Bruce - Finals Week, Part Two

Bruce - Finals Week, Part Two

Either they had also run someone undercover as a student, or they had bribed one. It could have been as simple as "text us if you see So-And-So" or as complicated as "I want to give her flowers right after her final."

But I could see the enemy team starting to stack. More players, more score, more fell, more firepower. Twenty minutes of the odds getting worse.

But twenty minutes after that... shit damn hell fuck oh my God.

They brought an ambulance.

When you are trying to kidnap someone, an ambo is a game changer. You just have to disable them enough to be woozy, 'help' them into a wheelchair or onto a gurney, and the nice friendly fake EMTs wheel them into their own personal Hell. And no cop stops an ambulance without valid, specific, actionable intel of the type we couldn't generate.

The ambulance was of a set of markings neither associated with our local hospital, nor our county ambulance contract. I could probably Google the name on it and figure out who had hired it out for this gig.

But I needed to take much more direct action, at once.

The ambo was driving at walking pace along a walkway, to pull up to the loading dock of the Psych building. No police, no fire, zero chance this was legit.

Two EMTs parked, got out, unloaded the gurney which had a "med bag" on it - probably the same loading as my backpack, minus textbook and plus firearms - and rolled it into the building.

I was about to commit a crime on camera. But 300 smackeroos a day was not the reason.

I saw red. I was reminded of what happened on the day my stepmother tried to send me off to military academy in Mexico. And this time I wasn't woken up at three in the morning half way into four point restraints.

I went hot on radio. A few words.

"Condition Red. Kidnap vehicle staged on loading dock. Marked ambulance. Red red red."

I then hit five keys on the radio. Left, Right, Down, Down, Down, Delete, YES, YES.

The triple chirp told me the radio had been scrubbed.

I then abandoned the radio and everything else. Maybe another team member would come get, maybe the police would find it. A five hundred buck radio was nothing now.

I homeless-slinked to the back of the loading dock, and to the ambulance. No one was watching but the prominently mounted cameras. Probably not being watched, there was no security for this building, but you never know.

Doors, at least right front and right patient compartment, were locked. This deprived me of several options.

I fished a small tool out of my pocket. Never go operational without one. Tire stem valve tool. A little instantly recognizable device that exists to take the little valve out of a tire stem.

You can't cut a tire stem, even with a heavy knife or a multi tool, without taking a chance on a slip and self-stab, or a truly impressive grip normally acquired only by cops or by watching far too much porn. But I could take all the valves out, and I did, sacrificing stealth for speed.

I then dropped the tool and all four little valves down a storm drain. They were too small to take my prints and incriminating to find on me.

The ambulance slowly sank on its tires.

Not good enough. Condition Red meant Mike would go for a hot extract. The odds were poor. He needed a distraction.

I'd already committed one crime. Why the fuck not?

In every place of public assembly, there's a nice red handle marked PULL that sets off the fire alarm. A fire alarm during finals week would be completely investigated, with the idea that some struggling-about-to-flunk student probably did it. Six months in jail and a $500 fine would be passed over in favor of being expelled and owing $50,000 or more in tuition and fees.

Glance left. Clear. Glance right. Clear. Check the time. Mike and the principal had pre planned for a nominal three hour final. We were an hour into play. They couldn't touch her until she got out of the room.

Shit. The two fake EMTs, at least one student, Mike ... and the principal, protesting weakly - something I'd never seen her do, appear weak - lying on a gurney.

I saw red.

As they cleared line of sight to the outside, the two fake EMTs tried to take Mike out. One grabbed his wrists from behind, the other brought up his elbow towards Mike's face.

Mike grabbed the elbow, did things to him and it that provoked a piercing scream, tossed him into his partner with vigor and agility.

The student's jaw dropped, so I didn't take him out.

I ran up to the downed EMT that I had seen get out of the ambulance driver's side and ruthlessly stomped his solar plexus. He was too busy trying to breathe to make any more noise.

