NO GOOD DEED (35 page)

Mark reached for the gun, fighting for control of it, grunting when an elbow connected with his cheek. The other man held the barrel and levered the butt at Mark, catching him on the left temple. Mark sagged as stars exploded in his head and his vision wavered. His grip on the barrel loosened, but he blinked and fended off the darkness. The suspect tried to hammer him with the butt again, but Mark blocked it and shoved the barrel away. Using his leverage and the other man’s momentum, he drove the barrel into the cement where it scraped a white line in an arc on the pavement.

The gun ripped through Mark’s hands and he lunged in a desperate attempt to get it back before he realized it was Jim who had taken it. His frozen moment of surprise was broken as a sharp pain burned across his left bicep. Mark gasped as his attention snapped back to the terrorist. The man clutched a knife as he shifted for another attempt.

What the hell? Where had that come from? There had been no damn knife in his dream. Mark threw his body to the right. With Jim controlling the gun, he just wanted to get out of the way. Hand clamped to his arm, Mark staggered to his feet and stumbled a short distance into the stadium, just outside the men’s room.

Turning back, he saw Jim and three other agents wrestle the gunman into submission. The whole fight lasted less than a minute. It was over. Relief that the gunmen were caught mixed with anxiety of the outcome at the other gates. He scanned the faces of those exiting, looking for signs of panic.

The crowd churned through the concourse, hardly pausing to take in the scene. He supposed that most thought it was just a drunken fight. A slew of Chicago police flooded the area and the gun was nowhere to be seen. That was probably a good thing.

As the adrenaline ebbed, the pain in his arm and head skyrocketed. He groaned and bent at the waist. Blood welled through his fingers and dripped onto the pavement.

A hand was on his back. “Can you sit?”

It sounded like Jim, but feeling dizzy and light-headed, Mark didn’t dare look up, but closed his eyes instead. “Yeah.” He folded a leg and sank down, swallowing hard at the sudden nausea the movement caused.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back with some help.”

That sounded like a great plan to Mark. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Beyond the gate, out on the sidewalk, traffic cops directed the crowd. Their orange batons twirled, keeping the people moving. Music blasted from the speakers, and the jubilant mood of the crowd hadn’t diminished despite the drama played out just a few minutes ago. It was hard to believe.

Mark bent his head, swiping the blood out of his eye with his shoulder. He looked up the concourse. There were no bodies, just smiling people, happy about the win. A few cast curious glances his way as they passed, but most ignored him.

Paramedics rolled a stretcher up beside him. “Somebody call for a medic?” The one who’d spoken took one look at Mark and answered his own question, “I guess that would be you.”

“You guessed right.” Mark thought for a second. There had been some initial panic and there was a possibility that someone had been trampled. “I think, anyway. There could be injured farther up the concourse.”

The paramedic shook his head. “I don’t think so, but others will be checking to make sure. So far, you’re it.”

“Really?” Mark tried to stand to get a better look, but the other medic put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on, pal.”

“But I gotta see—”

“There’s nothing to see,” Jim broke in, striding up to Mark.

Mark craned his neck, wincing as the lights hit his eyes. “What about the other gates?”

“It’s all good. The other teams apprehended four more terrorists without a single shot being fired.” He pointed at Mark. “You, my friend, were the only one injured.” It sounded like an accusation, but the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Sinking back, Mark rested his injured arm atop his bent knees and allowed the medic to take the other one to check a pulse. “Jessie?”

“She’s fine.” Jim glanced to his left, towards the gate. “Speak of the devil...”

Jessie rushed around the corner and stopped in her tracks, her mouth dropping open. “Are you okay, Mark?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Jim. “What the hell happened to him?”

She squatted beside Mark and glanced at his arm before running her fingertips over his cheek. He winced and recalled the blow from the elbow. “It’s nothing.” The paramedic wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his uninjured bicep, and Mark watched the needle bounce up on the dial as the cuff tightened.

Eyebrow raised in disbelief, Jessie gently grasped his chin and angled his face to see the spot where the butt of the weapon had connected. His head pounded and his stomach churned, but he couldn’t admit it in front of her.

“He’s fine.” Jim shrugged. “He can take a lot more than that.”

Mark lifted his head at the tone of voice. Jim met his gaze, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth as his eyes lit with respect.

After a moment, Jim gave a short nod. “I have to get going. I have a ton of paperwork to do.” Despite his words, he made no move to leave.

“Sure.” Mark would have said more, but the paramedic shone a light in his eyes. The wave of nausea rose to tsunami level, and he put his good arm down as he pivoted to face away from everyone. He lost his lunch and dinner, and almost his consciousness. He focused on Jessie telling him it was okay while the medic told him to take deep breaths.

He spat the bitterness out of his mouth. Someone pressed a wet cloth into his hand.

“Here. You can wipe your mouth with this.” It was the paramedic.

“Thanks.” Mark blew out a shaky breath and slowly turned back.

Fans still exited, but now it was down to the stragglers—the hard core fans who stayed to celebrate until ushers urged them out. Their whooping and hollering sliced into his brain.

“Dude!” A trio of fans who appeared to be just old enough to drink legally, stopped beside Jim and stared at Mark. “Whoa. Looks like you had real good time!” The guy who spoke appeared to have had a great time himself. His friends laughed.

The speaker raised a plastic cup with an inch of beer left in it. His companions raised empty cups. “ To the home team! We won!” He downed the drink, bumped a fist against his chest, and...burped.

Jim threw a glance at Mark and grinned. “Yeah, we did.” Then he put an arm out, rounding up the trio. “Time to move along, fellas.”

* * * * * *

The End

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Watch for the sequel, MARCH INTO HELL, coming in January 2011