can take this to the bank: There is nothing that feels
better, except maybe for some big-titted brunette
sitting naked on your lap, than seeing a squad car
pull up to your scene. Even if you're Code Four and
didn't ask for backup and are completely in control
of your situation, it feels darnn good to see another
cop out there with you. Same goes for sheriff's deputies
, security guards, ambulance drivers, street
sweepers, waitresses, and convenience store clerks,
anyone who has to work the graveyard shift . . ."
"But how can you do that? You can't be everywhere
. . ."
"You listen and you observe and you pay attention
to everything," LaFortier said. "First of all,
when you hear it on the radio, you should pay attention-since
we do most of our communicating on
the A4DT nowadays, a guy using the radio is away
from his car, on foot, and usually confronting a suspect
, so if you're available and nearby, swing on
over to his location. Listen to the cop's voice, his
-that speak louder than his words. Listen to
tone s
background noises-if you hear lots of voices in the
background, shouting or crying or screaming, the
cop might be outnumbered or up to his eyeballs,
and he sure as shit wants a little backup even
though he might forget to ask for it, or he might be
too afraid of the crowd's reaction if he calls for help.
When you see a cop on the street confronting someone
, even if it's one-on-one, check it out. Let him
Code Four you on your way if he doesn't need help.
"You'll understand all this soon, especially after
your probationary period, when you're on the street
by yourself," LaFortier went on. "This little city
can seem awful big and lonely at night, even for the
toughest veteran cops. Rusty'll probably ream us
out for wasting our time snooping on him, but take
my word for it, everyone appreciates the swing-by."
T
he obstetrician strode quickly into the room and
went directly to Wendy's bedside, checking the
readouts on the vital-sign monitors, then beginning
a digital exam. Wendy didn't seem to notice him;
her head lolled to the side and her dry lips were
parted slightly. An extra blanket covered her up to
the chin, but she still shivered occasionally.
Although he didn't show it, Patrick was a frazzled
mess inside. An alarm on the fetal monitor
kept going off, and a nurse would come in, hit the
quiet button, and leave. He didn't know whether
she was taking any real notice, because it had been
going off regularly for at least half an hour and he
was afraid she'd gotten desensitized to it by now.
He could do little for Wendy. An hour ago an anesthesiologist
had finally installed an epidural line
into Wendy's spine-it was the only procedure that
Patrick was told to leave the room for-so she was
no longer in body-numbing pain. Unfortunately, she
was also not very responsive. The oxytocin had
taken over her contractions now, and she was being
racked with one every two or three minutes. There
were so many tubes and wires hooked up to her and
the baby that she looked like some weird science
experiment. This was definitely not the way they
wanted to deliver this child.
"What's going on, Doctor?" Patrick asked when
the obstetrician had finished his exam.
"It's time to act. The baby's pulse rate is high
now and his blood oxygen level is low, and it looks
like his head is banging right up against the cervixbut
she's still dilated only five centimeters. I'm
afraid we don't have any choice-we need to do a
cesarean."
"We talked about that already," Patrick said angrily
. "Wendy can't do a cesarean, because of her
injuries . . ."
"We don't have any choice in the matter, Mr.
McLanahan," the doctor said. "You're going to lose
the baby if this keeps up. We can't increase the oxytocin
any further. We're coming up on twenty-four
hours since her water broke, so the chance of infection
is climbing. Any more delay, and we could lose
both of them."
"Then . . ."-Patrick couldn't believe he was
going to say this, but he had to-". . . if the surgery
is too risky, we should . . . we have to abort the
delivery."
"I've been speaking to Dr. Linus since you gave
me permission to get details on Wendy's injuries,"
the obstetrician said. "I think she's strong enough
to handle a cesarean. Dr. Linus and I disagree . . .
"Then we should go with Dr. Linus's recommendation
."
the attending physician now, and I'm here
and he's not," the obstetrician said firmly. "And I'm
the one responsible. I don't know the extent of her
injuries, but I don't think Dr. Linus does eitherapparently
you've been playing this secrecy game
with him too." Patrick averted his eyes. It was obvious
that he felt the awful pain of having to choose
between maintaining some government secret and
the health and well-being of his family, and was
now discovering that he might have made the
wrong choice. Sometimes, the obstetrician thought,
these guys play the loyal little tin soldier routine
too seriously, forgetting that there are real lives at
stake.
