Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Friday, August 25, 4:43 P.M.
“All units, I need a Squad at Melrose and Charles, 27-D-6 G, two persons reported shot, male, early to mid-twenties.”
Gus flipped on his lights before replying. “84 in Chinatown, show me en route. Do I have a Code Four?”
“Negative, 84, BPD is still securing the scene.”
“Copy. How about an ETA on a truck?”
“That’s pending, 84—we’ll get one out to you ASAP.”
Jaw set, Gus put his focus on navigating through rush hour traffic while the dispatcher fed him the few details that’d come in about the victims. Gun violence was not common in Boston, but the crews had been slammed this afternoon with all manner of calls that kept the ambulances and Squads in constant motion. Being stuck with multiple potentially serious injuries on his own was bad luck for Gus, but keeping busy meant not having to think about the wreck that passed for his personal life these days.
Like how the only thing he looked forward to outside of work was hanging out with his cat while he sketched. How flat and colorless the world had become or how bone-achingly tired he was all the damned time. How much he missed?—
You can’t keep this up.
No, Gus really couldn’t. But for now, he had patients to manage and needed to keep his shit together.
He got the Code 4 upon pulling up to the intersection of Melrose and Charles Streets and the scene was huge with a person down on either side of Charles and a ton of cops on hand. Traffic on the surrounding streets had been thrown into chaos, and there were a ton of onlookers gathered in the humid summer air behind the crime scene tape that cordoned off the area.
“Hey, guys,” Gus called as he approached the cluster of people closest to him, a young female cop and a pair of civilians gathered around a young man who lay on his back. “How we doin’?”
“Doin’ okay,” the cop called back. “We’ve got a tourniquet on his arm, and he’s been talking the whole time. He’s in a lot better shape than the other guy.”
Gus shot a quick glance at the second group across the street before dropping his bag and kneeling. He pulled out packets of gauze and gloves and handed them off to the cop, then quickly scanned his patient. The guy was young, probably mid-twenties, and slim with olive skin and dark wavy hair he wore short. His head and torso lay in the gutter while his legs had been propped on the sidewalk, and he’d been shot in the biceps muscle of his right arm, perhaps three inches above the elbow.
“Hey, buddy, I’m Gus and I’m a paramedic,” Gus said to his patient. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Pascal.” The guy met Gus’s gaze, his hazel eyes wide. “I don’t even know what happened,” he said, sounding dazed. “We were just walking, and I heard some pops and now this.”
Gus frowned at Pascal’s choice of words. “Did you hit your head when you fell, Pascal?”
“He might have,” said one of the civilians. She had blood on her hands and looked completely freaked. “He went down like a ton of bricks.”
“The shooter fled,” the police officer said, tearing open a package of gauze. “These guys were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Nodding once, Gus handed the civilian with the bloodied hands some wipes, then checked Pascal’s wound, pleased when he found the tourniquet positioned well and tight, and that Pascal had a hole on the back of his arm too.
“You’ve got an exit wound here, buddy,” Gus said, “and that’s lucky because it means the bullet’s not stuck in your arm.”
“Yippee, I guess?” Pascal said and the mood shifted instantly, Gus and the cop exchanging amused glances while the civilians broke into nervous giggles.
“Trust me bro, you don’t want that thing inside you,” Gus said to Pascal. “If you think a bullet hurts going in, that pain is nothing compared to a doc having to take it back out.”
Unfortunately, Gus’s second patient had not been as lucky as Pascal and the second Gus got his ass across the street, his adrenaline cranked up several notches. Tyler was East Asian and stockier in build, with a bullet hole in his back just below the left scapula, a triangular bone better known as the shoulder blade. Gus couldn’t find an exit wound anywhere on Tyler’s torso, however, and the dude was sweating heavily and ashy-pale under the streetlights, too shocky for Gus’s comfort.
“I’m going to start an IV in your right arm, Tyler,” Gus said to him. “You’re going to feel a big stick, and I need you to hold still. Don’t you move, okay?”
“Oh, fuck.” Tyler grimaced as the needle slid into his vein. He was older than Pascal, probably mid-thirties, and obviously terrified. “I feel like shit.”
“I hear you, buddy, and I know this sucks really bad.” Gus taped the line down against Tyler’s skin. “I want to get some fluids in you while we wait on the ambulance.”
“Am I gonna die?”
“No, you’re not, Tyler, and I’m going to take care of you.”
Gus did, traveling back and forth between Pascal and Tyler every few minutes to ensure both remained conscious, talking, and stable until more help arrived. The cops and civilians pitched in keeping both patients alert, and when A10 and P16 arrived with Olivia in Squad 81 just behind them, Gus shifted gears, splitting the crews so there was a paramedic on each truck and sending Tyler off first in P16 followed by Pascal in A10.
“That was good work,” Olivia said as they headed back to the Squads. “You didn’t leave me much to do.”
Gus grunted. “Hope you didn’t just jinx yourself,” he said, “because today has been wild.”
“Oh, good, that’s just what I want to hear.” Huffing, Olivia cocked her head toward a nearby cafe. “Feel like grabbing a coffee with me?”
