“What’s that?” Camron asked.
For a moment, she had almost forgotten her supervisor was still on the line. “Just send backup to the Rancho Bernardo Community Park!”
Punky looked in her mirror, surprised to see that the motorcycle hadn’t closed the distance. The dual sport bike had more than enough power, but he hung back and seemed content with following her past the tennis courts to the rear of the park. She knew she was leading him deeper into a dead end, but his hesitation had bought her enough time to settle on a course of action.
“They’re on their way, Punky.”
“Fuck this,” she muttered, then slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel hard to the left, sliding the Challenger around an island at the end of the road. When her back end let loose, she gave it gas and turned the steering wheel to drift around the curve. Once her nose was pointing back at the biker, she eased off the gas to let her tires catch, then launched herself straight at the motorcycle.
As Guo Kang came around the corner, he spotted the Challenger drifting around an island at the end of the road. Other than a parking lot next to some baseball fields, there was nowhere for the NCIS special agent to go. He had her cornered.
The pavement was smooth, and the Ducati Hypermotard chewed up the ground, but he eased off the throttle when he saw the Challenger pointed back in his direction.
What’s this?
But in the span of a second, it quickly became apparent what the female agent’s plan was. He had less than that to develop his own and put it into action without hesitation.
He slipped the clutch and twisted the throttle again to hear the throaty growl of the twin-cylinder 937cc engine roar through the dual tailpipes tucked under his seat. At the same time, he swerved erratically to avoid the oncoming muscle car and engaged the clutch as he lurched toward the side of the road.
With feigned incompetence on the bike, he stomped on the foot pedal for the rear brake and felt the rear begin to skid before squeezing the brake lever to lock up the front. The result was a fishtail that twisted the bike sideways as his nose dipped and hit the curb. He used the momentum to fling his body clear of the bike, tucking to roll over his handlebars and into the weeds at the edge of the road.
His Ducati crashed hard to the ground and slid for several more yards before stopping less than twenty feet from the Challenger that had come to a screeching halt. He had timed his crash perfectly and came to rest in the weeds only a few feet from the road. He felt a few scrapes and bruises already beginning to form and had lost the subcompact machine gun in the process, but he knew his performance had been flawless. He remained still and waited.
Guo Kang listened to the soft purring of the idling Hellcat engine and the rhythmic pounding of feet as the special agent ran from her car to check on him. But he didn’t move.
“Federal agent!” she yelled.
Through his darkened visor, he watched her scramble into view. Her pistol was held in both hands out in front of her and leveled on him.
“Don’t move.”
He didn’t.
Guo Kang grinned inside his helmet and slowly twitched his limbs to let her know that he was alive but hurt. She hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then holstered her pistol and knelt over him to sweep his body for signs of trauma. She had done the hard work for him.
With surprising speed, Guo Kang reached his hand up and hooked it behind her neck, bringing her face crashing down against his dark visor. The special agent reached out to stop herself from collapsing onto the rider, but her shock was obvious. Guo Kang took full advantage of that and reached down to his right hip, drew his pistol, and aimed it up into her chest.
He squeezed the trigger three times and watched with fascination as the look on her face turned from shock to pure terror.
It was only when he heard the faint sound of approaching sirens that he realized he had ruined his only chance at finding out why the Navy was interested in the doctor. Like it or not, he was going to have to inform the General that their operation was in jeopardy.
The success of the coming invasion hung in the balance.
45
Doc Crowe groaned when she saw the line forming outside medical. Without even looking, she could tell they were all suffering from the same thing. And even though the captain had taken the senior medical officer’s recommendation and put the ship under quarantine, that hadn’t stopped the number of cases from rising. The line along the bulkhead only underscored what she already knew.
We’re in big trouble.
She reached up to check that her mask was in place over her nose and mouth, then cut through the line and into the medical spaces. She saw a few of the sickest heaving into trash cans they had brought with them, but that had become so commonplace that she barely even noticed. Of course, she had been up all night, treating the sick, so maybe it was just her exhaustion that prevented her from focusing on what she had come to accept.
We’re in big, big trouble.
She stepped into the ward and saw Diona leaning over Andy with a worried look on her face. She waved off a few of the ship’s company corpsmen and made a beeline for the sleeping COD pilot. “What’s going on?”
“His blood pressure has been dropping,” Diona said, reaching up to affix a 1000-milliliter bag of 0.9 % sodium chloride solution to the tree above his bed. “And his heart rate has been increasing.”
Doc knew what the petty officer was thinking, and she admitted that an intravenous injection of saline solution was exactly what she would have ordered. Andy needed extracellular fluid replacement and treatment for metabolic alkalosis in the presence of fluid loss and mild sodium depletion. In short, he was severely dehydrated, and Diona was doing precisely the right thing.
She glanced at the vital signs monitor and saw that the pilot’s temperature was 104 degrees — well above what she would have expected for someone who was only dehydrated. Even for a person who was recovering from an infection that had triggered gastroenteritis, it was far higher than she was comfortable with.
“Anybody else with this high of a fever?”
Diona glanced at the monitor and shook her head. “It was less than one hundred just a minute ago.”
Doc reached down and placed her hand on Andy’s arm. It had been clammy when they brought him down from his stateroom, but now it was red and hot and dry to the touch. “Andy? Can you hear me?”
His eyes twitched behind closed lids, but he didn’t respond.
She looked up at the monitor and saw his heart rate top 130 beats per minute. “Maybe the saline will help.”
Diona opened the valve to allow the fluid into the IV port, then turned to Doc. “This is the third bag,” she said, with just a hint of worry intruding on her normally calm demeanor.
“Has it helped?”
The corpsman shook her head.
Doc knew a good rule of thumb was 30 milliliters of fluid per 2.2 pounds of body weight, so it wouldn’t be unexpected for it to take three bags of saline solution to counter the effects of extreme hydration. But she would have at least expected his pulse to stabilize closer to one hundred beats per minute and for his blood pressure to rise to within an acceptable range.
“I don’t like this,” Doc said.
“What should we do?” The corpsman was looking for reassurance, but Doc wasn’t sure she had any to give. They were doing everything they could to keep him comfortable and replenish his fluid loss, but it didn’t look like it was helping much.