The Hunted

63

The ambulance screeched to a stop in front of Colonial General, a hospital similar in size to Virginia Presbyterian, where Harper Payne’s journey had begun only ten days earlier. The nurses, the doctors, the paramedics… everything and everyone moved quickly. To the untrained eye, the activity appeared to be haphazard and random. But in reality it was harmonious, the medics working off each other like the notes of a classical masterpiece.

For obvious reasons, Payne was being afforded the best medical care in the most secure environment possible. Every person in the room was a member of an elite group of specially selected personnel who had been mobilized from Bethesda Naval Hospital as soon as the call had come in from Fredericksburg. Though they wore necklaces with encoded biometric markings, to the general hospital staff with whom they usually worked they appeared to be normal practicing physicians and nurses. When a crisis involving high-ranking federal officials struck, however, they were summoned by secured communications to one of several predetermined and uniquely equipped locations.

Sworn to secrecy about everything they saw and did, their reports and operative notes were never committed to paper. They answered only to the army chief of staff and the national security adviser. Surprisingly, no checks and balances were afforded their work. Their success or failure was never questioned by nonmilitary personnel.

Outside the bulletproof doors of the secured emergency room, two guards stood sentry. Inside, monitors and machines beeped and hissed. A nasotracheal tube was inserted, a portable X-ray unit was brought in, and a defibrillator was charged and ready. Harried movement, notes of a masterpiece.

Finally, Payne’s vitals were deemed stable and he was rushed off to a private elevator down the hall, where Dr. Vance Taylor, a squat, graying man, was accosted by Waller and Douglas Knox, who had just arrived.

“What’s the story?” Knox asked, grabbing Taylor by the arm.

The surgeon attempted to pull his arm free. “I don’t really have time to talk, Director.”

“We’ll ride with you,” Knox said as he and Waller entered the elevator. The doors snapped closed and the car lifted.

“As best I can tell, he only took one bullet,” Taylor said. “It passed clean through and didn’t strike any vital organs. There’ll be no limitation of function. Biggest risk is infection, and we’ve dosed him with antibiotics.”

“But all that blood, and he was out cold,” Waller said.

“We’ve looked for a second bullet, but I don’t see another entry wound, and the skull X-rays were negative. I’m having him brought downstairs for a CT.”

“Then where’d all the blood come from?” Knox asked.

“This is just a guess, but the force from the gunshot could’ve knocked him backward. If he tripped or fell and struck his head on the curb, it would explain the five-centimeter gash on his scalp and all the blood you saw. The scalp bleeds profusely and always looks like a wound much worse than it actually is.”

A bell rang as the elevator neared their floor.

“So that’s it, then. Just a clean bullet wound and a cut on his head?”

Taylor held up a hand. “I didn’t say that. If he hit his head like I think he might have, he could have a subdural hematoma. If it was more of a glancing blow and merely a laceration, he’ll be fine. The CT will tell us all we need to know.”

The elevator stopped abruptly and the doors slid apart. “In English,” Knox said.

“The blow to the head might have caused some internal bleeding around his brain. If that’s the case, we have to relieve the pressure immediately or we could lose him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to radiology.”

Taylor stepped out of the elevator, leaving Waller and Knox standing there, staring at the closing stainless steel doors. Then, Knox turned to Waller, his face contorted into a hideous Halloween mask of anger. “How the hell could you have let this happen?”