Private Dublin

Chapter 13

I stemmed the bleeding from Sal’s arm and talked to the badly wounded, delirious man, keeping him conscious until the first police units arrived. SWAT were on the scene, and the team medic sprinted over to me. The unit commander, who I assumed was Winston, was a few yards behind.

“Jeez, Sal,” he remarked.

The medic got to work immediately, and I stood and faced the SWAT commander.

“Jack Morgan,” I said. “I was working with Detective Mattera.”

“John Winston, SWAT team leader,” he replied. “Shooter?”

“Second-floor window,” I said, pointing at the location. “Just above the entrance.”

“This man needs to be moved to a hospital immediately,” the medic said.

“Ambulance is two minutes out,” Winston said. “We’re going in.”

He assembled his unit near their van and issued instructions. I crouched to help the medic apply pressure to Sal’s wounds as more police vehicles approached, sirens blaring. I couldn’t hear everything he said to the team, but it was clear they were going to sweep the building.

The ambulance arrived moments later and pulled to a halt a few feet away from the patrol car. Two paramedics jumped out of the vehicle and ran over to us, carrying gear bags.

“What have we got?” the lead responder asked.

“Multiple gunshot wounds to his arm and abdomen,” I replied. “Bleeding pretty bad.”

“Tourniquet is holding,” the SWAT medic advised.

The lead paramedic sank onto her knees beside Sal and opened her bag.

“Name?” she asked.

“Detective Salvatore Mattera,” I replied. “He likes to be called Sal.”

She nodded. “We’ve got this now, sir. Thank you for everything you’ve done.” She turned to Sal. “Detective Mattera... Sal... my name is Rosa. I’m going to check you over.”

Sal groaned, which was a good sign. He still had some connection to what was going on around him.

I got to my feet and stepped back while Winston and his team moved into the building, expertly covering each other until they were inside.

I looked down at Sal’s pistol, which was still in my hand, and saw my knuckles were white from clutching the grip. I hoped I’d got lucky and winged the shooter with one of my shots.

I walked across the street and sank onto the curb as more cop cars arrived. Soon patrol cars and unmarked vehicles filled the road around the warehouse, drawing people to the doorways, windows and lots of the surrounding businesses. Uniformed cops were instructed to form a perimeter by a watch commander, and somber-faced men and women in suits clustered around Sal.

After a few minutes, my phone rang and I saw Mo-bot’s name on-screen.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“You okay?” she asked, sounding relieved. “The tabloids are reporting the Ecokiller has shot a cop. LAPD chatter picked up on scanners and from anonymous department sources.”

I shook my head at the thought grim news like this could break even before the cop’s family had been told.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “Detective Mattera got shot too. He’s in a bad way.”

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Mo-bot said.

The crime scene was getting even busier. A mobile command unit was pulling up at the end of the street, and the first citizen journalists were on the scene with their phones.

“It’s turning into a circus here,” I said, and then I noticed one of the cops who’d just arrived break away from a group of detectives and head in my direction. She walked with confidence and wore an expensive gray pantsuit. “I’ve got to go,” I told Mo-bot. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“I’m Captain Linda Brooks,” the suited woman said as I hung up. “SWAT medic says you saved Sal’s life.”

“I wish I could have done more,” I replied. “Jack Morgan.” I offered her my hand.

“Private,” she said as she shook it. “Sal told me you were helping him. I’m his commanding officer. What the hell happened here?”

I sighed, and glanced over at Sal, who was being lifted onto a gurney. “We pursued the suspect known as the Ecokiller. We were concerned he would escape from the building, and as we moved in to prevent that, he opened fire.”

“Shit,” said Brooks. “Sal should have known better. He shouldn’t have tried playing the hero.”

One of the paramedics approached us. “We’re moving him now, Captain.”

Across the street, the SWAT medic and one ambulance service responder lifted the gurney to full height and pushed Sal toward the vehicle. The paramedic held a drip above the injured man’s head.

“Gotta go,” said the lead paramedic, jogging to the ambulance.

Linda and I followed, and she touched Sal’s shoulder as he was lifted into the vehicle.

“You stay with us, Sal,” she said. He looked at us with glassy, unseeing eyes before the paramedics got busy around him.

Moments later, the doors were slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life, and the siren sounded as the vehicle began its dash to the hospital.

“You’d better take this,” I said, offering Captain Brooks the pistol I was still holding. “It’s Sal’s. I used it to lay down suppressing fire so I could pull him clear.”

She took the gun from me without comment and slipped it into her waistband.

As the ambulance joined Sepulveda Boulevard and raced away, Winston emerged from the building and jogged across the disused parking lot to the gates which had been forced open.

“Building is clear,” he said as he approached us. “The suspect is in the wind.”