Shattered Lives (10 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Chicago, Illinois

             
He stood in the hallway and sent off a text feeling pretty good about getting rid of Bosch, Rawson and Manville.  He hoped the cop in Indianapolis would be pleased.  He didn’t know why the cop in Indianapolis was in charge of what was left of the group.  He supposed it was because it was the cop’s idea to take care of loose ends and then start everything up again.  Still, he thought that logically, he should be the one to call the shots.

As he was slipping his cell back into his pocket, he saw the blond boy walk into the gift shop.  The boy was incredible looking, athletic, and as a bonus, he was alone, which was rare, because where one boy was, another was sure to be found.  Hell, they ran in a pack.  He took a quick look in either direction and then slipped his .38 out of his shoulder holster and slid it into his suit coat pocket and waited until the boy came out carrying a bottle of water and a small bag fruit snacks.

              He walked up to him and said, “You’re Tim, right?”

              Startled, the boy jumped, then recognized the man and said, “Yeah,” with a tentative smile.

              The man was confident.  He could be charming.  After all, he was good looking and had a great smile, one that sparkled and one that disarmed anyone he came into contact with, including the young patrolman who had sat outside the dead cop’s room. More importantly, he had been able to fool everyone by hiding in plain sight. 

              Tim was confident, but cautious, made even more so after being in captivity for more than two years.

“I thought you were a doctor.” 

“Why’d you think that?”

“I thought I saw you coming out of the cop’s room, but I guess I was wrong.”

The man took one last look in either direction, knowing he’d have to take care of the boy.  A pity, but he saw this as only one more loose end.

Tim turned away when the man took hold of his right arm and said quietly, “You and I are going to walk through the lobby and out the door and then we’re going to take a ride.”

              “Why?” Tim said cautiously.

              “You were taught not to question.  You just broke a rule.”

              “But-“

              “-Not another word,” the man said. “Just walk or I’ll shoot you and anyone else who gets in the way.”

              Tim sighed, more tired and sad than frightened.  He just wanted to go back home, to start his life over again.  Now, well, he just didn’t care any longer.  Maybe it was seeing Johnny dead.  Maybe it was the sadness he saw and felt coming from his friends, especially Brett.

              Resigned, he let the man take him by the arm and lead him away down the hallway to lobby, ready to face the inevitable.

              It was then he noticed the strangely dressed old man with the long gray hair tied back in a braid smiling at him.  He didn’t know the old man and had never seen him before, and he didn’t know why, but somehow, Tim felt reassured and not very scared at all. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Chicago, Illinois

             
Jeff and the boys pulled into the parking garage across from the hospital and parked on the third level.  George couldn’t put his finger on anything in particular, but he had an uneasy feeling.  He almost grabbed his knife and scabbard, but decided at the last minute not to.

              They walked down the cement and metal stairs with Randy and Danny in the lead, followed by George and Billy, with Jeff limping behind.  They came to the ground level of the garage and noticed Jeremy’s red Ford Expedition parked in a reserved slip with an FBI tag on the rearview mirror, next to two other vehicles similarly marked.  George slowed down and ran his hand along the back of a tan Taurus.

             
Shadow, be careful, but you need to hurry.  The blond boy is in danger.

             
It was crystal clear, and he had no doubt about whose voice it was, having heard it every day his life. Stunned, he hesitated and fell in step with Jeff.

              “You okay?” Jeff asked quietly.

              He nodded and walked quickly to catch up to Billy.  They stopped four abreast at the corner and allowed two cars, a FedEx truck and bus to pass and then jogged across to the glass front door under an ornate brick walkway with George leading the way.  There were four glass doors with the one on the far right being handicapped accessible.  George led the boys and Jeff through the doorway and stood in the lobby, holding his arms out like a crossing guard.

              “What’s up?” Billy asked.

              George didn’t answer, but scanned the lobby.