I hope he suffocates. But I'm a little busy now.

I reached into his right pants pocket and came up with the vehicle keys. Nodded to Mike.

The student stared as Mike and I, as if we were a real ambulance crew, seamlessly executed a combat load and go.

I opened the ambulance, hit the door unlock to be 100% sure the back was open, started it and looked in my mirrors.

Mike had just loaded the gurney and slammed the doors behind himself.

My mirrors were full of running bad guys.

I punched it. On four flat tires.

That was OK. It would take several minutes for the rims to catch on fire.

But it was slow and screechy and would attract attention.

"Extract. Time now. The ambulance. Meet it back to back, Lot L for Lincoln."

Mike was arranging our transition.

I looked around the compartment. Paper maps. Cigarette lighter. I activated the lighter.

I pulled up to the next transition vehicle, a white panel van, marked with the college's HVAC contractor logo. Parked butt to butt like I'd practiced for months, just far enough for all doors to open.

Albert and Baker helped Mike transition our principal, still woozy, to the van.

I turned up the heater to full. I popped out the cigarette lighter, applied it to the papers, ripped wiring out from under the dash, jammed the mess under the seat. Then I followed, smoothly, locking the keys in the running van to buy a few more seconds, and got in the back of the recovery vehicle.

Albert drove away smoothly. Baker was spotting for him. Their show.

Mike was doing what I recognized as a real patient assessment. Head to toe, asking questions, where was she, did she know what had happened.

"The soda... the soda..." she kept saying. Made no sense to me.

Then it did. I sniffed her breath. I couldn't smell anything off.

So I violated every rule of poison control. Never induce vomiting without approval from medical direction.

Mike almost killed me when I shoved two fingers down his principal's throat and then leaned her head forward over the bucket.

"Throw up!" I ordered. "Vomit! Now. Upchuck! Get that shit out! Water, I need water!"

Then Mike figured it out.

I made her drink then made her puke more. "Throw up! Get it all up!"

The radio scanner spoke up.

"Engine 451, Engine 461, Battalion 460, confirmed vehicle fire, Campus Parking, Lot L for Lincoln."

Good.

No idea what hell shit they had spiked her drink with.

"Boss. Decision time," Albert called. "Hotel or hospital?"

"Neither. Contingency swap ASAP. Then we decide."

The most likely drugs were date rape drugs. Not much long term risk, and no significant antidotes. But they had side effects that included memory loss.

And our principal had a final tomorrow in Chemistry.

We made another vehicle swap.

That vehicle had a comprehensive medical kit. Mike immediately ran the principal an IV and I put her on emergency oxygen by nasal cannula. Probably wouldn't help, certainly would not hurt.

"OK boss, nearest hospital is Campus... never mind. Next nearest hospital is Southwest, trauma capable."

I shook my head.

"Knife and gun club hospital. If we go for a hospital, we need to go to Regional. They have the county toxicology lab."

Perpetuate the evidence. Also, treat the poison.

We poured water and Gatorade into the principal. Far beyond comfort.

"I need to pee," she slurred.

She hadn't slurred when she told us about the soda.

Decision. If she goes unconscious, we take the Regional hospital option. They'd try again but at this point, I was ready to call in favors out the ass. It wouldn't just be cops. It would be crooks too. And we would go to guns.

"Go ahead, piss yourself," I ordered rudely. The spreading stain on her jeans confirmed that she had taken my advice. Patient able to follow verbal commands.

But one of the side effects of some date rape drugs is losing sphincter control. One of those little details we gloss over because rapists consider it kind of hot.

What we needed to do was to metabolize the patient. Moderate physical exertion, of the genus 'walk back and forth carefully with help', would be useful as long as she did not fall down.

Can't do it sitting three wide in the back of a rented sedan with peel-on crappy tinted windows. And to hell with the back seat, any rental has seen worse.

