When Tom Moore went down, Pat Thomas ran toward the hospital door. He was halfway out when he saw blood pulsing from the side of Moore’s head. Thomas stopped and jumped back just as a shot blew out the glass in the door. The bullet punched into his left thigh and knocked him down. He landed in a sitting position and continued to scuttle back. A second bullet chewed up the green tile inches in front of his foot. Thomas hurried backward along the floor, propelled by his palms and right heel. The wound burned viciously, and each move was agony. He left a long smear of blood behind him.
It was a few moments before the hospital staff realized what had happened. One of the nurses, a young woman, ran forward and helped pull Thomas back. Several orderlies followed. They dragged him behind the admissions desk. Another nurse called the police.
A bald-headed doctor knelt beside Thomas. He was wearing off-white surgical gloves and shouted instructions in Azerbaijani to other hospital workers who were in front of the counter. As he did, he took a pocket knife from his white coat and carefully cut away the fabric around the wound.
Thomas winced as the khaki fabric came away. He watched as the doctor exposed the wound.
“Will I live?” Thomas asked.
The doctor didn’t answer. Suddenly, the bald man started to rise. But instead of getting up, he straddled the American’s legs. He sat on the wound, sending fire up through his patient’s waist. Thomas wanted to scream, but he could not. A moment later, the doctor slipped a hand behind the America’s head, holding it in place, and pushed the knife blade through his throat. The metal entered the skin just behind Thomas’s chin and pinned his mouth shut. The blade continued upward until Thomas could feel the point of the blade under his tongue.
Thomas choked as he coughed blood into his closed mouth. He raised his hands and tried to push the bald man back. But he was too weak. Calmly and quickly, the bald man angled the knife back. Then he drew the knife down until it reached Thomas’s larynx. He cut swiftly to the left and right, following the line of the jaw all the way to the ears. Then he removed the blade, rose, and allowed Thomas to flop to the floor. The doctor pocketed the knife and walked away without a glance back.
The American lay there, his arms weak and his fingers moving aimlessly. He could feel the warm blood flowing from both sides of his throat as the flesh around it grew cold. He tried to call out, but his voice was a burbling whisper. Then he realized that his chest was moving but no air was going to it. There was blood in his throat.
Thomas’s thoughts were confused. His vision swirled black. He thought about flying up to Baku, about meeting with Moore. He wondered how Moore was. And then he thought about his children. For a moment, he was back playing ball with them on the front lawn.
Then they were gone.