Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) (30 page)

“Hello, Mr. Perez. How are you doing today?”

Mr. Perez raised his head and contemplated the question before answering.

“We are . . . as well as can be expected.”

“Yes, I understand.”

Luis crossed the room and fetched himself a cup of coffee from the counter before joining them at the table. He set down the box and their eyes were drawn to it. They watched anxiously while he took a sip.

When he had milked all he could from the moment, Luis cleared his throat to speak.

“There has been some communication.”

“But we are not scheduled to talk for a few hours yet.”

“I know . . . they sent you a package. I pulled it from the box on my way in. I need you to tell me if what’s in the box belongs to your daughter.”

“What is it?”

Luis simply pushed the box forward. Mr. Perez stared at it before searching Luis’s face. He got no clue and instead looked at his wife. She covered her face in her hands.

Mr. Perez pulled the small box in front of him and slowly opened the lid. Luis watched his face as it changed from confusion to realization to outrage. He pushed the box away and stood up, knocking the chair over backwards. The contents fell from the overturned box and landed on the clean white table.

“Bastards! Fucking bastards!”

The wife pulled her hands away and covered her mouth in horror as she gazed at the finger lying before her. Her husband raged around the kitchen, punching the cabinets and pounding the countertops. Wood splinted under the blows as he continued his assault. Luis ignored him and instead watched his wife. She slowly reached out her hand and turned the finger over. The sight of the small scar on the knuckle sent her into a fit of sobbing and she collapsed back into her chair. Her wailing pulled her husband out of his rage and he quickly returned to the table and gathered her into his arms.

Luis quietly retrieved the finger and placed it back into the box. He closed the lid and spoke softly.

“They will demand money tonight. How much can you get a hold of today?”

Mr. Perez pulled his head up from comforting his wife.

“I . . . I will make some calls.”

•      •      •

Oscar watched the eyes of the surgical staff as he was rolled across the red line and into the operating room. Everyone’s faces were covered with surgical masks, but he made mental notes of skin and hair color, height and weight. The OR proved to be even colder than the pre-op room and some of them sported fleece jackets with the hospital logo on them. His gaze moved around the room and he noted his name on a dry erase board along with his height, weight and age. A list of equipment was written next to it and he took in the unfamiliar names: shods, titus, parsonet, dogs, Bovie tips. It meant nothing to him and he quickly dismissed it. An older man with a skull cap sporting American flags sat at the head of the bed in front of a monitor displaying several colors and numbers, all of which were zeros at this point. He turned to meet Oscar’s gaze for a moment, and he recognized the anesthesiologist that had visited him yesterday. Turning his head he spotted Dr. Dayo in front of a machine in the corner. Something was moving in a tray of fluid perched on top, and the surgeon was ignoring the activity in the room as he studied it intently.

Oscar’s bed bumped up against the black operating table and there was the brief whine of a hydraulic motor as it was leveled and raised to match the one he was on. Once again, the various tubes and wires were gathered up and accounted for as they made ready to move him.

With a practiced lift and swing he was moved over before he had time to worry about being dropped. The transport bed rolled away and the space was immediately filled by several people, their hands all busy as they prepped him. A tech attempted to guide his arm onto the table’s protruding arm rest, but he suddenly fought her and raised it over his chest. The team all stopped.

“I have . . . a question.”

Dr. Dayo rose from his seat and walked to the table.

“What is it?”

Oscar smiled as he looked up at the many faces staring down at him.

“Jonathan Dryer . . . Raina Sampson . . . Jennifer Hays . . . Brian Cleveland . . . Paula Reed.”

Their eyes widened in astonishment as Oscar pointed and called them each by name.

“My question is . . . do you know . . .
who I am
?”

Dayo answered the veiled threat for them.

“Yes.”

Oscar simply nodded before relaxing and placing his arm back on the padded rest. Dayo nodded to Dr. Dryer who quickly pushed the syringe in his hand, injecting a sedative. Oscar’s eyes closed.

