Authors: Brent Coffey
“Whoever this is, ignore them. Keep operating, and don’t let up, unless I tell you to. We have the element of surprise,” Gabe told Sandefur. She nodded.
Her five surgical nurses glanced at him wide eyed. What element of surprise was he talking about, who was coming in, and why would the surgery be interrupted? They’d assumed Gabe was a resident in training, not recognizing him behind his surgical mask.
“Don’t draw unless I tell you to,” he added.
She nodded “okay” without looking up from her patient.
When the door opened, Don’s guy stepped in, with his left hand buried in his pants pocket. Gabe was glad it was just one guy. He decided to let the guy draw his gun first, because that would be the only way the guy would feel confident enough to come inside and close the door. Sandefur kept her eyes on Bruce’s insides, trying not to tremble from fear of being shot. She had to keep her hands steady now, as the colon was almost entirely cut out, and these last few slices required laser like precision.
Closing the door and locking it from the inside, the guy drew heat, walked confidently up to Sandefur, and pressed the gun’s barrel against the back of her head. She steeled herself for the worst, but she never stopped operating. If she was going to die, she was going to go out helping Bruce until the very end.
“I don’t see a flatline on that monitor,” the gunman observed. “Why don’t I see a flatline on that monitor?”
“You don’t see a flatline on that monitor because his heart’s still beating, and, if you want yours to keep beating, you got two goddamn seconds to drop the gun.”
The gunman hadn’t expected to have a gun pressed against his own head. He’d mistaken Gabe for the surgeon that Gabe was dressed as. Now, a barrel was pushing so hard against the gunman’s left temple that he could feel the jutting metallic ring imprinting an “O” in his skin. The guy caught a glimpse of Gabe’s face, as Gabe pulled his mask down so the piece of shit would know who he was fucking with. The guy’s gun hit the floor, and his hands froze where they were.
“Walk slowly away from the operating table,” Gabe ordered.
The guy didn’t hesitate to obey. Gabe kept the gun pressed to his head, as they both inched away from Bruce’s open body. Sandefur kept working: her heart rate slowed from its previous state of explosive shock, once she saw Gabe had things under control. Her nurses, all certified surgical assistants, stared in disbelief at Gabe and the other gunman, afraid to move.
“I need total concentration from you five! We have a job to do, and we’re going to get this patient through this safe and alive!” Sandefur shouted in a commanding tone. Her confidence brought her nurses back to their tasks. They didn’t know what the hell was going on, but Sandefur seemed to know what was going on, and that put them at (mild) ease. They turned their attention back to Bruce.
“Who’s waiting for you outside? And don’t tell me you drove yourself, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out,” Gabe demanded.
“Don Filippo, his driver, and one other guy.”
“What kind of car are they in?”
“A brown Rolls.”
“Call Don. Tell him Hudson is dead. Tell him there’s Staties here, so you’ll be coming out in a disguise, a blue surgeon’s uniform and dark shades. Tell him you’ll be carrying a backpack as part of your disguise. Tell him that it’ll be a while, probably a couple of hours, before you’re able to leave, because you need to wait for most of the Staties to clear out.”
The guy cautiously pulled his cell out, deliberately letting Gabe see every motion his hands made. With his cell in hand, he phoned Don and told him about Hudson’s death, about needing to wait for most of the Staties to leave, and about the disguise he’d be wearing.
“Good,” Gabe said with a grin. “Now drop the phone on the floor too.” Speaking to Sandefur without taking his eyes off Don’s goon, Gabe asked, “Can you spare a nurse?”
“I can now. The surgery’s almost complete. It’s just a matter of putting in some sutures and stapling him shut.”
“I need a nurse to put this guy to sleep with some potent stuff. I can’t keep a gun on him forever, and I need to do other things.”
None of the nurses volunteered for Gabe’s assignment. They kept busy, pretending to be so concerned with Bruce that they hadn’t heard Gabe’s request.