              A visitor’s booth was directly in front of them with an elderly woman behind it.  Behind the booth was a bank of elevators and what looked like a gift shop.  To the left and right were hallways, but from their angle, George couldn’t see down them.  To their immediate left and right were chairs, but only a woman and two small children sat in them.  The woman spoke into her cell phone.  The little girl read a book, while the little boy colored.  The rest of the chairs were empty. 

              Then George spotted them- a man with his right hand in his suit coat pocket, holding onto the right arm of a blond boy about the same age as he was.

And his grandfather. 

              His grandfather nodded at George, who remained still, staring at the trio as they walked towards them.

              “I think that’s Tim,” Randy said, starting forward with his hand up in a wave.

              George held Randy’s arm and said, “Randy, go get Agent Pete.  Billy, go get your father.  Danny, go find the police or security.”

              “Huh?” Billy asked.

              Not taking his eyes off the man and the boy, George said, “Do you trust me?”

              “Yes, but-“ Randy said.

              “George?” Jeff said.

              “Randy, Agent Pete is on the second floor.  Billy, your father is on the third floor in the room full of sun.  Do as I say.  Now.” George said urgently.

He didn’t know how he knew, just that he did.

              “The stairs are there,” Randy said, and the twins took off on a run.  As they neared the stairs, Randy said, “George means the sun room at the end of the hall on three.”

              Danny watched them leave and then jogged towards the visitor’s booth.

              “George, what’s happening?” Jeff asked, stepping up next to him.

             
Shadow, don’t let the man leave with the boy.

             
Ignoring Jeff, George walked directly at the man.  As he did so, the boy glanced at George’s grandfather.   The man jerked the blond boy forward, but then stopped twenty yards from the front door.  He looked both left and right, but didn’t move.  The blond boy looked up at him, then at George’s grandfather and nodded slightly.

             
Grandfather, are you talking to Tim?

              Shadow, you need to be very careful.  You cannot trust this man . . . this biligaana.

Jeff stepped forward next to George, but George held his left arm out holding him back.

              Quietly through clenched teeth, the man said, “You’re the Indian boy.”

              George stared defiantly at the man and said, “There are cameras, and they see you very clearly.”

              The man glanced up at the ceiling and saw that George was right.

              “Get out of my way you little fucker or you’re dead.”

              George didn’t move, but as Jeff tried to step in between the man and George, George held his arm out preventing Jeff from doing so.

              “You are not leaving the hospital with him.  Any minute, Agent Pete will be here.  The police or security will be here even quicker.  Leave now while you can.”

              The man looked to his left, then to his right, and licked his lips.

              “What’s going on here?”  It was a short, slightly overweight security man who had emerged from the hallway on the left.

Danny followed slightly behind, but stopped well away from them.  The security man kept coming, his hand on his .45 still in his holster.

              “Nothing, officer,” the man said pleasantly.  “I’m FBI, and we seem to have a little misunderstanding that’s all.”

              “Just walk away,” George said quietly.

              “I need to see some identification,” the security man said.

              The man finally let go of Tim, and Tim moved off behind and to the side, and it looked to George that his grandfather took hold of Tim’s arm and led him away.

             
Shadow, let him leave before he shoots someone.

             
George stepped aside giving the man a path to the front door, and the man started forward.

              “Hold it!” The security man said. “I want to see some identification.”

              The gun in the man’s suit pocket barked loudly, echoing off the steel and glass of the lobby.  As the security man fell to his knees, the man pulled his gun from what was left of his suit pocket, pointed it at the security man and shot him again in the chest. 

The mother with the two children screamed, as did the elderly woman in the visitor’s booth.  Several people emerged from the hallway to see what had happened and then just as quickly disappeared back to where they had come from. 

George pushed Jeff to the floor, kneeling over him and shielding him as best he could.

Danny knelt down next to the visitor’s booth and shouted, “Dad!”

The man pointed the gun at George, thought better of it, and raced out the door.

