The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(88)

Diaz nodded, panting. “Holy shit. I don’t know how you do this for a living, girl, but I’m going to stick to being a prosecutor.”

Livia glanced around. Where was Schrader? She saw his feet poking out from behind the desk. She stood and went around. “Andrew, are you all—”

She stopped. Because Schrader was anything but all right.

His shirt was covered in blood, and the carpet under him was soaked with it. “Oh, boy,” he said. He was panting, but his tone was weirdly calm. “I think somebody got me.”

Livia dropped to her knees alongside him. She heard a hissing from his chest. Pink froth bubbled up around a hole in his shirt.

“Sucking chest wound!” she shouted. She tore open his shirt. She saw two entry wounds—one in the stomach, one in the right side of his chest.

A moment later, Carl was beside her. He pulled off the backpack, dumped the contents on the floor, and grabbed a chest seal. “Wipe him off,” he said. “Or it won’t stick.”

Livia tore open a package of gauze and did the best she could to mop up the blood around the chest wound. She heard Larison say, “I’ll cover the door.”

Carl slapped the plastic seal in place over the wound. Instantly Schrader’s breathing got a little less labored. They checked his back—no exit wounds.

“We need to hurry,” Carl said. “That dressing’s got no vent. Don’t want a—”

“Tension pneumothorax,” Livia said. “I know.” She tore open a bandage and placed it over the stomach wound. Schrader cried out. Carl was already sliding a roll of elastic gauze under his back. They looped it around several times, securing the bandage.

Carl looked at her, and she knew what he was thinking: without immediate medical attention, Schrader wasn’t going to make it.

“Help me get him up,” Livia said. “Into his chair.”

Carl looked dubious, but he didn’t argue. Together they hoisted a groaning Schrader into his desk chair.

“Andrew,” Livia said. “Come on. Let’s reset the system and get you to a hospital.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice still weirdly calm. “It hurts.”

“Is there a sequence?” Livia said. “The access code, the biometrics . . .”

Schrader moaned. “Access code first.”

“What is it?” Livia said. “Tell me the numbers.”

“Oh, wow, it hurts . . .”

“Come on, Andrew,” she said, her voice rising, “what are the numbers?”

“Oh,” he said again. “This is what it feels like to be shot.”

Diaz put a hand on Livia’s shoulder and leaned in. “Andrew,” she said. “You promised to help. Those girls were nice to you, remember? Tell me the access code.”

“Nine . . . ,” Schrader said. “Eight . . . five . . . two . . . one . . . four.”

Livia punched in the digits. There was a beep, and a red light at the top of the keypad turned green.

“Which finger?” Livia said, dragging the fingerprint reader over.

Schrader extended his right hand, forefinger out. It had blood all over it. Livia swore. She turned to look for gauze, but Carl had already grabbed a roll. He tore it open and wiped off Schrader’s finger. Livia pressed it down on the reader. Another beep, and a red light at the top of the device turned green.

She grabbed the retina scanner and held it to his eye. Another beep, another red light going green.

She grabbed the microphone and held it near his lips. “Say the phrase, Andrew. We’re almost there. You’re almost done. Just say the phrase.”

He was very pale and his lips were growing blue. He was probably bleeding internally. And his breathing was getting worse again. Livia didn’t need Carl to tell her. The punctured lung was leaking air into his chest cavity. Tension pneumothorax, as Carl had feared.

“Come on, Andrew, say the words!” she said.

He nodded. “Little Miss Muffet,” he panted. “Sat . . . sat on a tuffet.”

Livia looked at the red light at the base of the microphone. It blinked three times . . . and then stayed red.

“Is there more?” she said. “Do you need to say more?”

Schrader didn’t answer. She felt Diaz’s hand on her shoulder again.

“Say it with me,” Diaz said, looking at him. “Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet . . .”

“Eating . . .” Schrader panted. “Eating her curds and whey.”

The light stayed red again. “Is that it?” Livia said.

Schrader nodded weakly.

“It didn’t work,” Livia said. “Do you have to say the whole thing together?”

“Y . . . yes.”

Livia held the microphone closer to his lips. “Then do it! Come on, Andrew, it’s just a rhyme. You’ve said it a hundred times before. Just say it.”

He looked at Diaz. “I can’t breathe. Am I . . . am I going to die?”

“No,” Diaz said, though she must have known it was a lie. “You’re going to be fine. And you can still do the right thing, Andrew. Don’t you want that?”

“I’m scared,” he panted. “Can I have more of that cocktail?”

“As soon as you say the words,” Diaz said. “Just say them, Andrew. You’re not a mean guy. You’re a nice guy. Come on now. Little Miss Muffet . . .”