“Rick, get an IV and administer propofol,” Sandefur finally ordered.
Rick, a new hire, stared at Sandefur, afraid, not wanting to move towards Gabe and the goon.
“Do it, Rick! We don’t have time for chicken shit, and if that guy gets lose he might kill us all!”
Her raised voice jarred Rick from his inactivity, and he rushed for an IV and a bag of liquid sleep.
Don’s goon kept his hands obediently steady, as Rick carefully inserted the needle to start the IV. The goon knew better than to fight the nurse while Gabe was covering him. Gabe was glad to see that the drug being used was propofol. Every mobster knew about propofol. Besides being a common sedative, it was also the drug used in lethal injections.
“Get on your knees,” Gabe commanded.
The goon complied.
“Oh God!” Rick exclaimed, turning away from them both and puking.
Gabe increased the IV’s injectable flow rate from 1% to 100%, putting out a whopping 100 ml of the stuff at a lethal pace.
Don’s guy didn’t bother protesting. He preferred the drug to the bullet. Propofol had always been the mob’s preferred way of being executed by the state. It wasn’t as harsh as electrocution. The guy knew his was time was up, and he was glad to be going out in the most soothing way possible, death by sedative. Gabe was glad the guy was dying without a fight. He didn’t want to shoot the guy, because the blast would attract the wrong kind of attention.
“Close your eyes, and don’t move,” Gabe commanded.
Moments later, Gabe checked his pulse. The Filippo force was minus one goon.
“How long before Hudson wakes up?” Gabe asked.
“It’ll be at least a couple of hours. This was a serious operation, and he must rest,” Sandefur responded.
Gabe pocketed his gun in his blue smocks and pulled up a chair to wait. Normally, a recovering patient was wheeled in his bed to the recovery unit, but Sandefur decided to keep Bruce here, in case other Filippo strongmen were making their rounds.
“I need you to bring me a couple of tanks of gas, a backpack, and a lighter,” Gabe said.
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The woman arrived by taxi, the same way she’d come 27 years ago. Older, heavier, and worn down by years of grief, she made her way through St. Knox’s entrance. The front of the hospital was exactly as she remembered it, when she’d delivered her son. She walked up to the information desk and gave her name to the receptionist working the counter. Soon, a nurse came out and walked her to the GI unit.
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Hours later, after much needed rest, Bruce came to. At first, he struggled to have coherent thoughts and shake off the deep sleep that his meds had knocked him in. Eventually, he remembered who he was, why he was here, and his life came back into focus. He saw a surgeon dressed in blue sitting in front of him, with a backpack at his feet. The surgeon spoke in a concerned voice:
“How’s it going?”
“I’m fine, I think,” Bruce said groggily.
Bruce slowly shifted in his bed, too sore to do much more than look around. Sitting up was out of the question.
“Here,” the man in blue offered, seeing Bruce struggle to rise. He pressed a button on the hospital bed and elevated Bruce.
“How’s that?”
“Better,” Bruce responded. “I take it everything’s alright with me?”
“Everything’s fine. Your colon’s out, and your colitis is gone. Martha and August will be happy with your progress.”
Bruce smiled at the welcomed news. But as further sobriety settled in, he startled:
“How did you know about my family?”
Gabe pulled down his surgeon’s mask. Bruce met his gaze, sighed, and let out a disappointed whistle:
“So, this is it, huh? My end of the line?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I’d have killed you in surgery.”
Bruce couldn’t think of a comeback. Gabe pulled his gun out and unloaded it, showing Bruce he meant no harm.
“Is that better?” Gabe asked.
Bruce asked the million dollar question:
“What’s this between you and August? The kid likes you. He told me so. And he says you’re not as bad as I think. He says you owned up to a bunch of stuff and apologized.”
“He’s right. I did.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the end of my line, and this is how I wanna go out.”
“What’s happening to you? Is it the Filippos?”
