I know in my gut, if I don’t track him down before I leave… it will truly be over. Our second chance will evaporate on the wind, a fleeting promise gone before fulfillment.
Maybe it’s bad timing.
Maybe it’s bad luck.
Or maybe…
We’re just not meant to be.
THIRTY-FOUR
archer
When I snap backinto consciousness, I’m lying on a medical gurney with strangers crowded around me. The patches on their uniform sleeves say EMERGENCY MEDICAL TECHNICIAN. Their faces flash blue-red-blue-red in the night. They’re wheeling me across the parking lot, to a waiting ambulance parked at the edge of the harbor.
“Whoa there!” The female EMT pushes firmly against my shoulders when I attempt to sit up. “Sir, calm down!”
“What happened?” My voice is croaky; my throat burns with pain, my injured vocal cords protesting at each syllable.
“You’re okay. You briefly lost consciousness. You’re going to be just fine, but we need you to stay still—”
It comes back in a flash.
Lopez.
Hands around my neck.
Squeezing the life out of me.
Sending me into the dark.
What happened after he knocked me out?
Was the raid successful?
Did they arrest everyone?
I crane my neck to either side, trying to get a look at the action unfolding all around me. I hear a cacophony of voices and sirens, but I can’t make out any details from this angle.
“Sir, I really must ask you to lay back down. We haven’t finished evaluating you—”
“I’m fine.” I push out of her hold and sit up. She backs off with her hands up, muttering something about not getting paid nearly enough to deal with impossible patients who won’t let her do her goddamn job. My visual field dances a bit but clears after a few hard blinks. Besides the passing dizziness and bruised throat, I feel totally normal.
Well, almost normal.
When I swing my legs over the side of the stretcher and stand, I sway a bit on my feet.
My eyes scan the parking lot, seeking any point of familiarity in the chaos. Uniformed agents swarm the docks like a hive of agitated bees. A fleet of unmarked black SUVs fill the lot usually reserved for rusty bait-trucks and flat-bottomed dinghies. I spot Agent Stanhope hauling a highly combative Gordo toward a waiting van. There are handcuffs on his wrists. He’s cursing like a sailor, struggling like a rabid dog on a leash. Stanhope looks like she’s enjoying herself — her step is practically jaunty as she forces him into the backseat of an armored DEA cruiser and slams the door shut behind him.
Pomroy looks somewhat less enthused as he and two other agents attempt to get Stutter into the back of a second vehicle.
I make my way in their direction, winding a path around several officers chattering into radios, bypassing crime scene analysts carrying sealed evidence bags in the direction of the trawler. I’ve never seen so many law enforcement personnel in one place. Coast Guard, DEA, Gloucester PD, State Police. Even a few firefighters are on the scene, milling about with the EMT crew.
“Archer.” Pomroy’s hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes. “You okay? I thought you were headed to the hospital.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You were out cold when SWAT pulled you out of there. Maybe you should get checked over—”