Chapter 6

INCOMING!

He was about ten feet from the van when he saw movement to his right and to his left. Two men, one appearing from around the front of the van and one from around the rear, turned to facing him. They had been strolling calmly, to appear non-threatening, but they sped up and headed right toward him once they saw he spotted them.

Instincts and years of training had him reaching for his pistol. The glint of a blade in the hands of one of the men took on a strange gleam, as the world around him slowed. Everything was in slow motion as he brought the pistol up, centered it on the chest of the man to his right, and fired twice. He saw the impact of the rounds, in the center of his chest, and he brought the pistol across his body towards the man on the left.

Too slow! In his old life, he was trained to move, dodge, or to feint when threatened, and he never considered, or even trained for his new immobility; his gun hand was his control hand for the wheelchair. He felt the blade enter his chest as he brought the pistol on target. The barrel was in contact with his attacker when he pulled the trigger, a mistake that he recognized almost as soon as he felt the recoil.

The shot fired without a problem but, since his attacker was moving and the slide of the Glock was in contact with his chest; the slide was caught short, fouling in the jacket of his attacker, and failed to return to battery. The round that the slide was trying to strip from the magazine into the chamber ended up stove-piped, sitting vertically and keeping the slide from moving. There would be no follow-up shot until he could clear the malfunction.

His attacker, unlike in the movies, was not flung back ten feet, he was not instantly incapacitated and, in fact, didn't even realize he'd been shot at first. The human body is an amazing machine, and even though the 230 grain round from Doug's .45 had severed one of the largest arteries in the body, it would be several seconds before blood loss from internal bleeding weakened the man enough for him to cease his attack.

Instead, he twisted the blade as it came out, and stabbed him again, this time in the abdomen. Doug was already having trouble breathing; the pain in his chest was severe, and the second stab was almost enough to make him black out. He used his now useless Glock to club the man on the head, striking him in the eyes and across the bridge of the nose. As his attacker started to pull back and attempt to defend his face, he appeared to have trouble staying on his feet, slowly slumping to the pavement.

From inside the store, there was a scream as the florist saw the attack and rushed outside. Doug sat there for a moment, staring at the middle-aged florist, who stared back at him in horror, before the world went dark.

Doug woke up in considerable pain and, for several long minutes, was convinced he was back in Germany, that his team had been killed just days before. Tears ran down his cheeks as he relived that time again.

Six soft hands, three tearful voices and three pairs of lips told him he was home again, and the tears that continued to fall were those of relief.

A soft cloth helped him dry his eyes, so he could see again, and he was filled with an almost unholy joy to see Christine, JJ, and Lane standing over his bed, all of them smiling through their tears. He was not in Germany, with a long, long convalescence ahead of him. He was not thrown back into the year of depression and survivor's guilt. He was home.

"Water," he croaked and Christine grabbed a cup and a bendy straw, holding it, so he could sip some water.

"How bad," he asked, searching their faces to gauge their reactions.

The three ladies exchanged glances, but Lane was the first to speak.

"One stab punctured a lung, but missed the heart, thank god. The other perforated your small intestine, and they had to remove about four feet. The clerk at the florist called 911, and the ambulance was there quickly. The surgeon said the surgery was successful, but they're pumping you full of antibiotics because they're worried about infection from the punctured intestine. You have a chest tube in because air escaping from your lung caused a pneumo-something or other." She took a deep breath, wiping her eyes. "All that matters, is that you are alive," she smiled at him.

He reached up and gently touched her cheek, the tube from the IV threatening to tangle in the bed rail. He smiled at her, then sighed,

"Driver," he rasped. He feared the worst.

JJ shook her head, looking sad. "They killed him first. Both of the guys who attacked you were DOA. The cops want to talk to you, and I called those FBI clowns; you had the card in your wallet. They're here as well, milling around in the waiting room. There is a guard outside your door, but it is a bit fucking late for that."

"How long was I out?" He was starting to feel a little less like someone had jammed a steel rod wrapped in barbed wired down his throat, and his voice, while still a little raspy, was closer to normal.

Christine fielded this one, "Since yesterday before noon, when the ambulance arrived at the scene. You were already unconscious."

He turned to look up at Lane again. "No salmon?" he said, trying to make it a joke. When Lane's eyes misted over again, he tried to raise his hand, this time succeeding in tangling the IV tubing in the bed rail before she could grasp it in both of her own hands.

"Fuck the salmon." Lane said, her voice husky. "I'll buy more when you are ready," she paused, and sniffed, not releasing his hand. "You scared the crap out of us."

"It wasn't on my to-do list, honest! Clothes, maid, flowers, wine ... no hit men or muggers, I'm sure of it."

"He's cracking wise so you know he will be okay." JJ joked, stroking his hair.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, but they stayed with him until the nurse forced them out at the end of visiting hours, swearing they would be back as soon as they could, the next day.

His first visitor the next morning was not one of the ladies, but a quartet of men. Two were detectives from Miami PD and two were suits from the local FBI office.

"Mr. Ramos, I'm Detective James Arriola and this is my partner, Detective Frank Briggs. Before we begin, I have to tell you that you have the right to remain silent, but that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have your attorney with you during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at no cost. Do you understand your rights as I've explained them to you?"