The team sat frozen and exchanged a few looks. Dayo spoke loudly and shook them out of it.

“All right, people, shake it off. This is just like any other case.”

The team quickly got back to work, but there was no longer the idle chitchat that usually accompanied their ritual. Dayo controlled his rage behind his mask and watched as Oscar’s eyes were taped shut and his freshly shaved chest was exposed before being quickly scrubbed with a Betadine solution. Dr. Dryer’s laryngoscope blade snapped open with a loud crack and he quickly inserted it into the man’s throat, followed by the endotrachial tube. Drapes were placed and equipment was clamped to them as the hiss of the ventilator announced its presence.

Dayo turned and let his arms be guided into a blue surgical gown, but his gaze never left his patient’s face. His head was adorned with his operating lenses and lit without him noticing. He stayed that way until Oscar’s face disappeared behind the drape.

Paula broke the silence with her crisp voice.

“Oscar Hernandez, forty-six-year-old male, heart transplant, codeine and sulfa.”

A series of mumbled affirmatives answered her from around the table.

Dayo stepped up to the only vacant space and held out his hand as his other automatically probed the man’s chest for landmarks. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and then to his anesthesiologist who gave him a nod.

“17:42.”

The surgical tech slapped a scalpel into his hand as Paula wrote their start time on the board.

Mexican Kidnapping Takes Toll on Family
February 21, 2012—Wall Street Journal
 
 

—TWENTY-THREE—

“Y
ou’re sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, been thinking about it for awhile actually.”

Manuel shook his head and gazed around the crowded terminal over the expensive sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. He hated crowds and couldn’t help but look around. But it also served to hide his uneasiness. Jimmy was asking a lot.

“You don’t just quit this job.”

“I know.”

“They’ll hunt you.”

“I know.”

“Come on, man, where will you go? China? New Zealand? You know how far they can reach.”

“I’ll just have to take my chances.”

Manuel shook his head again and shifted around on his nervous feet. This was highly irregular and completely out of the blue. He had no idea what to say. Jimmy just waited for him to work it out and kept a smile on his face.

“What about me, eh? What the hell do I tell them?”

“Tell them you went out and when you came back I was gone. Rico will bitch, but he can’t hold you responsible.”

The overhead speakers announced another flight, and Manuel used the interruption to get a good look at his partner’s face. He could soon see that it was no use. His partner was done. Quitting and just leaving him on his own.

“I’m keeping your car,” he deadpanned.

Jimmy laughed. “It’s yours.”

The speakers made another announcement, and upon hearing it, Jimmy stooped to pick up his bag.

“That’s me, kid. I’m out of here. This makes you number one. Remember everything I taught you . . . and don’t get dead.”

“I will . . . just . . . just look behind you, all right? Be careful.”

They shared an awkward handshake before Jimmy turned and moved away down the terminal. Manuel watched until Jimmy was lost in the crowd. He never looked back.

Manuel turned and walked against the flow of people, not caring who he pissed off. He was soon lost in the crowd, also.

Twenty minutes later he sat in Jimmy’s Mercedes, now his, and watched returning vacationers reunite with their cars while the air conditioner removed the heat from the interior. He wasn’t sure of what to do next. His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.

“Yes?”

“You think you can lie to me?” Rico hissed in his ear.

“I don’t understand?”

“I had someone do some checking. This Interpol man has a family. A wife and daughter! You tell me you did not know this?”

“My partner does the research, not me.”

“Where is he? He doesn’t answer his phone.”

“I don’t know. I just returned from getting us some food. He’s gone, along with his things.”

“Bastard thinks he can ignore me?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“You knew nothing of this?”

“Nothing.”

Manuel’s skin crawled while he endured the silence on the other end.

“I believe you. Jimmy never knew his place, but you Manuel, you were always a good soldier. Loyalty is rewarded. You are now the one in charge. Find a partner or work alone, it is up to you.”

“Okay.”

“And find Jimmy! Find him and kill him!”

