Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(50)
Savich thought the kid was down, but he jumped at Savich, a knife raised in his hand. He was slashing down with it viciously when Griffin shot him.
Griffin leaned over him. “Don’t do anything but breathe.” He said blankly to Savich, “He’s only a kid.”
Savich looked down at the boy, who was staring hard back at him. He didn’t look like a would-be assassin, but he still had the look of blind hate on him, even with a bullet in him. Savich slammed his hand down on the wound on the boy’s shoulder. He struggled and heaved. “That’s enough! Stop it or you’ll bleed to death. Now, who are you? Why did you try to kill us?”
The young man looked up at him, now he looked as if he was confused, his brow furrowed—in pain? In question? He opened his mouth, groaned and closed his eyes as his head fell back.
Griffin was on his cell—thankfully, there were bars—and called 911. When he hung up, he leaned down and looked into the slack young face. “How bad is it?”
Savich pressed bloody fingers against the pulse in the boy’s throat. “Bad enough. Go through his pockets. If he doesn’t live in Plackett and know Brakey and Walter, I’ll give up my season tickets to the Redskins. Thanks, Griffin, for saving my hide.”
Griffin pulled a wallet out of the young man’s jeans pocket. “His name is Charles Marker, and yes, he lives in Plackett. He looks younger, but in fact he’s twenty-four years old, same age as Brakey. The ambulance should be here in ten minutes; we’re a long way out.”
Savich heard the anger in Griffin’s voice, knew he was praying Charles Marker wouldn’t die. “He would have killed both of us, if he could have managed it.”
“The ankle bracelet,” Griffin said. “Dalco had Brakey cut off the ankle bracelet and give it to Marker. Then he told Marker to lay it on top of that stump and wait for us, knowing we’d come. I don’t know why he left it in clear sight. Why not hide it?”
The young man moaned, opened his eyes. They were dark blue now in the morning light. They looked clear before they widened and glazed with the shock of pain. “Why? Why did you shoot me? Who are you?”
His head fell back to the side. Savich was relieved he was out again. “Go, Griffin, bring the paramedics here.”
Fifteen minutes later, Griffin led the paramedics to them. Savich raised his bloody hands when a paramedic pulled out a pressure bandage and took over for him. “You ride with him to the hospital, Griffin. I’ll call Sheriff Watson, to meet you there.” He looked up at the paramedic’s grim face. “You think he’ll make it?”
“A word to the Big Guy wouldn’t hurt,” the paramedic said. The two of them hefted Charles Marker onto a gurney and headed back out to the ambulance.
COLBY, LONG ISLAND
Saturday morning
Special Agent Todd Jenkins sat outside Jamil Nazari’s cubicle in the SICU, his hand resting lightly on his thigh, close to his Glock. It was already busy, even on a Saturday morning, a lot of new faces to learn after the shift change, new IDs to check before he let any of them near Nazari. He heard Nazari moaning as Nurse Collins checked him out, smiled when she said quite clearly, “You’re getting all the morphine ordered for you, moaning won’t get you any more.” Everyone knew he was a terrorist and Todd had heard Collins say she wasn’t going to put up with any guff from him. Todd thought about asking her out to dinner.
He looked over at a TV monitor tuned to a news channel on the far wall and saw a cut-in photo of Agent Sherlock labeled GUTSY HEROINE OF JFK, with a talking head from CNN next to the photo. He’d bet she’d be getting more than her share of grief from her fellow agents for having a moniker like that.
He saw a man walking toward him in a long white coat over black pants, an open-collared shirt, and no tie. He was tall, middle-aged but fit, not much hair left on his head. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and held a tablet in his hand. A second later, Todd was on his feet, his right hand on his Glock. Wrong shoes.
The man barely spared him a glance, kept walking to the central nurses’ station, tossing off a comment to a nurse as he passed her. But his shoes—a doctor wouldn’t wear black running shoes over white socks, would he? Well, it was Saturday and perhaps he’d been out running. Todd kept his eye on the man until he walked out of the SICU ten minutes later, whistling.
Todd was looking forward to getting relieved at eight a.m. The FBI had learned early on that it was difficult to stay focused doing guard duty for more than four hours at a stretch, particularly at night in a place like this, with so many people shuffling in and out. Besides the staff changes, there were the patient transfers, respiratory therapists, blood drawing teams, food delivery service, and the list went on and on. He’d studied them all carefully, assuming each of them was there to kill Nazari, until they proved otherwise. One dead terrorist in FBI custody was more than enough.
Todd heard Giusti’s voice before he saw her striding through the SICU, Sherlock at her side, the other agent from Washington, Cal McLain, behind them. Giusti was smiling real big. What had happened?
“Hi, Todd. Any bad guys overnight?”
He started to tell her about the doc with the black sneakers, but thought again. He smiled. “Everything’s fine.”
“Silicon said to tell you she’ll be here to relieve you in ten minutes. Stay sharp, okay, Todd?”