"Frankly speaking," the doctor went on, "you
two took an awful risk by continuing this pregnancy
, with the horrendous medical history Wendy
has. The chances of mother and baby coming out of
this pregnancy in good health were never better
than fifty-fifty. You should have been advised of
that
"We were," Patrick admitted. "But it was a miracle
Wendy got pregnant at all, so we decided to go
ahead with it."
The doctor gave Patrick a faint smile. "Well, sir,
e all have to live with the consequences of
now w
that decision. It's a tribute to her that she stayed in
such good health through this pregnancy, and that
is a definite plus in her favor-but we're in trouble
now. The worst has come true. You need to make a
decision, Patrick."
"All right," Patrick said, reaching over and taking
Wendy's hand. She stirred but did not return his
gentle squeeze. "What are my options?"
"The only way for us to ensure that we'll deliver
a healthy baby at this point is to do a cesarean right
now," the obstetrician said. "The only way to ensure
Wendy's health is to terminate the pregnancy.
We can wait and hope that Wendy dilates to ten, but
we risk injury or death to your baby because his
head is pounding against her cervix and he's showing
obvious signs of distress, and we also risk the
chance of infection for both mother and baby. We
can go ahead with a C-section and risk Wendy's
health, although I'm fair
ly confident that she can
come out of it all right. Or we terminate the pregnancy
to save'Wendy. That's about it."
Patrick looked at his wife, but she was out of it.
You have got to help me on this one, sweetie, he
told her silently. I can't make this decision on my
own.
As if in reply, she opened her eyes and managed a
weak smile. She swallowed, took a ragged breath,
and said in a low voice, "You are going to make a
great father, lover."
"Wendy, listen to me. I have to ask you-the
baby's in trouble, you're in trouble. I think we need
to . . . to abort it, sweetheart."
Wendy's expression never changed but she raised
her chin confidently. "You won't do that, Patrick,"
she said.
"I can't risk your life, Wendy
"I've had my life already, Patrick," Wendy said.
"You'd be denying a new life. You won't do that."
"But we have other options, Wendy," Patrick
said, pleading with her. "We can adopt. I can't risk
losing you . . . " z
"Patrick, sweetheart, we have a life right here,
right now, that we must decide about," Wendy said.
"There are no other options. It's us three right now.
You know what you have to do."
Wendy's smile never dimmed as Patrick's eyes
the forehead, pressed her hand, and nodded. She
nodded in reply and closed her eyes as another wave
of contractions, more painful than the last even
through the epidural, washed over her.
Patrick turned to the obstetrician and said,
"Cesarean."
"All right, let's go," the doctor said. Nurses came
in to get Wendy ready to move to the pre-op area.
"I want to be there," Patrick said emphatically.
"I want to be with Wendy. I'm not leaving her side."
"You'll be there," the doctor said. Patrick was
handed a package with a thin plastic surgical gown,
cap, and shoe covers. "Put those on. We'll have you
wait outside the pre-op area until she's been taken
into surgery, and then we'll bring you in. Don't
worry.
The speed at which the nurses and doctor were
working told Patrick that the greatest battle of their
lives was just beginning.
L
aFortier drove past the main entrance to Sacramento
Live!, then parked the car across the street
half a block down. LaFortier put the car in park but
did not shut off the engine. He sat thinking. "Why
don't we just give the guy a call on the radio and
have him let us in?" Paul McLanahan asked.
"It's dark inside," LaFortier said.
"They had a power failure, Cargo."
"But the battery-powered emergency lights are
off too," LaFortier pointed out. "One or two lights
out, I can understand-but afl of the emergency
lights malfunctioning at the same time?
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that Rusty's probably pretty pissed
off right now," LaFortier said. He picked up the radio
. "Security One-Seven, One John Twenty-One."
No reply. LaFortier tried again; still no reply. "I'll
get Dispatch to beep him. He might be in the can or
something." LaFortier swung the Mobile Data Terminal
toward him and typed, IJN21 TO PON REQ PLZ
BEEP SECURITY 17, a request to activate the beeper on
the off-duty officer's radio, a loud tone signaling the
officer to check in right away.
"Should we get some backup?" McLanahan
asked.
"Not just ' yet-let's see if Rusty checks in,"
LaFortier replied. He put the car in drive and rolled
farther down the block, out of sight of the front of
the building.
Er bewegt sich in ndrdlicher Richtung auf der Seventh
Street," the lookout reported. A gunman,
fully outfitted with body armor, helmet, and several
heavy automatic weapons, was stationed at each entrance
, monitoring the outside with night-vision
goggles.