Gus could have said no. Gone to the gym instead and worked out until his brain got the message he needed rest. Because Gus and sleep had become mortal enemies again and he was so wiped these days it was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. Feeling depressed over Madoc wasn’t helping at all, of course, nor were the thoughts that’d been buzzing around Gus’s brain since Madoc’d sent a message asking to meet.
I respect that you asked for space , but I’d like to talk when you’re ready.
Gus didn’t know when he’d feel truly ready to see Madoc in person. When he was going to feel less like he was grieving the loss of a family that’d never even been his. Gus couldn’t put Madoc off forever though, especially knowing Madoc wouldn’t have asked to meet unless he’d had a good reason. So, Gus made up his mind to call him tonight. After fortifying himself with a jolt of caffeine.
“Michael and I want to adopt a kitty for Titus,” Olivia said as she stood with Gus at the counter bar in the cafe with their coffees and snacks. “Would you be up for visiting a couple of shelters with me? I’d go on my own, but I’m afraid I’ll want to adopt all of them, and I can not walk out of there with more than one cat.”
Gus smiled. “Sure, I’d be happy to go along. Lemonade needs a new leash anyway, so I can pick one up from wherever we go.”
“Maybe you could pick her up a new buddy while you’re at it.”
“Yeah, no. She’s already up half the night playing in that damned cat tree and the last thing she needs is a partner in crime.”
Chuckling, Olivia broke the snickerdoodle cookie she’d bought in half and handed a chunk to Gus. “Has she been waking you up?”
“No, but only because I’m not really sleeping,” Gus said, then nibbled at his piece of cookie. “My body clock has been all over the place since the thing with my ribs. It was better for a while”— when I was sleeping beside Madoc —“but not so much now and it feels like my brain has been literally cooked.”
“I hear you. I was a wreck after Titus,” Olivia said, sympathy in her tone and expression. “Crabby and emotional and just beat down to my bones, especially after I switched to nights. Pretty sure I put most of the crews off the idea of having kids too, though you were the exception, as usual.”
Gus frowned at her. “Me? What did I do?”
“Volunteered to act as a surrogate daddy to your partner’s kid.”
The cookie Gus’d been eating lost all its flavor. “I was just a kid-sitter, Liv,” he mumbled, only for Olivia to surprise him with a shrug.
“That’s not what I heard from Madoc.”
“Madoc did not call me a surrogate dad.”
“True. He did say there were days you spent more time with Val than he did, though. Said you baked stuff with her and taught her drawing techniques and that you froze your ass off at the hockey rink while she practiced. Even learned how to play the weird game with the goat cheese pizza and tacos.”
Instantly, Gus pictured himself at Madoc’s table, Valerie beating her chest after the Gorilla card had been thrown and gleefully collecting her winnings while Gus and Madoc laughed themselves sick.
“I was supposed to do all that stuff because I was the kid-sitter,” Gus said.
“Okay. But can you tell me Val’s favorite color?” Olivia asked.
“Purple.”
“Any clothing she loves more than all others?”
“High top sneakers and a ladybug tracksuit. Also, she has this tutu she wears around the house.”
Olivia smiled. “What foods does she hate?”
“Raisins,” Gus replied promptly. “Because they ruin everything.”
“Blasphemy. And what does she like for breakfast?”
“Bagels with cream cheese and fruit. And bolos levedos if they’re available.” Gus bit his lip. “Where are you going with this, Liv?”
“Nowhere, sweetie. But I will say I’ve met dads who know less about the kids they’ve spawned than you do about Val, a kid you’ve only known for a couple of months. And that’s because you were more than only a kid-sitter and it shows.”
Gus stared at his snack. He’d sure felt like more than a kid-sitter to Valerie. And like more than only a friend to her dad. Which was why he knew Madoc’s favorite color was green. That he kept an ancient Blade Runner t-shirt he’d had since college even though it was now at least two sizes too small. Gus knew Madoc sometimes got down thinking about his parents back in Washington but tried to hide it and that watching Gus in the boxing ring made him hot. And for as much as Madoc loathed olives, he adored marshmallow fluff to the point he refused to keep any at home.
A home that wasn’t Gus’s, no matter how badly he wished for different.
“Gus.” Concern was in Olivia’s dark eyes when Gus looked her way. “Are you all right? I feel like I said the wrong thing.”
A series of rapid-fire beeps from her radio raised the hairs on the back of Gus’s neck.
“Emergency Alert activated,” a dispatcher said. “A1, what’s your status?”
A chaos of shouts and curses came over the connection in bursts, voices yelling over one another because the mic on someone’s radio had turned hot after they’d hit their emergency button.
“Just get the fuck out of here!”
“Stop!”
“Get your hands off him!”
Amaya Monroe’s voice cut through the babbling, her tone strident. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, EMTs and paramedics in need of assistance at 43 Concord Squa—hey!”
Gus and Olivia exchanged a single wide-eyed look before they were up and booking it back out to the Squads. Noises continued to broadcast over the open channel, voices issuing insults and threats and sounds like scuffling, but Monroe didn’t reply to the dispatcher’s requests for a status and the heavy silence that followed when her mic switched itself off was infinitely worse.
