The doctors and nurses had never seen so much security around any patient. His symptoms were obvious and few, but the doctors checked and rechecked everything before making any formal diagnosis. There were minor abrasions to the patient’s face and wrists. Straining against his handcuffs had clearly caused the latter damage. The doctors were surprised to learn the facial injuries were self-inflicted. This led them to believe the patient might have a history of mental illness, which would be helpful to know in order to properly prescribe a course of treatment for whatever trauma had caused him to go into shock.
While no other symptoms were present, the doctors ran a lengthy battery of tests to rule out every conceivable possibility. They performed a variety of blood work, as well. Seven vials’ worth. A CAT scan. MRI. X-rays. Then more blood tests, just to double-check the first set of results, which all came back negative.
All the while, Eddie remained unconscious. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. His breathing was steady. His vitals were normal, and wavered little. The only question was how long it would take for him to come out of shock. When one of the agents asked the question, CHOP’s chief of emergency surgery answered authoritatively, “It’s a wild card. We just never know. Sometimes, the patient can return to relative normality within a matter of minutes. But some patients can remain in shock, or some variant of it, well, indefinitely.”
CHAPTER 97
I-295 North, Bellmawr, New Jersey, May 28, 2:39 a.m.
The National League East fans sped north along a dark stretch of I-295 at over a hundred miles per hour. Giles drove. Murphy was lying across the back seat, applying as much pressure as he could muster to his wounds, but it wasn’t working. Pools of blood covered the seat. He was dying. His voice was weak. “How much farther?”
“A couple minutes. Stop being such a pussy.” Giles glanced in the rearview mirror, pleased to see the glimmer of a smile pass over Murphy’s face.
“You should . . . check in.”
His partner nodded, and dialed their employer.
The man they had never met, and would never meet, answered after the first ring. “Yes?”
“The job is complete.”
“Final payment will be processed.” Click. Their employer disconnected the line. The $250,000 would be received in their account less than five minutes later.
Giles dialed another number for the second time that night. It was their emergency doctor. Tonight was the first time in three years they had needed his services. Until this point, he had been handsomely paid for doing almost nothing. Now, they intended to get their money’s worth. “We’re five minutes out.” The doctor said he was ready.
CHAPTER 98
Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 28, 2:42 a.m.
Lutz and Hirsch were dreading their return to Harmony House. They had failed, pure and simple. Their boss, Michael Barnes, was an unforgiving man. He did not tolerate failure at any level, but especially when so much was at stake. All Lutz and Hirsch could do was face whatever consequences were awaiting them.
Which was why they were so surprised by what greeted them. There was nobody manning the front gate. No security personnel patrolling the grounds. Lutz and Hirsch considered the possibility that Harmony House was under siege. That the facility had been taken over. The two men grabbed as much firepower as they could carry from the portable arsenal in their trunk, and set out to defend their home base. But all they accomplished was to terrify several nurses and a member of the cafeteria staff playing a quiet game of poker at the end of their shift. As far as these people knew, it was just another night at this special place for special people.
Strangest of all was the absence of Michael Barnes. Their boss wasn’t in his office, or anywhere on the grounds. His car was not in the parking lot. And he was not answering his phone. They had never once known their boss not to answer his phone. Something was wrong.
Lutz and Hirsch quickly discussed their options. One was honorable: stay and defend the fort until they found out what the hell had happened. The other was self-preserving: flee and don’t look back. The latter went against all their years of training, but Barnes was most likely either long gone or dead, which meant he wasn’t coming back. If Barnes was gone, somebody must have given him a very good reason to make himself disappear. If somebody had taken him out, they were next.
Lutz and Hirsch would later wonder what took them so long to reach the obvious conclusion. They didn’t slow down until they were somewhere in Iowa, where they dumped their car in exchange for a new one, and kept right on going.
CHAPTER 99
Industrial Park, Haddonfield, New Jersey, May 28, 2:44 a.m.
Dr. Reggie Portman had started his medical career as a combat medic, a 68 Whiskey, during the Gulf War, and knew right away that he had found his calling. He thrived on the combination of overwhelming pressure, incredible danger, and never-ending chaos. It was quite simply the best drug he’d ever found. Reggie re-upped for a second tour and intended to sign up for a third when his wife got pregnant with twins. She threatened to divorce him if he wasn’t around to help with all the diapers, so he spent the next two decades performing and teaching others emergency medicine at Pennsylvania Hospital, the oldest hospital in the country.
It was here that he became acquainted with the National League East fans, when Murphy’s appendix burst three years ago. They appreciated his experience and skill, and recognized a kindred spirit. It was clear that he missed the rush of working in a combat zone, and they needed someone they could trust in the event of a medical emergency. Like now. He had been on private retainer ever since. Not for the money, but for the rush—or, at least, the promise of it. Until this point, all the good doctor had done was set up an ad-hoc emergency room in an old warehouse in an aging industrial park on the outskirts of Haddonfield, where the three met once a month to replenish the National League East fans’ personal blood supplies. Donated blood had a shelf life of forty-two days, and Reggie knew that if his services were ever needed, blood would be the key determinant of success or failure.
The two assassins were about to find out just how well their money had been spent.
Giles screeched to a halt next to the warehouse, where Dr. Portman greeted him and helped carry in the wounded killer. Murphy was placed on an operating table, where the doctor assessed his injuries. His patient looked up, watching him closely. “Why the hell are you smiling?”
“Because I live for this shit.” The doctor had him stabilized in less than seventeen minutes. Without a fresh supply of the patient’s own blood, it might have been a different story. But, as with most tests, preparation was the best indicator of outcome. As soon as the patient was resting comfortably, Dr. Portman explained the outlook for his recovery. His shattered pelvis would need four to six months to heal. Same for his right femur, but the rehab would take considerably longer, depending on the level of performance he hoped to return to.
The baseball fans knew there was no such thing as returning to this game after taking time off. There was no off season. They were done, whether they wanted to be or not. This was the first and last time they would ever need the good doctor’s services.
CHAPTER 100
Philadelphia International Airport, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 28, 2:48 a.m.
Philadelphia Director of Homeland Security Albert Shoals and his caravan sped onto the tarmac, where a CH-47 Chinook military transport helicopter awaited them. National Director of Homeland Security Arthur Merrell paced in front of it. He had insisted on personally taking possession of the technology. Shoals resented the implicit lack of trust, but Merrell was not going to allow anyone else to handle it. He might not know what it was, but he was damn well sure going to be part of its delivery.
Shoals handed Merrell the two keys in his possession. Director Merrell and the two men cuffed to the cases boarded the helicopter, which immediately took off for Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, commonly known as JB MDL. The massive complex was a base for the army, air force, and navy, as well as the largest federal prison in the country. The base was as close to an impenetrable fortress as existed in the modern world.
The helicopter landed somewhere in the middle of the sprawling complex, touching down next to a nondescript warehouse with no visible signage. Two men in plain uniforms exited the building and approached Merrell. There was no way to tell which branch of the military they were part of. Or if they were part of one at all. Only one of them spoke. “Director, we will take possession of the packages.”