"Verstanden," said the one in the staircase.
Three others were taking cover in the staircase, hidden
behind the half-open door. Still another was just
dragging the body of the off-duty police officer away
from the security desk, out of sight of the cash room
located just opposite the security desk. The gunport
in the door of the cash room was still closed-apparently
the men inside hadn't heard the commotion
outside yet.
"What is the procedure when they open the door,
Mullins?" one of the gunmen asked in heavily accented
English.
"They'll call out first on the phone, Major," said
a man in a security guard's outfit. "Then they'll
look out the gunport. The security chief is supposed
to stand in plain sight before the door is opened.
Then they'll just then, a loud beeping sound
came from the security desk.
"Is that the call?" asked the gunman identified as
the Major, obviously the leader of the group. He was
clad in thick Class Three bulletproof Kevlar armor
protecting every part of his body except his head;
his ballistic Kevlar infantry helmet, which had an
integral communications headset, red-lens protective
goggles, and a gas mask, was in his hand. His
combat harness was arrayed with ammo pouches,
grenades, and a large-caliber automatic pistol in a
guard.
"No-that's the cop's radio," the guard replied.
"Dispatch is asking him to check in."
"Do you know their procedures?" the Major
asked. "Can you respond for the policeman?"
Mullins, the Judas security guard, hesitated. It
had been two years since he was kicked off the Oakland
police force, caught stealing drugs and guns out
of police property rooms. He couldn't get a decent
job anywhere in the Bay Area, although he had
never been charged with any crime because the department
wanted the incident kept quiet. He finally
found a job with a private security company in Sacramento
. But he was unable to get a gun permit and
make the big bucks of an armed security guard, so
he made minimum wage as a seasonal-hire watchman
at Sacramento Live! and other locations
around town. He lived in a filthy fifty-dollar-a-week
hotel room near the Greyhound bus terminal in the
downtown area.
But Mullins now had additional sources of income
. He had always loved motorcycles, and when
he got kicked off the Oakland force, this passion
turned in a dark direction: He became a Satan's
Brotherhood recruit. The Brotherhood paid him
well to simply look the other way when the gang
wanted to steal some fuel from a refinery, chemi-
cals from a warehouse, or pharmaceuticals from a
medical supply store.
His conspiracy activities were no longer for
the benefit of Satan's Brotherhood, however.
Two
weeks ago, a couple of paramilitary guys with German
accents had approached him and offered almost
a half-year's worth of wages for one night's
work. He readily agreed. All he had to do was brief
the head of the group on the security procedures
when the cash boxes were being moved, and open a
door when instructed. He'd make five thousand
dollars on the spot.
But he never expected these guys to be so bloodthirsty
. Every private security officer had been executed
on the spot, even the unarmed watchmen.
And now, instead of being given his money and let
go, he had been dragged upstairs by one of the Germans
to explain the cash room routine. He hesitated
"Go, Mullins. Answer them. Now!"
"But I don't know this department's codes or procedures
It must be answered. Tell them everything
is okay."
Mullins walked up to the security desk and
picked up the beeping police radio. Hesitantly, he
keyed the mike button. "Security One-Seven, go
ahead."
"Security One-Seven, roger, One John Two-One
is requesting a 940 at your 925."
Oh shit, he thought-Sacramento uses nmecodes
instead of ten-codes. It had been ages since
he'd used any radio codes at all. He figured that 925
meant "location," but he had no idea what a 940
was. Probably some sort of meeting. "Ah . . .
roger, tell One John Twenty-One that I'll be done
here in thirty minutes and I'll meet him at
he remembered that the county jail was only about
three blocks away---". at the jail. Out."
"Roger, Security One-Seven. KMA clear."
That was not Rusty Caruthers," LaFortier said
grimly. Paul could see his partner's mind racing,
and possibilities and explanations
over and over in his head. But after several long moments
all he said was, "Shit."
Maybe it was one of the private security guys,
answering Caruthers's radio," Paul McLanahan offered
"Then why didn't he say so? Why didn't he say,
'The cop's in the bathroom, I'll tell him you want
him to call in ASAP/ or something," LaFortier said.
"No. This guy tried to answer the radio as if he was
Rusty. Something's going on." He put the car m
gear and pulled back onto the street. "Let's cruise
around the complex and take a look."
in Polizeiwagen kommt durch die Seventh