“Command 8, Boston A1 and P1 are mayday and requesting assistance at 43 Concord Square,” the dispatcher said now. “Do you copy?”
“Command 8 copy,” Commander Marcel responded. “Show me en route.”
“Ten-four, Command 8. BPD is responding.” A pause and then, “All units, be aware of reports of smoke coming from 43 Concord Square, Boston Fire ETA three minutes.”
Anxiety twisted Gus’s insides. Amaya Monroe was one of the most level-headed people he’d ever worked with. If she’d declared a mayday, something was very wrong at that scene she was working with Lucky, Connor, Stark, and …
Fuck.
Quickly he pulled his phone from his pocket and dictated a message to Madoc. “Please respond,” Gus said, trying for calm and clinical. “Where are you right now?”
He sent the same message several times, aware there was no point as dread trickled through him. Gus already knew where Madoc was, of course. And that whatever wild shit was going down in that row house at Concord Square, he and their friends were square in the middle of it.
An acrid smoke stink hung over the scene as Gus and Olivia quickly donned full bunker gear with heavy jackets, pants, and helmets, and they had to sidestep the engine and ladder crews who were already hard at work containing the fire. Amaya’s mayday had drawn a ton of cops to the scene, many of them managing the neighborhood’s residents and curious passersby, but through it all Ambulances A1 and P1 stood silent and still by the curb, lights off, clearly unattended.
Forcing himself to look past them, Gus jogged over to where Commander Marcel had stationed himself on the left side of 43 Concord with several other EMTs and paramedics.
“What do we know, sir?” Gus asked him. “Any word from the crews?”
“Not at this time,” Marcel replied, expression stonier than was typical. “The building has four levels, and the fire has spread throughout the structure. Residents have been evacuated from all units with the exception of the back garden level, which is where we believe the crews from A1 and P1 are being held against their will.”
Gus swallowed past the tightness that immediately rose in his throat. This was bad. Especially knowing no one had heard from anyone on A1’s or P1’s crews since the mayday.
“The number of persons inside the residence is unknown at this time,” Marcel continued, “but Boston Fire has reported that a person in the unit threatened to discharge a firearm if the fire crews attempted entry, which is why Boston PD is stepping in.”
A cluster of officials approached then, among them a senior SWAT officer, and Marcel stepped away for a confab while Gus waited on tenterhooks along with the others. When Marcel stepped back moments later, his eyes were steely.
“SWAT’s going to breach the rear entrance,” he said, then looked to Gus and Olivia. “Dawson, Park, take up position back there with Ellis, the rest of you hold here while we wait for a Code Four. No one moves until then, do you copy?”
Gus nodded sharply. “Copy, sir!” he chorused along with the others, then set off toward a narrow cobblestoned passage between buildings 43 and 45 that connected Concord Square to Public Alley 502. Running behind the buildings on the block, the alley provided much needed space for resident parking, back gardens, and rear entrances for lower level apartments. A SWAT vehicle sat back there now competing for space with another engine truck and its crew, but the fire had spread farther too, flames licking out windows along the upper floors despite the fire hoses’ spray, the smoke thick and much darker.
Gus exchanged a nod with the fire crew’s lieutenant, then found a spot to wait at the rear of the engine truck. Glancing around, he noticed Olivia was red-faced, her expression bordering upon angry.
“Hey, they’ll be all right,” Gus said to her. “You know Lucky can charm the horns off the devil when he wants to, and he’s probably already got plans to grab coffee with whoever is holding the gun.”
Olivia grimaced. “I guess. I just …” She shook her head. “I want our guys safe, y’know?”
Oh, Gus knew all right. His last day on the job as a firefighter—his final call beside Beni—had been in this very same neighborhood, inside a building much like the one his friends were now trapped in. He knew they were likely frightened. Feared they were injured or worse. And knew that if he’d just kept his dumb ass on P1, Madoc would be doing his thing on a whole other truck in a completely different neighborhood, then going home to his girl.
Oh, God, Valerie.
Gus’s heart fell to his feet. If something happened to Madoc, what the hell was Gus going to say to her?
Focus, Dawson.
“Stand by for breach,” Marcel said over the radio.
Tensing, Gus watched SWAT approach the back entrance of the apartment, crossing the minuscule yard in a straight line, while spray from the firehoses rained over them. A final command for the residents to exit was given by the lead officer, and when it went unanswered, a cop carrying a thick battering ram knocked the door in with a single swing.
Smoke poured out past the police darting into the apartment and Gus’s heart thundered in his throat. Several figures were hustled out into the yard, gender and features unclear beneath the soot smudged on their pale faces, and then Marcel was in Gus’s ear, calling Code 4 and ordering the EMS crews to approach.
Gus sprinted into the yard with the others. He registered the cold spray from the hoses and a chorus of voices as smoke filled his nose and throat and made his eyes burn. Then Gus’s gaze was locked on the back entrance and the SWAT officers carrying out a tall, broad-shouldered male clad in a paramedic’s uniform.