Trauma

CHAPTER 7

The First National Bank of Philadelphia occupied the lower level of a five-story brick building on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Sutcliff. Abington picked it because he was standing near it when inspiration struck.

As he expected, he drew suspicious looks from his first step inside. With his flyaway straw-colored hair, haggard face, baggy eyes, and mountain man — style beard, Abington made Nick Nolte’s mug shot look like a high school yearbook picture.

Four customers were inside the bank when Abington entered, and none made direct eye contact with him as he crossed the marble floor to the teller windows. Though the bank was not crowded, Abington still had to wait in line, which made him edgy. He was especially mindful of the man to his right, filling out a deposit slip. That guy seemed to not notice Abington at all, which was unusual. Could this guy’s obliviousness be an act? Abington’s gut told him it was a cop, either undercover or off duty.

The brunette behind teller window number five motioned Abington forward. For a moment he contemplated walking out. He felt naked without a hat or sunglasses, and the security cameras had already gotten a clear shot of his face. Oh, what the hell. He was here. She wouldn’t know the gun in his back pocket wasn’t loaded. She’d give him the money.

As Abington approached, the brunette recoiled subtly, her brow creasing and the corners of her mouth turning downward. She maintained an air of professionalism, but her demeanor had turned hard-bitten and judgmental.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a tone that implied otherwise. Be it a handout, food, booze — whatever it was, she was not there to assist.

“I would like some money.” Abington was surprised at the shakiness of his voice. He had meant to sound forceful, but instead spoke in a raspy near whisper.

The teller rolled her eyes and Abington took a moment to look over his shoulder at the man filling out the deposit slip. How many checks is that guy cashing? He had to be a cop.

Walk away … head out that door and just walk away.…

Abington was about to turn around when he flashed on the faces of those bastards pummeling him with bats and steel rods. He pictured the grate where he’d slept the night before. He thought of the many shelters he had called home, and felt a pang of hunger. A tide of violence rose in his blood as he thought of the VA that had failed him. He drew his weapon.

The color drained from the teller’s face. Before she could scream, Abington put his finger to his lip, shielding the piece with his body.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Abington said, gratified to hear more authority in his voice this time. “Give me the money.” From underneath Abington’s grimy shirt he produced an equally soiled paper bag, and handed it to the teller.

The teller’s hands shook as she filled the bag with thick wads of banded cash, but twice she glanced up to look over Abington’s shoulder at the man to his back.

While the teller filled the bag, Abington counted the seconds in his head. Five … then ten …

How much money had she put in there? Maybe a couple thousand. Maybe a little more. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he’d stop to count. He needed to get out of there.

The teller was reaching for another drawer when Abington realized she was stalling. Her hands were steadier, and she seemed less nervous. Maybe she had tripped the silent alarm.

Reaching over the counter, Abington ripped the bag from the teller’s hand, leaving her with a little piece of brown paper. He swung around, gun in one hand, money in the other, and saw that the man with the deposit slip had snuck up behind him.

Midforties with short hair and a square head, the guy trained his weapon — a Glock — on Abington’s chest. He shouted, “Freeze! Police!”

Abington did not hesitate. The SIG Sauer may have been useless without bullets, but Abington had trained with the SEALs and Delta Force. Even out of shape and practice, he was a fine weapon on his own. Abington dropped his gun and the bag of money and started to raise his hands.

No trouble. I surrender.

The officer started to relax, thinking the fight was over. In a fluid motion, Abington grabbed hold of the Glock’s barrel with his right hand while latching his left hand onto the officer’s left wrist. Without hesitating, Abington pulled the left wrist toward him at the same instant he pushed on the barrel of the gun. Thrown off balance, the cop stumbled awkwardly, and a fraction of a second later the Glock had transferred into Abington’s hands. Abington swung the gun in a wide arc, clocking the cop on his left temple with the butt of the weapon. Two heavy thuds followed: one after the impact, and the other when the cop’s limp body crumpled to the floor.

Reaching down, Abington retrieved the bag of money and his treasured gun. He sprang up waving the cop’s loaded weapon, shooing the terrified customers back.

“Just leave me alone and nobody gets hurt!” Abington shouted.

Outside the bank, the sun’s glare punished Abington’s corneas. He blinked to clear his vision, but his head was buzzing and he felt lost. What had he done? Jesus, he hadn’t made a plan. No figuring out how he might escape.

In the distance Abington heard a steady whine of sirens. They were coming for him. Stupid … stupid! His choices were simple: run and get caught, or stand in front of the bank and get caught. He looked at the cop’s gun.

He supposed he had a third choice. Abington put the weapon to his temple, closed his eyes, and conjured up Janine’s beautiful face. They had had happy times; he tried to focus on those.

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” Abington muttered, thinking of his daughter Olivia. “I let you down, sweetie. I let you down so bad.”

Abington pressed the barrel of the Glock hard against his skin and squeezed the trigger ever so slightly. Ironic: with all the bullets flying around him in Afghanistan, this would be the one and only time he’d be shot. Abington took a breath. The squeal of sirens seemed to be coming from all directions.

Can they even identify me? Will they let Mom know I’m dead?

A screech of tires in front of him caused Abington to open his eyes. A windowless cargo van had pulled up, and before it came to a complete stop, a clean-shaven man with short-cropped hair jumped out the passenger-side door. He wore a tailored blue suit and approached with hurried steps. The sirens got louder.

“You don’t need to do that, Steve,” he said. “You made a bad choice here, but we can help. Just get in the van.”

As if on cue, the van’s rear double doors swung open, inviting Abington to step inside. Abington hesitated.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Two seconds, Steve. We’ve been watching you, and we can help you, but you’ve got to move, soldier. Now!”

Abington’s training kicked in, making it difficult to ignore the command. He dashed to the back of the van, where two arms reached out from the darkness and hauled him inside. At the same instant, the van pulled away from the curb with another screech of tires and made a quick U-turn. The back doors slammed shut, leaving only slivers of dim light. Steve could not get a clear view of the interior, or the person who had helped him aboard.

The van straightened out and drove away from the scene at a measured pace meant to appear inconspicuous. He could still hear sirens, but they were heading in the opposite direction. The interior lights came on, but Abington could not comprehend what he was seeing.

The back of the van was crowded with medical equipment: a stretcher and an IV stand with fluid bags attached, as if this were the rear of an ambulance. The man who had helped him inside wore a surgical mask, head covering, and blue latex gloves. His gray eyes were expressionless.

“Welcome, Steve,” the man said from behind his mask. “We’ve been looking forward to having you.”

Steve looked down at the man’s gloved hands and saw a needle and syringe. Fast as a cobra strike, the man sank a two-inch needle deep into Steve’s neck and depressed the plunger.

A warm feeling swept through Steve’s body. He felt light-headed, a bit dizzy, but also at peace. Finally at peace.