“I’m going to take out Don Filippo,” Gabe paused, “… to keep August safe.”
“What does that mean? Why is he in trouble with the Filippos?”
“They likely saw him with me, and they might’ve mistaken him for my son, and that makes him their enemy. I’ve got to get Don before he gets August.”
“I still don’t get it. Why bother with August at all? Is this some sort of twisted way of getting even with me for prosecuting you?”
“It started out that way. I had a guy do some snooping around on you, when I was being held in county. I was trying to plan something that would scare the shit out of you, something that would force you into a back room kind of deal, off the record. But then I heard you were trying to adopt this kid… and I heard about his parents… I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Couldn’t do what anymore?”
“Couldn’t go on pretending like this was the life I’d always wanted.”
Gabe filled Bruce in on his personal history. He also told him about killing Victor and Unique. Bruce was speechless for a long time. He couldn’t doubt Gabe’s story. Gabe hadn’t killed August when presented with the opportunity. And he hadn’t killed him when given the chance. After a lengthy silence, Bruce asked:
“But what if I had won the case? What if you’d been locked up? What would’ve been your response?”
“I would’ve gone to jail,” Gabe shrugged. “After I heard about August, I was done with the Adelaides, and I wanted out. In this business, there’s only two ways of getting out, a prison sentence or death. I no longer cared about how I retired.”
Bruce absorbed the candor of his response and believed, for the first time, that there wasn’t bad blood between them. But, Bruce was still curious:
“Why are you here now? Why didn’t you just leave after you paid for my surgery?”
Gabe told him about the Filippos’ plot to kill him. He pointed to the dead body across the room, lying in cold stiffness. Bruce’s tunnel vision on Gabe had prevented him from seeing the dead guy sooner. Bruce was astonished to learn that a man he’d prosecuted had saved his life.
“So what happens now?” Bruce wondered.
“Move August to another home, and be discreet about it. The Filippos are dangerous, and, if they’re coming after you, he’s in danger. Even if I’m able to kill Don, Don’s oldest son might still pursue you, and that keeps August at risk if he’s in your home.”
“That’s not happening. You can’t expect us to give August to another home. I’ve been through so much. Martha and I have been through an emotional hell over that kid. Wanting to adopt him, being disqualified as unfit parents, worried sick about him when he was with you, and now that my health is better, the best it’s been in years, you want us to pass on adopting? You can’t be serious. It’ll break Martha’s heart.”
“It’ll break her heart even more if something happens to him, because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re the D.A. in a city that doesn’t have room for the mob and a D.A. Think about it. Think about the kid’s good.”
Gabe deeply regretted this. His plan from the very beginning had been to see August placed with the Hudsons. He’d wrongly thought the Filippos would consider the D.A. and his family off limits. Now he knew otherwise.
Bruce stared at the dead Filippo goon on the floor. The man had been sent to kill him, and there might be more men on the same mission. He sighed heavily. Gabe was right. Adopting August was out of the question. It put August at unnecessary risk.
“You went through all this trouble to improve my health, and no good came of it for the little guy,” Bruce said with an ironic laugh.
“I wouldn’t say that. The kid was living in a shitty home that didn’t take care of him. Since he’s been with me and you, he’s been with people who wanted him around.”
Gabe shot a knowing look at the backpack on the floor next to him. Rising, he said:
“Do me a favor. Tell August I said ‘hey.’”
“You can tell him yourself. Turn around.”
Gabe turned and saw Martha and August holding hands behind him, with August carrying Zoggy in his other hand. Martha knew Bruce hadn’t wanted her to visit him, out of concern for her safety. But she couldn’t help it. She had to know, to see that he was alright, and she was banking on Staties to keep her and August safe. She saw the man collapsed on the floor, and she was visibly disturbed. Gabe took a spare sheet from the foot of Bruce’s bed and covered the body. Martha and August recognized Gabe without his surgical mask.