Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood (38 page)

24

Officer Down

Fletcher Galloway, working with the U.S. Attorney in planning to move Pascual Candelario to the court where he would testify in secret before the grand jury, decided that the safest way would be to do it in the middle of the night without fanfare. Test runs were made via typical exit routes from the penthouse through the bowels of the high-rise, but when the time came, Boone Drake and four undercover cops merely went directly to PC’s door and ushered him out.

At two in the morning, they took a service elevator to the basement garage, then, just to be sure, backtracked and went through a first-floor banquet kitchen. Finally they made their way to the garage from another direction and headed for the unmarked van.

As they passed a lone security guard, one of dozens Boone had seen over several days at the condo tower, he gave the man a quick once-over to be certain he was armed only with a nightstick, handcuffs, a flashlight, and a can of Mace.

But something caught Boone’s eye. Tucked up under his uniform cap were cornrow curls. Boone squinted, thinking. The rest of the security guards in uniform seemed to have a dress and hair code similar to the Chicago PD’s.

As the group passed the guard and approached the van, Boone felt compelled to glance back to where Cornrows had seemed to lazily watch them. The man was in full crouch and reaching behind his back. Taking no chances, Boone bellowed, “Gun!” before he even saw it, and moved between the phony guard and Candelario.

His instinct was right. The man produced what looked like a .45-caliber Glock and squeezed off one deafening round from about fifteen feet away. The slug hammered into Boone just below his left clavicle and knocked him to the concrete floor. He could feel something shatter—whether it was bone or bullet he did not know—and immediately felt his left lung collapse. As he lay there sucking wind, he realized what he had just seen.

Before the impostor could get off even a second shot, two of the officers had wheeled around and emptied their service revolvers into him while the other two hustled Pascual into the van. One officer screamed at the driver, telling him where to take PC and to call for an ambulance.

The other was on his radio, shouting, “Ten-one! Ten-one! Ten-one!” and reporting their position. Within seconds, dozens of squads screeched onto the scene.

Boone lay there knowing Pascual was safe and that every Chicago cop in the vicinity would respond to a 10-1, one of the few number codes the department used. 10-4 served its universal purpose. 10-1 was a distress call asking for all available manpower.

Had bone or bullet fragments done more than nick a lung? Boone tried to control his breathing, but he felt his pulse racing and was aware of a widening pool of blood beneath him. The shooter was clearly dead, and as the officers bent over Boone, trying to reassure him and keep him comfortable, one was tearing off his own shirt to press it into the gaping wound. The other paled looking at Boone’s injury.

Boone felt himself go woozy and fought not to lose consciousness. He was afraid of going into shock before the ambulance arrived. “Suicide shooter?” he rasped, trying to keep his mind on the issue at hand.

“Shut up and stay with me, Drake,” one officer said.

“Had to be an inside job,” Boone said. “Who would have known what route we were gonna take?”

And he felt himself drifting, drifting.

Boone saw a kaleidoscope of images over the next several minutes. Jack Keller and Pete Wade pushing the others aside and talking to him. He could not respond, did not understand. Now emergency medical technicians probing, testing, feeling. An injection. Floating. Now roughly transferred to a gurney and slid into the back of the ambulance.

Moving from the warmth of the vehicle seemingly seconds later to the frigid air on the way into the emergency room at John H. Stroger Jr. Hospital of Cook County. Lights flying by overhead. In triage, doctors and nurses working feverishly, trying to talk to him, using his name. “Breathing trouble. Collapsed lung. Other damage? Surgery . . .”

Being bathed for an operation, anesthetic drip, the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

Epilogue

Boone awoke midmorning, oxygen in his nostrils, the back of his throat ravaged by what must have been forced down it for surgery, screaming pain in the shoulder. He was exhausted and achy all over, and his mouth felt cottony.

At least he had lost the panicky, no-breath sensation. As he squinted against the sun, Boone slowly pieced together what had happened. He tried to talk and produced only a gurgle of gibberish.

“He’s waking up.”

“Nurse!”

“Get Keller in here. He wanted to know when—”

Keller and a nurse arrived at the same time. “You comfortable, Mr. Drake?” she said.

Boone shrugged and winced at what that did to his shoulder.

“We can increase that drip. Chief Keller, he should be able to hear you.”

Jack leaned close as she moved out of the way and finagled with the tubes and machines. “You got questions?”

Boone nodded. “PC,” he managed.

“Safe. And very grateful to you.”

Boone lifted his right hand and waved off the compliment. “Everybody else?”

“Nobody else hurt. And you’re going to be fine. Lucky. Bullet fragments reached but didn’t damage your heart. That shoulder’s gonna have to be rebuilt.”

“We got a traitor?”

Jack whispered, “That or a real smart gangbanger. He either got lucky or he was tipped off. Could have been a lot worse. We’ll talk more later. Your pastor friend is coming this afternoon. But they tell me rest is best. That morphine kicking in?”

Boone nodded, eyes heavy.

When Boone awoke again, it was after noon, and while he heard voices in the hall and a painful turn of the head told him officers crowded the area, the room was empty. “Hungry,” he said, but his eyes fell shut again before he could make himself heard.

Boone had no idea how much later it was when he felt a cold washcloth bathing his face. Then a small sponge full of ice water spun over his tongue, refreshing his mouth. He forced his eyes open to tell the nurse he needed food, but the face before him was no nurse’s.

“Haeley,” he said. “My breath must be horrible.”

“Not anymore,” she said, clearly forcing what looked like a brave smile. Her eyes were red. “Boone, what have you done to yourself?”

“Well, I didn’t do it. Everybody agree it was an inside job?”

He could tell from her look that they did. But she said, “You just worry about getting better.”

He nodded. “Hungry.”

“I’ll bet you are. I’ll tell the nurse, but first I want to give you some incentive.”

“Incent—?”

“To get better.”

She took his good hand in hers and gripped it warmly, then leaned close to his face. “Come back to me, love,” she said.

“What’d you call me?” he mumbled.

“You heard me,” she said, then kissed him on the mouth.