around the right upper arm. He pushed the button on his monitor, and it started pumping air into the cuff for an automatic reading. From his IV kit, he pulled a tourniquet and quickly wrapped the other arm. He then lifted the foot end of the cot until he heard a click. He left it in place with the feet elevated as far as it would go. The volume on the monitor was already up, and the steady beep of the heartbeat could be heard, still fast and regular. He was digging in the IV kit again when the rear door opened. Danielle stuffed a young female officer into the back and slammed the door behind her. She looked around the rig, taking in the scene.

“Hey, Chief, what do I do?” she said to Stan.

“Grab a seat right there and put some gloves on. You know CPR?” Stan asked.

“Yes, never done it though.”

“That’s okay, I have enough for both of us. He doesn’t need it yet, but be ready. Take those shears and cut off the rest of his clothes. This is Ron. Do whatever he tells you to do. Got it?”

“Yup.” She was already working on the man’s belt.

As he prepped his equipment, Ron listened to Stan’s instructions, noting that he gave them without missing a beat on the bag. Danielle was now in the driver’s seat. She worked the keyboard briefly before dropping the truck in gear. The wail of the siren began its song as she pulled the truck around.

“21:52!” she yelled out of habit. He didn’t bother to answer as he normally would have. They were supposed to document their departure time, but Ron was a little busy at the moment. He looked down at the man’s arm and was disappointed to see no veins popping up. He yanked the tourniquet and tossed it on the seat beside him. The man’s excess fat didn’t help any. He was going to have to go with a central line. He discarded the two 14-gauge catheters he had pulled out and replaced them with the 16-gauge/20cc syringe combo he had rubber banded together earlier. He placed it on the man’s chest where he wouldn’t lose it, before reaching over his head for a 1000cc bag of ringers. This he spiked with a combination IV set, which he dialed to 10, its maximum flow setting. Once he had the line flushed, he clamped it and draped it over the man’s body. He then stuck a Betadine swab in his mouth.

“Switch with me, Stan,” he mumbled.

Stan gave two good squeezes on the bag before he and Ron stood and did an awkward dance around each other, until Ron fell into the seat above the senator’s head and Stan planted his considerable bulk on the bench seat. Ron ripped open the Betadine packet and swabbed the man’s right chest along the collar bone, turning it a burnt orange color.

“What can I do?” the young officer asked.

Ron looked at her as his hands assembled the needle to the syringe. He didn’t know her. She must be brand new.

“What’s your name?”

“Janice.”

“First, Janice, get rid of that gun belt and coat, you’re gonna be working hard here in a minute. Second, get in the cabinet over Stan’s head and get out that green thing with the rubber bulb attached. Hang it on that hook over your head.” With that, Ron unsheathed the three–and-a-half-inch needle and held it up to the light so he could see the bevel. The sight of it made her eyes bug out, but she did as she was told.

“Use the handle,” Stan instructed her as she stood. She took the advice, and grabbed the overhead bar to keep herself upright as the ambulance took a curve.

“Getting harder to bag, Ron,” Stan informed.

“I hear ya,” Ron replied as his fingers probed the chest looking for landmarks. He placed his thumb at the medial third of the clavicle and his index finger in the sternal notch. He looked at Stan.

“How’s it look?”

Stan leaned forward and gazed out the front windshield.

“Straight and flat for a few.”

He glanced at Janice, who was watching closely while she hung on to the overhead rail. Nothing like an audience.

Ron let out a deep breath and plunged the needle into the senator’s chest.

•      •      •

Jack had been feeling his way down the tunnel for some time when he tripped over an unseen object and fell flat on the damp concrete. Cursing himself for not grabbing a flashlight before he set out, he pushed himself to his feet. He could barely make out the entrance behind him, and had nothing but pitch black in front. He was ready to return for a flashlight when an idea struck.

“Dumbass,” he labeled himself for not thinking of it sooner. He began feeling the borrowed vest. After testing every pocket, he found the item he needed in the upper right Velcro loop. He pulled the small Maglite free and twisted it on. The beam pierced the darkness and revealed the floor he had just left, covered in black water and trash. He cupped the end of the light to limit its glow and held it away from his body in the event it prompted a bullet sent his way. He switched hands so the Hi-Power was back in his dominant hand, and proceeded down the tunnel. The noise from an occasional passing train allowed him to speed up his approach when he could. Again, the shoes were working against him. The hard soles echoed off the concrete floor, announcing his presence. He was even tempted to take them off, but the water and the temperature would have made his feet numb in short order. He just ignored it and kept on. He had endured far worse in the past.

While his eyes and ears concentrated on the tunnel, his mind asked if he had been smart pursuing Sam. Maybe he should have gone around, as he had instructed the agents back at the hotel. He had no communication. No backup. All of which was against procedure. He knew the truth. He was just not willing to admit it. He wanted to stop Sam by himself.

The noise of the last train was quite loud, so Jack turned off the light and waited for his eyes to adjust. A faint glow could be made out in the distance. He placed the flashlight back in its Velcro loop and slowly approached the light. Eventually he came to the chain link gate. An overhead light in the adjoining tunnel lit the area. He stuck his head through the large hole and gazed up and down the tunnel. He was about to step out when a train approached. He ducked back in and shut his eyes against the wind and dust as the train passed. With a fifty-fifty chance, he chose to follow the train.

Eventually he came to a station, brightly lit with a crowd waiting. He pulled himself up the steps and pushed through the waist-high safety gate. He expected an alarm or something, but only got a few curious looks from the waiting commuters. After scanning the crowd, he followed the traffic from an arriving train up the steps and into the main terminal. It was a sprawling complex with multiple levels. Ticket counters competed with coffee shops and a news kiosk for space among the seemingly thousands of benches and chairs. He looked up at the overhead screens to check the departures. Too many to track down. Had he lost him?

He was ready to call for more help when he saw a group of Washington PD approaching. He waved them over. He saw the lead man holding one of the pictures from the hotel.

“No sign of him, Mr. Randall. We have people at all the exits scanning the crowd as they leave. I’ve contacted the station chief’s office. He’s not there and they won’t shut down unless they have a written order from him. We’re working on it, should only take a few minutes.”

“A few minutes? He could be
gone
in a few minutes. How many men you have?” Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“About 30, mostly at the exits. It’s a busy night in DC.”

“Yeah, this guy is why! Never mind. Wait here a second.” Jack pulled the cell phone from his belt and speed dialed Sydney. She answered on the first ring.

“Jack, where are you!”

“I’m in the damn train station. Listen. This place is a zoo and I have minimal manpower. Have you found anything that indicates if he’s getting on one of these trains, anything at all?”

“Hold on, Eric’s looking.” There was a pause and Eric’s voice came on the line. She must be holding it to his ear, Jack thought. He could hear the keyboard clicking as he spoke.

“Jack? It’s Eric. So far all I’ve found are schedules with a lot of east coast destinations, both north and south of here.”

“Read them off to me,” Jack replied. He motioned for a pen and grabbed a discarded newspaper out of the trash. He wrote down seven destinations on the paper. The lead officer watched over his shoulder, and as each one became apparent, assigned an officer who consulted the overhead screen before sprinting off to find the appropriate ramp.

“Okay, is that it?

Sydney was back on the line. “That’s it, Jack. We don’t have anything else. Obviously they’ve put a lot of extra info in here just like the maps. Just in case we got hold of it. But what part is true and what’s just here to throw us off?

“I don’t know, Syd, I don’t know. They teach us to hide our tracks in school. Sam was an instructor. He planned well.”