too close to this. OSI can do a joint investigation if they want, but I seriously doubt your command will let you be part of it. Now calm down and tell me what you know.”
Quinn’s nostrils flared. The man was only doing his job. And yet Quinn felt the pressing need to hit someone, so it might as well be DeKirk.
Thibodaux snatched up a Sports Afield magazine from the lobby chair and borrowed a pen from Agent Torrance. Scrawling something quickly on the back cover, he held it up toward the FBI agent in a hand the size of a pie pan, trying to mediate. “Little suggestion here, DeKirk, why don’t you get ahold of your boss’s boss’s boss and have him give this number a call. They will verify that you should cooperate with us. That way, we won’t all have to pee on everything to mark our territory.” The big Marine gave a smug grin. “How ’bout that?”
“Whose number is this?” DeKirk eyed the magazine.
Thibodaux shrugged. “Ask your boss.”
“I thought you were just Air Force OSI,” DeKirk scoffed.
“I am,” Quinn said.
Fuming, the agent whipped out his cell phone as if it were a weapon. He ripped the back page off the magazine and stepped away to make his call just as a tall man in green hospital scrubs walked through the double doors from surgery.
He wore a black cloth surgeon’s cap imprinted with red chili peppers. A mask hung around his neck and paper booties from the OR still covered his shoes.
Quinn felt his heart in his throat when the surgeon smiled a noncommittal smile. It was closemouthed, but hopeful—certainly not the smile of someone with horrific news.
Ronnie Garcia reached to take Quinn’s hand in hers, squeezing it tight.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “It’ll be a few minutes before they get her settled in recovery. She’ll be groggy but you can see her.”
Relief and guilt washed over Quinn. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.
“There are some issues we need to discuss.” The surgeon folded long fingers together at his lap. “She lost a lot of blood.” His eyes shot sideways, almost imperceptibly. It was just for a moment, but Quinn saw it and braced himself for what was about to come next.
“The bullet was moving extremely fast when it hit her,” the surgeon continued. “There was a massive amount of hydrostatic damage to the nerves and surrounding tissue. Rounds like this tend to tumble.” He shook his head as if recalling the damage—impassive, clinical. “We tried our best, but there was no way to save her leg.”
Quinn’s mouth hung open, stunned. He nodded stupidly but said nothing. What could he say? Kim’s nightmares for him had now fallen on her.
“If it helps,” the surgeon went on, his voice calm and earnest without a hint of condescension, “I’m an old Air Force surgeon and I’ve seen hundreds of wounds like this one. I could have had an OR table set up right beside her when she was shot and we still wouldn’t have been able to save that leg.”
He put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Son, you had about three minutes out there to keep her from bleeding to death. You did a hell of a job. I’ll get her set up with a good rehab and prosthetics guy, a friend of mine. He can work miracles.”
Special Agent Torrance cleared his throat as the surgeon walked away. DeKirk stood next to him, seething like a smoldering coal. Apparently the phone call had done the trick, but he wasn’t happy about it.
Agent Torrance spoke first. “We don’t have much yet, sir, but you get all we have.”
Quinn said nothing. The last thing he wanted to do was turn this into a turf war.
“The shooter abandoned the rifle in a tree that looks like the shooting platform,” Torrance went on. “A heavy-barreled Remington 700 MLR in .338 Lapua.”
“Hmmm.” Quinn mulled the information over. It was no wonder Kim had lost her leg. MLR stood for Medium Long Range rifle. The .338 Lapua had been purpose-built as a sniper round, capable of sending a
Quinn’s nostrils flared. The man was only doing his job. And yet Quinn felt the pressing need to hit someone, so it might as well be DeKirk.
Thibodaux snatched up a Sports Afield magazine from the lobby chair and borrowed a pen from Agent Torrance. Scrawling something quickly on the back cover, he held it up toward the FBI agent in a hand the size of a pie pan, trying to mediate. “Little suggestion here, DeKirk, why don’t you get ahold of your boss’s boss’s boss and have him give this number a call. They will verify that you should cooperate with us. That way, we won’t all have to pee on everything to mark our territory.” The big Marine gave a smug grin. “How ’bout that?”
“Whose number is this?” DeKirk eyed the magazine.
Thibodaux shrugged. “Ask your boss.”
“I thought you were just Air Force OSI,” DeKirk scoffed.
“I am,” Quinn said.
Fuming, the agent whipped out his cell phone as if it were a weapon. He ripped the back page off the magazine and stepped away to make his call just as a tall man in green hospital scrubs walked through the double doors from surgery.
He wore a black cloth surgeon’s cap imprinted with red chili peppers. A mask hung around his neck and paper booties from the OR still covered his shoes.
Quinn felt his heart in his throat when the surgeon smiled a noncommittal smile. It was closemouthed, but hopeful—certainly not the smile of someone with horrific news.
Ronnie Garcia reached to take Quinn’s hand in hers, squeezing it tight.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “It’ll be a few minutes before they get her settled in recovery. She’ll be groggy but you can see her.”
Relief and guilt washed over Quinn. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.
“There are some issues we need to discuss.” The surgeon folded long fingers together at his lap. “She lost a lot of blood.” His eyes shot sideways, almost imperceptibly. It was just for a moment, but Quinn saw it and braced himself for what was about to come next.
“The bullet was moving extremely fast when it hit her,” the surgeon continued. “There was a massive amount of hydrostatic damage to the nerves and surrounding tissue. Rounds like this tend to tumble.” He shook his head as if recalling the damage—impassive, clinical. “We tried our best, but there was no way to save her leg.”
Quinn’s mouth hung open, stunned. He nodded stupidly but said nothing. What could he say? Kim’s nightmares for him had now fallen on her.
“If it helps,” the surgeon went on, his voice calm and earnest without a hint of condescension, “I’m an old Air Force surgeon and I’ve seen hundreds of wounds like this one. I could have had an OR table set up right beside her when she was shot and we still wouldn’t have been able to save that leg.”
He put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Son, you had about three minutes out there to keep her from bleeding to death. You did a hell of a job. I’ll get her set up with a good rehab and prosthetics guy, a friend of mine. He can work miracles.”
Special Agent Torrance cleared his throat as the surgeon walked away. DeKirk stood next to him, seething like a smoldering coal. Apparently the phone call had done the trick, but he wasn’t happy about it.
Agent Torrance spoke first. “We don’t have much yet, sir, but you get all we have.”
Quinn said nothing. The last thing he wanted to do was turn this into a turf war.
“The shooter abandoned the rifle in a tree that looks like the shooting platform,” Torrance went on. “A heavy-barreled Remington 700 MLR in .338 Lapua.”
“Hmmm.” Quinn mulled the information over. It was no wonder Kim had lost her leg. MLR stood for Medium Long Range rifle. The .338 Lapua had been purpose-built as a sniper round, capable of sending a
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