Ellie froze in her tracks. Obviously, someone was in desperate need of medical help. Normally she’d have run forward to offer her assistance. But the speaker’s tone chilled her blood. She felt certain that he wanted someone to be dead.
“I’m pretty sure, Mr. Nagle,” said a different man, sounding slightly nervous. “I shot him three times.”
Ellie knew that the best thing for her to do was to walk away quietly and call the police. But she hadn’t become a paramedic because she liked to play it safe.
She stepped behind a dumpster, careful to place her feet away from anything that might snap or squish or crunch. Her heart pounding, she cautiously peered out into the alley. Though the light was dim, her eyes had adjusted to it. She could see perfectly.
Two men stood in the alley, looking down at the limp body of a third man. One man was in his fifties, tall and gray-haired, dressed in a black suit that looked out of place in the filthy surroundings. The other was in his late twenties, a big bruiser in jeans and a blood-spattered T-shirt, holding a gun. But it was the sight of the man down on the ground that made Ellie stifle a gasp.
She wasn’t shocked because he was bleeding, or because he might be dead. Ellie had cared for lots of injured people, and seen her share of dead-on-arrival bodies. What shocked her was that she recognized the man.
She didn’t know him personally, but she was familiar with his face. She’d voted for him at the last election, barely three months ago. It was Bill Whitfield, the new district attorney of Santa Martina. He’d run on the promise to fight organized crime.
He was dead. She’d been a paramedic long enough to know that, even from a distance. There was nothing she could do for him.
“Shoot him again,” the tall man ordered. “In the head. Execution-style. Just to send a message.”
“Okay, Mr. Nagle,” the younger man— the hit man— replied.
He adjusted his aim, then shot the dead man in the head. The gun must have been silenced; it made a soft popping sound, not a loud bang.
Ellie flinched. Her heart was beating so hard, she felt like it would smash through her ribs. She had to get out of there and call the police, before these men saw her and killed her too. She took one last look, memorizing their faces, then turned to tip-toe away.
A rat emerged from beneath the dumpster and scurried over her foot. She jerked backward, barely managing to stop herself from letting out a yelp. But the rat was as surprised as she was. It bolted madly into a nearby heap of beer bottles and soda cans, producing a tremendous clatter.
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Nagle.
“Someone’s there!” the hit man shouted.
Ellie flung herself forward, a second before she heard another soft pop. The bullet barely missed her head, hitting the brick wall beside her. Chips and dust exploded out, and a sharp pain stung her cheek.
She ran like she’d never run in her life. Sheer terror lent her speed. She heard the men shouting behind her, and heard another soft pop. Her lungs burned as she forced herself to go faster, expecting any second to feel the impact of a bullet in her back. Or to feel a brief explosion of pain in her head, and then nothing ever again.
She burst out of the alley, looked around wildly, and spotted the ambulance. Ellie yanked out her keys, dove for the rear door, wrenched it open, and scrambled into the rear compartment. She heard another soft pop as she slammed the heavy metal door. Ellie flinched, but she felt no pain. She hadn’t been hit.
Then she scrambled forward and slammed her hand into the button that turned on the lights and siren. Bright lights flashed, and the siren screamed.
She hoped that would be enough to scare the murderers away, but she had one more way to make sure. Ellie hit the button that projected her voice outside of the ambulance like a bullhorn. Usually she and Catalina used it to order careless drivers to get out of their way.
“GET AWAY FROM THE AMBULANCE.” Ellie’s voice boomed out, amplified and deepened. “I’VE HIT THE EMERGENCY ALERT. THE SWAT TEAM IS ON ITS WAY.”
There was no emergency alert, unfortunately. But she bet the murderers didn’t know that.
Black spots suddenly danced before her eyes, and she felt her knees give way. She sank down to the floor, dazedly thinking, So this is what it feels like to be so scared that you pass out.
Then she remembered that when she saw patients on the verge of collapsing from shock, she told them to put their head between their knees. Ellie put her head between her knees. Slowly, her vision cleared, though she still felt shaky. She fumbled for the radio button, and finally got it turned on.
“Ellie McNeil here,” she said. “Paramedic on duty at Ambulance Forty-Nine. I’ve just witnessed a murder.”
***
Ellie sucked down the dregs of her fifth cup of black coffee and glanced at her watch. 1:00 PM. If she’d had a normal night at work, she’d be at home now, fast asleep. If she was a normal person with a normal job, she’d be eating lunch.
Instead, she’d spent the last eight hours at a police station, telling and re-telling her story to multiple sets of detectives, and identifying photos of the men she’d seen. Whoever the murderers were, the police knew about them; the hit man had his photo in one of the books of mug shots, and Mr. Nagle had appeared in an envelope of photos a detective had shown her.
Ellie yawned again, wishing the police had allowed Catalina to stay and keep her company. Catalina had offered, but the police had sent her home. Now Ellie was exhausted and bored. The cops had given her coffee and sandwiches, but she’d been awake for twenty-four hours now, with no sign of being allowed to leave. And they’d been crappy sandwiches and worse coffee.
Worst of all, the last cop who’d spoken to her, Detective Kramer, had confiscated her purse to “take it into evidence.” Then she’d been left sitting alone in the room, without even her cell phone to distract her.