"Joann, Joann, we need you to make a decision. You've been drugged. Do we take you to a hospital or not?"

She blinked owlishly and looked at me.

"I don't know you."

She turned her head and spoke to Mike.

"I know you. I hired you. I'm foggy as fuck. If you think I'm dying, take me to the hospital. If not, you get me sober and unfucked in time for my final tomorrow. Your call."

Mike gave orders.

When we drove into a garage of a townhome, and the garage door closed behind us, I realized that there was more money on this op than I had ever realized.

But the oppo had hired an ambulance, with dirty EMTs willing to commit hard felonies. Poisoning is the kind of crime I could probably go to guns on a college campus over and maybe get away with it. Probably not arson, though.

Albert and Baker swept the house. They were carrying guns. Obviously had been carrying them, on campus.

Mike and I manhandled Joann upstairs and into the shower of the master bathroom. We took off her clothes instead of cutting them off. Seated her in the bathtub and ran water over her. Partly for her comfort, partly to absorb more water through her skin, partly so she wouldn't make a mess when she kept pissing.

The work of cleaning poisons out of the blood is done by the kidneys. More water, more pee, less poison.

Note however that if she'd been given a caustic, inducing vomiting would have guaranteed her death by further damage to her esophagus. The first aid for that would have been make her drink a gallon of water or milk during transport to somewhere that could put an NG tube down her throat and suck the crap back up without tearing up the only passage she has to eat and breathe through.

But this was a kidnap. They wanted her alive. There were plenty of other drugs they could have murdered her with.

How did they get the drug into her soda?

I asked this out loud. Why not?

"A student gave it to her. Remember that guy on the loading dock. HIM."

I mentally saved his face into my long, long list of faces to smash in at the first opportunity.

That gave me a thought. They were playing the A game.

"MIke, I'm searching her clothing."

He nodded.

They'd slipped her a MIckey. Why not a tracker?

Fucking hell. She had a cell phone, a nice big black large one suitable to a upper middle class student who wasn't part of the i-Mafia.

And now she had a second cell phone. A cheap piece of shit. A burner.

"Mike, we're fucked."

Someone had slipped it in her pocket. Obviously. Likely when she'd passed out in the class.

The house shook as someone pounded on the frame of the thin front door. Faintly, we heard: "Police!"

I looked with a corner of one eye. A man, alone, wearing a business suit, holding up a badge wallet to the peephole in the front door.

"Cameras in the house?"

"No," Mike shook his head, and started toweling Joann off. We have to move, this place is burned.

"I'm going to fuck him off. Get her out."

I looked out the front bedroom towards the driveway. There was a late model rental car parked out front. It was not blocking the garage. It was neither a cheap fleet car nor a marked unit.

I went to the front door and called out.

"Who are you? What you want?"

"Police! We're investigating a kidnapping1"

The bells rang. None of this is how my favorite department, Tree City, operates. They would fall back, put in a perimeter, start setting up Crisis and Rescue team, against our level of competence call for armor... and he was alone.

"What kind of police?" I stalled.

"Police!" he repeated. So I opened the door and let him in.

As he entered I beat the living shit out of him. He was handicapped by not knowing who I was. I knew what he was, and he was passing through a fatal funnel - the same frame of the door he'd banged on - so tuning him up was one of the easier things I've done in my life.

Because there is no director or script writer in my life, I kept hitting him until I had him totally controlled. Cuffed him with his own cuffs, even though I didn't have a handcuff key. Stripped his weapons. Powered off his mobile phone and pocketed it. No radio. The badge said 'SPECIAL ENFORCEMENT AGENT" and had no photo ID.

I gagged him with a sock and left him in the living room. The car starting up and the garage door opening let me know that the principal and team were on the move without me.

The tracker and a note were on the floor of the hallway to the upstairs.

"GOAT," it said, in Mike's handwriting.

I knew the job was dangerous when I took it. So I did nothing to the burner and powered the agent's stolen phone back up.

