Chapter 7

The next thing I was aware of was noise and light. The light came from the window on my left, and the noise came from Polly Dryden, who, by the sound of things, was peeling back the skin on a doctor. "What do you mean that Angela might be permanently disabled due to the path of the bullet? What kind of surgeon are you that you can't extract a bullet without leaving a permanent disability? Here's what's going to happen! You are going to get on your computer and phones and find a surgeon that CAN remove the second bullet, and do it without the slightest impairment to my adopted daughter.

"Do you hear me clearly?

"I suggest you listen very carefully, because my husband will have you posted to West Africa, and you'll be dispensing cough syrup out of Dixie Cups if you screw this up." She was profoundly scary as the furious First Lady. The doctor assured her that the finest surgeon in the country would be called in to remove the 'second' bullet.

That's when I said, "What second bullet?"

Polly's head beat the doctor's by about a tenth of a second. "You're awake!" She was excited to find me awake. That seemed good on the surface, but maybe bad, because I was - maybe – not expected to wake up.

"Feels like I was kicked by a mule, run over by a train, and dropped off a cliff, but I am awake." A little humor couldn't hurt, could it?

The doctor had his hands on me by then. "Angela, you've suffered two bullet wounds. The first one just below the belt line, but far over to the right. It came out as fast as it went in, and left us a good area for repairs, but nothing too big to worry about.

"Your attacker's second shot ended up in a space between your pelvis and hip socket. It doesn't belong there, and we're bringing in a specialist to remove it. Mrs. Dryden is quite concerned about our reluctance to operate, and she is right to be worried. Your ability to walk is hanging on how lucky we get removing that second bullet." He stopped talking and continued checking me over.

Polly took my hand, and said, "It's Ok, darling. We have this thing organized. Hamilton will have the best surgeons in the world brought here to handle this, and we will see that it is done perfectly. You saved my husband, young lady, and we will not allow anything to happen to you. I give you my word." She meant it. For someone as accustomed to wealth and the power that comes with it, as Polly Dryden, she was seriously invested in my condition.

The next few weeks were a nightmare as doctors, surgeons, and a host of medical people came and went, spending inordinate amounts of time looking between my legs, and poking, prodding, probing, and pushing into that general area. As I came to understand it, the second shot – that was the one I never noticed - occurred when Natalie pulled the trigger a second time, post-

mortem. She was already dead from three well placed shots, fired by Hawk's protectors, but her finger twitched as she died, and she shot me one more time. That bullet plowed a course into the gap where my leg became my pelvis, became my hip, became my thigh...

You get the idea.

The surgeons found that the bullet literally wrapped itself around a set of nerves and threatened to sever them should any form of pressure be put against them in an attempt to remove the bullet. I was fully restrained while they worked out plans for the grand removal, and it was driving me nuts.

In the meantime, the plague finally burned itself out, and the President and First Lady left to go back to Washington, leaving Constance behind to keep me company and represent the White House where my care and treatment were concerned. Constance was a bulldog about making sure that I continued to be treated like a national hero, and just the threat of her dialing the White House Counsel's office put the fear of Guam, Tibet, or Nome, Alaska in their hearts.

On the twenty-seventh day following my shooting, Constance opened my room door to admit a stranger. He spoke fractured English and was accompanied by two young physicians, three nurses, and a secretary.

Doctor Abrams was called in to remove my bullet.

"So," his eyes twinkled when he smiled. "So ... You stood in front of a flying lead bullet, and caught it so it wouldn't run smack into the President, yes? Well young one, did nobody tell you ever that bullets hurt the place they hit? Shouldn't not be catching bullets with the hip, now should you?..."

He worked while he talked. Doctor Abrams was as gentle as he was with Jennifer, and as concerned as he was with me when I was Brian. His hands were surprisingly steady for an older man, and as he prodded around my groin, mercifully clean, as a nurse had given me a sponge bath, earlier. Doctor Abrams gave me my first glimmer of hope that I might walk again someday.

He alternated between the x-rays, posted on the wall beside my bed, and my groin as he familiarized himself with the problem. It didn't take long, and he tapped me right on my pubic mound to get my attention, looked me in the eye, and said, "We take this out in a few minutes. My nurses get you wrapped up for surgery, and this thing go away before supper." He laughed, tapped me one more time, and said, "I have your feet get under you, instead of laying like a casualty of too much shooting, in no time."

He walked out, and his nurses went to work on me. It took less than an hour, and they rolled me, bed and all, to the Operating Room, where another one of his crew waited with anesthesia. She looked me right in the eye, lowered the mask, and said, "Please, Angela. Count backwards from one-hundred."

I didn't make it to ninety-four.

The room was dark when I awakened. Constance and Doctor Abrams were waiting for me to wake up from the surgery, and when I coughed, sputtered, and gagged my way awake, Constance wiped my brow with a cool washcloth, while one of Doctor Abrams' nurses tended to my other issues.

The pain was tolerable, but I could tell something had changed and was anxious to hear the prognosis.

Doctor Abrams finished his work and leaned down smiling. "So Angela, you got no more bullets for the old doctor from Sweden? I looked everywhere and could only find one, and it was little. Real small potatoes that things. It was hardly worth looking for, but as long as we were cutting around, we took it with us when we left." His smile and good nature settled some of my concerns, but I still wanted details.

"It looks like all things went back together in ways they should be first time through. Nothing looks hurt, broken, ripped, or torn; and a once more-over look, shows everything where it should have been to begin. I think two weeks and you forget this whole thing, start living like young girl should, and be back chasing boys before anyone knows it. I think you should come to Sweden and chase nice Swedish boys. We have the best of all kinds. You come, I show."

He gave me and the hospital staff some instructions about after care, and then said, "If you get more troubles this leg-hip, thing. Come see me in Sweden, and we get you brand new leg from Russian weightlifter, good? You come see us, we make you look like nobody's business was ever here." Those were his parting words, and he left me.

Constance stayed with me every step of the way, giving phone reports to the White House at least once a day, until I was released two weeks later, having finished ten days of grueling physical therapy.