Read Online King of Swords (Assassin series #1) by Russell Blake - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Russell Blake
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It’s going to take forever to get there.”
“Nobody said that police work was all glamour and fun, young man.” Cruz, who was only five years older than Briones, often called the lieutenant ‘young man’ as a subtle reminder of the power structure. “Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight,” he added.
“Not anymore.”
Even with the emergency lights on, it took them fifty minutes to get to the hospital. Dusk had set in as they pulled into the lot by the emergency room. Traffic congestion in Mexico City was infamous, especially during rush hour, and it could take close to forever to cross the city during peak periods.
The pair approached the marble-floored lobby of the pristine edifice and took the elevator down one floor to the operating rooms. Cruz had spoken with one of the officers sent to guard the prisoner, and he’d reported that the doctors had rushed Santiago into surgery after a hurried evaluation. The officer had called for backup, and there were now eight heavily armed tactical squad members lining the hallway to the surgical theater. Cruz walked purposefully to the officers guarding the doors of the OR.
“What are they doing in there?” he demanded.
“Some kind of procedure for his brain,” the officer replied.
“His brain? What’s wrong with it? Did they tell you anything?” Cruz asked.
“No, they just said that his pupils had a problem, so something was wrong with his brain. He never regained consciousness; that’s all we know right now.”
Cruz stalked the hallway, mind racing. A few minutes later, a green-gowned doctor emerged from the room, blood splattered down his front, and removed his surgical mask to speak with Cruz.
“I’m Dr. Consera. I presume you’re running this show?” he asked Cruz.
“Captain Cruz. Yes, this is my prisoner. He shot four of my men this morning and was taken after a considerable struggle,” Cruz informed him, for the record.
“Well, that explains the contusions and bruising…”
“Why are you operating on him? Was he hurt by the blows he sustained?” Cruz asked.
“Not really. We did a CT and an MRI, and this man has an abnormal heart. An area is enlarged, which is typical of victims of chronic atrial fibrillation.” The doctor flexed his hand, trying to get the muscles to relax. “No, what happened is that something, probably the morning’s events, caused a bout of fibrillation, and a clot formed in his heart and then traveled to his brain. Your man had a massive stroke. We went in through his leg and removed as much of it as we could so blood flow could return to the affected area of the brain, but it’s anyone’s guess how much permanent damage he’s experienced. In these cases, you just don’t know,” Dr. Consera explained.
“So he’s in a coma?”
“Precisely. His brain has been deprived of blood for at least an hour and a half, maybe more. Blood carries oxygen. Human tissue requires oxygen to live. If it was totally deprived of blood for that long, or longer, it doesn’t look good for him.”
“Then what’s the prognosis, as we speak?” Cruz asked.
“Poor. It would be a miracle if he ever regained consciousness. But in the end, we’ll just have to wait and see. I’d normally do a positron emission tomography scan of his brain to see what level of activity the area the clot-affected portion retains, if any, but it would be a waste of time at present. Maybe in a few days, but right now, he’s in God’s hands,” the doctor concluded.
“Or the devil’s. The man is a major narcotraficante , Doctor, and probably snorted kilos of cocaine every week.”
“That would make the chronic heart condition much worse, of course. It would explain a lot.”
“One thing I don’t understand. How does the clot form – from his heart beating, what, faster?” Cruz asked, genuinely curious.
“Atrial fibrillation isn’t necessarily tachycardia – a racing heartbeat. It can also be where the heart skips a beat,
“Nobody said that police work was all glamour and fun, young man.” Cruz, who was only five years older than Briones, often called the lieutenant ‘young man’ as a subtle reminder of the power structure. “Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight,” he added.
“Not anymore.”
Even with the emergency lights on, it took them fifty minutes to get to the hospital. Dusk had set in as they pulled into the lot by the emergency room. Traffic congestion in Mexico City was infamous, especially during rush hour, and it could take close to forever to cross the city during peak periods.
The pair approached the marble-floored lobby of the pristine edifice and took the elevator down one floor to the operating rooms. Cruz had spoken with one of the officers sent to guard the prisoner, and he’d reported that the doctors had rushed Santiago into surgery after a hurried evaluation. The officer had called for backup, and there were now eight heavily armed tactical squad members lining the hallway to the surgical theater. Cruz walked purposefully to the officers guarding the doors of the OR.
“What are they doing in there?” he demanded.
“Some kind of procedure for his brain,” the officer replied.
“His brain? What’s wrong with it? Did they tell you anything?” Cruz asked.
“No, they just said that his pupils had a problem, so something was wrong with his brain. He never regained consciousness; that’s all we know right now.”
Cruz stalked the hallway, mind racing. A few minutes later, a green-gowned doctor emerged from the room, blood splattered down his front, and removed his surgical mask to speak with Cruz.
“I’m Dr. Consera. I presume you’re running this show?” he asked Cruz.
“Captain Cruz. Yes, this is my prisoner. He shot four of my men this morning and was taken after a considerable struggle,” Cruz informed him, for the record.
“Well, that explains the contusions and bruising…”
“Why are you operating on him? Was he hurt by the blows he sustained?” Cruz asked.
“Not really. We did a CT and an MRI, and this man has an abnormal heart. An area is enlarged, which is typical of victims of chronic atrial fibrillation.” The doctor flexed his hand, trying to get the muscles to relax. “No, what happened is that something, probably the morning’s events, caused a bout of fibrillation, and a clot formed in his heart and then traveled to his brain. Your man had a massive stroke. We went in through his leg and removed as much of it as we could so blood flow could return to the affected area of the brain, but it’s anyone’s guess how much permanent damage he’s experienced. In these cases, you just don’t know,” Dr. Consera explained.
“So he’s in a coma?”
“Precisely. His brain has been deprived of blood for at least an hour and a half, maybe more. Blood carries oxygen. Human tissue requires oxygen to live. If it was totally deprived of blood for that long, or longer, it doesn’t look good for him.”
“Then what’s the prognosis, as we speak?” Cruz asked.
“Poor. It would be a miracle if he ever regained consciousness. But in the end, we’ll just have to wait and see. I’d normally do a positron emission tomography scan of his brain to see what level of activity the area the clot-affected portion retains, if any, but it would be a waste of time at present. Maybe in a few days, but right now, he’s in God’s hands,” the doctor concluded.
“Or the devil’s. The man is a major narcotraficante , Doctor, and probably snorted kilos of cocaine every week.”
“That would make the chronic heart condition much worse, of course. It would explain a lot.”
“One thing I don’t understand. How does the clot form – from his heart beating, what, faster?” Cruz asked, genuinely curious.
“Atrial fibrillation isn’t necessarily tachycardia – a racing heartbeat. It can also be where the heart skips a beat,
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