I made sure the car with the principal made it out of sight. I then stripped the pistol to its parts, pocketed the barrel, dropped the other parts on the carpet, kicked the police impersonator in the ribs, and left by going out the back door and hopping over the back fence.

As I went, I chewed on and ate the note.

The next storm drain was gifted with the handgun barrel.

Both phones stayed on. In motion. With adversary teams rolling hot inbound.

Goat.

Baaah. Baah.

Hop another fence, cut across a train track, hop someone else's backyard fence.

Two kids were playing. They looked at me. I looked at them.

I considered giving them the phone. Changed my mind. Walked past like I owned the house.

Went out front, crossed the street, got out the agent's phone. Noob. He hadn't set a PIN. So I ordered an Uber to the house, just in case they hadn't made the house 100%.

Mike works clean. It was a burner location just like I was a burner goat.

A bit further down the street, I took off my stinky sweatshirt and tucked it in some nice person's trash can. A change of shirt never hurts. But I didn't have a spare pair of shoes.

Next thing I knew, I was being stopped by a marked unit. A real one. Driven by an officer I know.

"Officer Kemper," I called out, leaving my hands in plain sight.

"Bruce. Get in the back."

"Um, aren't you going to buy me a drink first?"

"Get. In. The. Back. You're a good guy in a bad time."

Well, hell. I got in the back. She did NOT immediately power lock the doors, nor did she ask me to put on the seatbelt. She did push down hard on the gas, but she did not immediately then slam on the brakes to give my face mesh rash.

"We have a hot prowl. Kidnap. Victim is a white female, 23 years of age, name Joann Henderson, kidnapped from the College Campus about thirty ago. Kidnappers set an ambulance on fire and have switched vehicles at least twice. I need your eyes."

"Copy," I said because she couldn't see me nod.

That was something I would actually help our police with.

"Why this area?" I asked, because that is what I would ask.

"We got a ping on the victim phone. Then it went dead."

So they had Joann's phone. They did not have the agent's - how would they explain that? - nor did they have the burner-tracker.

"What were you working?"

The best lie is a partial truth.

"I was hired double-blind to be in this area and watch a house on the two-three corner." I gave an address about a long block from where she'd picked me up. "They said it was a background check for a long-term employee. Living above means."

"Hmmm."

That was the kind of gig I'd done. It was very plausible. It would also bore a cop to tears. But I take what work I can get.

"Why are your pants dirty?"

"Bushes." Something I can sometimes do, that cops can't. And I'd had zero time to change even if I'd had pants to change into.

Going on offense would be a mistake. That wouldn't be me.

Miffed perhaps. Closer to peeved.

"Other than the victim, what are we looking for?"

"White panel van, marked with Frontier HVAC."

"Got it."

So it was that we circled the area, quartering it in a wider and wider swath.

Two more units joined us, widening the sweep. The radio traffic was brief and laconic.

"Suspect van spotted, one seven one 15th Avenue, cross of the alley, back doors closed."

We rolled code. I put on my seat belt.

In kidnap, seconds matter. Giving me mesh face wouldn't be a priority, but not giving me mesh face wouldn't be either.

Kemper pulled up behind the other two units. She got out her rifle.

I got out of the car.

"Bruce, get very lost."

She didn't want a witness to riding around with me. She especially didn't want a witness to what promised to be a high risk felony stop. That because of the potential for a hostage, they couldn't just spray and pray.

"POLICE! GET OUT OF THE VAN WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! DO IT NOW!"

As ordered I walked away. The burner phone, the McGuffin, slipped out of my pocket and into a sidewalk bush, where it would have excellent GPS and cell signal.

Come on down, agents, and meet some hyped up real police with rifles in their hands.

I broke open the agent's case. Good. Removable battery. I pulled it at once.

I then deep shoved it in my groin and kept walking as naturally as possible.

Baaah.

Goat.