Read Online VIABLE by R. A. Hakok - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R. A. Hakok
Tags: Science-Fiction, Medical, Thrillers, Crime, Military, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Genetic engineering, Serial Killers, Thrillers & Suspense
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the bed, pulling up his shirt. The bandage was soaked, and he lifted it clear, examining the wound. The bullet had entered his right side. Low velocity round, handgun probably. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, which meant he needed to get to the bullet. He probed around the opening with his fingers, ignoring the blood that was now flowing freely from the wound. There. A lump of metal, just below his ribcage.
He sat up, twisting the caps off two of the plastic miniatures of vodka, using one to disinfect the teaspoon. The other he used to rinse his fingers, hesitating only an instant before pouring the remainder into the wound. The alcohol burned like acid and he gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing himself to continue. He placed the broken shard of mirror beside the wound, angling it so that he could see. Then before he had time to change his mind he pushed the end of the spoon in, his other hand against his back, fingers working the bullet forward.
The pain was immense and his head swam, but he fought to remain conscious. Just a few more seconds. Blood was pouring from the wound, running down his side, but he ignored it, probing with the end of the spoon to trap the bullet. That was it. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter he worked it free until finally he could see it reflected in the mirror. The deformed slug emerged from the wound and dropped onto the bedspread, already dark with his blood. With what remained of his strength he twisted the cap off another bottle from the minibar and poured the burning liquid into the wound. He tore the corner off one of the sachets of sugar and emptied the contents in after it. The granules would stem the blood flow and promote clotting. When the first sachet was empty he tore the top off another, repeating the process.
He just managed to stuff one of the ripped pieces of towel into the wound before he passed out.
9
LARSWASIN the parking lot supervising the removal of the van to the police pound in town when Doug Whitley found him.
The preliminary forensics report had come through earlier that morning but it hadn’t told him much. The van had been remarkably clean. The license plates were fake and the engine and chassis serial numbers had been removed, making it virtually impossible to trace. Other than those belonging to the two hospital orderlies, forensics had only lifted a single partial print, taken from the handgun that had been recovered from the back of the van. It was assumed that it belonged to the man who had recently fled the hospital. A match was likely to be difficult, but it was nevertheless being run through the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. There were no prints from the driver, although the techs had found traces of powder on the steering wheel that indicated he might have been wearing latex gloves. The ballistics report confirmed what Lars had suspected – all shots had been fired from inside the van. The bullet that had wounded the man who had been strapped to the gurney had come from the front of the vehicle. The man in the back wearing the Nevada Highway Patrol uniform had been killed by a 9mm round fired from the handgun that had been found on the floor next to the bench seat, powder burns on his shirt indicating that the shot had been fired at close range. Lars was staring into the back of the van, trying once again to figure out what in hell might have caused the men in the back to start shooting at each other when Doug walked over.
‘Sheriff, just got a call from Sue over in the lab, says she has something to show me. Care to tag along?’
A middle-aged woman in a white lab coat was bent over a microscope when they entered the lab. She stood up, ushering them over to a corner next to the window where a pot of coffee was bubbling over an old Bunsen burner. She offered them each a paper cup brimming with the thick, dark liquid. Lars suspected it wasn’t Sue’s first hit of the morning.
He sat up, twisting the caps off two of the plastic miniatures of vodka, using one to disinfect the teaspoon. The other he used to rinse his fingers, hesitating only an instant before pouring the remainder into the wound. The alcohol burned like acid and he gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing himself to continue. He placed the broken shard of mirror beside the wound, angling it so that he could see. Then before he had time to change his mind he pushed the end of the spoon in, his other hand against his back, fingers working the bullet forward.
The pain was immense and his head swam, but he fought to remain conscious. Just a few more seconds. Blood was pouring from the wound, running down his side, but he ignored it, probing with the end of the spoon to trap the bullet. That was it. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter he worked it free until finally he could see it reflected in the mirror. The deformed slug emerged from the wound and dropped onto the bedspread, already dark with his blood. With what remained of his strength he twisted the cap off another bottle from the minibar and poured the burning liquid into the wound. He tore the corner off one of the sachets of sugar and emptied the contents in after it. The granules would stem the blood flow and promote clotting. When the first sachet was empty he tore the top off another, repeating the process.
He just managed to stuff one of the ripped pieces of towel into the wound before he passed out.
9
LARSWASIN the parking lot supervising the removal of the van to the police pound in town when Doug Whitley found him.
The preliminary forensics report had come through earlier that morning but it hadn’t told him much. The van had been remarkably clean. The license plates were fake and the engine and chassis serial numbers had been removed, making it virtually impossible to trace. Other than those belonging to the two hospital orderlies, forensics had only lifted a single partial print, taken from the handgun that had been recovered from the back of the van. It was assumed that it belonged to the man who had recently fled the hospital. A match was likely to be difficult, but it was nevertheless being run through the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. There were no prints from the driver, although the techs had found traces of powder on the steering wheel that indicated he might have been wearing latex gloves. The ballistics report confirmed what Lars had suspected – all shots had been fired from inside the van. The bullet that had wounded the man who had been strapped to the gurney had come from the front of the vehicle. The man in the back wearing the Nevada Highway Patrol uniform had been killed by a 9mm round fired from the handgun that had been found on the floor next to the bench seat, powder burns on his shirt indicating that the shot had been fired at close range. Lars was staring into the back of the van, trying once again to figure out what in hell might have caused the men in the back to start shooting at each other when Doug walked over.
‘Sheriff, just got a call from Sue over in the lab, says she has something to show me. Care to tag along?’
A middle-aged woman in a white lab coat was bent over a microscope when they entered the lab. She stood up, ushering them over to a corner next to the window where a pot of coffee was bubbling over an old Bunsen burner. She offered them each a paper cup brimming with the thick, dark liquid. Lars suspected it wasn’t Sue’s first hit of the morning.
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