Shadow, watch where he goes, but be careful.

George placed on a hand gently on Jeff and said, “Watch over Danny and Tim.”

He took a look at Tim lying on the floor and then at his grandfather who smiled and nodded at him. He scrambled to the security man, and feeling for a pulse, found one, but it was faint.

“Call 9-1-1,” he yelled to the elderly woman in the visitor’s booth. “And get a doctor here right away!”

George grabbed the security man’s .45 out of his holster, flicked off the safety and chambered in a load. Then grabbing it in both hands and pointing it at the ceiling, he ran to the front door, squatted down to the side and peered out.

“George come back!” Jeff yelled after him.

A shot rang out shattering glass, but the bullet sailed harmlessly into a wall across the lobby.

“George, come back here!” Jeff yelled again.

Ignoring him, George stepped through the door keeping low and ran behind one of the stone pillars of the walkway. 

There were no other shots. 

He ran from one pillar to another, until he was at the last one across from the parking garage entrance.  He heard a car start up, its tires squealing.

Shadow, be careful.

George watched as the tan Taurus with the FBI tag barreled through the garage and broke through the wooden gated entrance. 

Never having fired a handgun, and more out of instinct than firsthand knowledge, George aimed at the front passenger tire and sent a bullet into it.  The Taurus was traveling too fast to negotiate the turn, and when the tire blew, the man lost control of the car and it slammed into a parked car ten yards from where George knelt.  The horn went off, and the airbag deployed.  Two oncoming cars stopped and the would-be good Samaritans started to climb out to see if they could help the driver.

Knowing for certain that neither driver should get near the Taurus, George shouted, “Get back!  FBI!”

The men got back into their cars, and one of them locked the door. He stepped around the stone pillar holding the .45 with both hands, pointing it at the man in the crumpled Taurus just as two Chicago PD patrol cars screeched to a halt.

“Drop your weapon!” one officer shouted. “Do it
now
!”

George lifted one hand high in the air, and moving ever so slowly, laid the .45 on the pavement and then held his other hand high above his head.

“Get on the ground, Scumbag!  Hands behind your head!  Lace your fingers!”

George did as he was told as he watched one officer approach him cautiously.  The gun the cop held looked to George as big as a canon, and for the first time, he was scared, though he refused to show it.

One officer approached the Taurus and yelled, “This guy’s FBI.  He’s alive!”

“You piece of shit,” the officer said, kicking George hard in the stomach.

All the air burst out of George’s lungs, and he nearly passed out from the pain and lack of breath.  One arm was yanked up high, nearly out of its socket and a handcuff was slapped on.  His other arm was similarly yanked and cuffed and then he was kicked again, this time in the ribs.

“Get away from that boy now!”

The officer whirled around and pointed a gun at the voice.

“FBI!  You kick that young man one more time, and I’ll kick the shit out of you!”

Fading in and out, George recognized the voice.

A gunshot rang out, and the officer near the Taurus fell to the ground.  Another shot rang out from inside the Taurus, and blood and brain matter sprayed over what was left of the windows and interior.

The man was dead.

              George whispered to Pete, “Tell Skip not to let them contaminate the crime scene.”

              And then he passed out
.

Later when Skip debriefed the scene, he couldn’t actually remember what Pete had said for sure, or what, if anything, the cop had said.  He remembered Pete throwing a roundhouse at the cop’s nose and was certain he had heard bone and cartilage snap.  He was certain the cop hit the ground and didn’t get up right away, and that the cop’s face had dissolved in a mass of blood and snot.

              Skip had stayed with George until a nurse, orderly and doctor showed up with a gurney, then he worked the crime scene, though there wasn’t much to figure out.

              The cop near the Taurus took one in his vest, and he’d be sore as hell, but he’d live.  Other than that, nothing else to deal with except to fill out reports and sit through a phone call to Dandridge and Storm with he and Pete and Jeremy on the other.