“
Si.
”

Manuel held the dead phone in his hand and stared at it. His thoughts were interrupted by the slamming of a car door and his eyes darted to the source. He watched as a young man in a suit gathered up an overnight bag and briefcase before jogging toward the terminal. Manuel watched him check his watch as he hurried off. He shook his head and started the engine before turning it quickly off and pounding the steering wheel with both hands. He contemplated his scarred hands for a moment before reaching into his waistband and removing his pistol. He stuck it in the secret panel before exiting the car.

He followed the man toward the terminal.

•      •      •

The team rolled Tessa past a wall of X-ray banks before pushing through the doors and into the operating room with a carefully choreographed movement. The multiple tubes and wires were all accounted for and placed well out of the way by each team member. If one were to catch on something it could mean a serious delay or even a stop to the surgery and none of them wanted the criticism that would bring. They rolled her parallel and as close to the black operating table as possible before engaging the brake and arranging the equipment around her. Everything in the room was on wheels and they soon had everything just so.

Kye, the circulating nurse, watched the show in front of her with a critical eye, checking and rechecking each and every action as it was started and completed. She rarely had to speak as the team had been working together for some time and they went about their individual tasks with a quiet professionalism. Once everyone was ready, they all paused and waited for those who weren’t. The wait was not long.

While some held tubes or wires, others placed their hands under the young girl, crossing over those of the person next to them to assure an even lift. With a quiet count she was lifted and moved onto the operating table in one fluid movement.

The flurry of activity began anew as the portable connections were all exchanged for the more permanent ones of the operating room. Gas lines feeding a variety of choices hung from the ceiling next to multiple flat screen monitors. As the team worked, the monitors came alive one by one, showing all manner of information on the teenage girl. The various colors made it easy for the team to pick out the reading they wanted and their heads all comically bobbed as they checked their connections. The girl’s arms were extended over the matching arms of the bed before being taped in place. The static squeal of the Doppler was heard as a new arterial line was skillfully placed by a tech and secured in Tessa’s wrist. Her blood pressure reading popped up on the overhead screens in red, and they all frowned at the number before returning to their work. The glass storage lockers lining one wall opened and closed as team members retrieved equipment and placed it on the trays that had been rolled into place at the foot of the bed. Gleaming rows of gold and stainless steel in all shapes and sizes lay in even rows on the sterile blue towels. Boxes of sterile suture were opened and dumped into the sterile field by the surgical techs as they readied for the surgeon’s arrival. The Sarns sternal saw was fired up to assure it was functioning before it too found its rightful place on a tray. Only when everything had found its place and been checked off on the circulating nurse’s form did the team relax, their gloved hands clasped in front of them against their sterile gowns. They all watched as the tech began to scrub the exposed chest of the young girl. Her pale skin was soon covered in orange frothy foam. One of the five overhead lamps was adjusted so she could see a little better.

“Anyone see Dr. Jacobs out there?”

“He’s running his usual ten minutes late.”

The door burst open again as Dr. Jacobs, the anesthesiologist, entered the room and headed immediately to the head of the bed. He muttered his usual apology before entering the small corridor of equipment leading up to the girl’s head. This was his domain, and after a quick check that everything was as it should be, he sat down at a small stool and pulled out a pen. The team watched silently as he checked the chart to verify the patient’s weight before scribbling out some math on a nearby pad of paper. The team exchanged a look and their smiles were evident around their surgical masks. Most doctors used a computer or phone application to calculate drug dosages these days, but not Dr. Jacobs. He liked to do it the old fashioned way. No one could fault him, as he was never wrong, but it was odd to see a man who stayed on the cutting edge of his field resort to a pen and paper. They silently watched as he performed the calculations twice. Apparently satisfied with his math, he opened a small cabinet and removed some vials of medication. The girl on the table before him was already intubated and on the ventilator, so most of his job was already completed. His only task now would be to keep her paralyzed without dropping her blood pressure so the surgeon could do his work. He donned his stethoscope and checked the placement of the girl’s breathing tube before glancing up at the screen.