Goldhammer (A James Flynn Escapade Book 3) Page 2

  Sancho hurried down the corridor to find the source of the screaming. Ear-splitting in its intensity, it echoed off the cinderblock walls and down the halls.

  Sancho found the room and entered to find a petite brunette in her early twenties strapped to a hospital bed, her dirty, tear-smeared face contorted with fear. Young and pretty, she reminded Sancho of Emma Watson, that English actress from the Harry Potter movies. She writhed and struggled against the wrist and ankle straps and stared at Sancho with a furious intensity.

  “Let me go! Please! Please! They’ll kill me!”

  “Who?”

  She let out an ear-shattering shriek so loud it even woke Mrs. Jakobs, the narcoleptic in the next bed.

  “No one’s going to kill you,” Sancho said with a soothing voice.

  “I might,” Mrs. Jakobs mumbled.

  “Please! Pleeeease!” the young woman begged.

  Sancho figured they brought her in sedated during the night shift and she woke up strapped to her bed, not knowing where she was or what was happening. He looked at her chart, noted her name, and patted her hand. “Chloe, look at me. You’re going to be okay.”

  “He wants me dead. He tried once. He’ll try again!”

  Sancho squeezed her hand. “You’re safe here.”

  “No, no, no, he knows I know! He can’t let me live!”

  “Who can’t?” The voice came from behind Sancho, and it was so deep, comforting, and commanding, it immediately calmed the girl. The accent was British and Chloe stopped struggling to stare.

  Sancho knew who it was without having to turn around. “Hey James, no worries, man, I got this.”

  “She clearly believes someone intends to do her harm.”

  “She’s just confused, dude.”

  Sancho watched as James Flynn entered the room and approached Chloe’s bed. Tall and strikingly handsome, he wore a navy blue, single-breasted, slim cut suit with a light blue shirt and a gray silk tie. It fit him tightly, which only emphasized his wide shoulders and powerful arms. Unlike Sancho, he didn’t have a mark on his face. “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Chloe.”

  “What a lovely name.” Flynn pulled out a pocket square and dabbed her tears. “If I remember correctly, it’s from the Greek and harkens back to Demeter. The Goddess of fertility.”

  “Dude.”

  “We need to get these restraints off her, Sancho.”

  Chloe looked at Flynn with big brown eyes brimming with tears, her voice a whisper. “Someone’s trying to kill me, doctor.”

  “James ain’t no doctor,” Sancho said.

  “Who are you then?”

  “A friend.” Flynn unbuckled one of the straps.

  Sancho grabbed his wrist. “You can’t be doing that, man.”

  “We can’t very well expect her to protect herself if she’s trussed up like a turkey.”

  Sancho watched with a worried look as Flynn unfastened each restraint. “Durkin won’t be happy, dude.”

  “Is that who strapped her down like this? Nurse Durkin?”

  “It was indeed.” Durkin’s harsh, flat, emotionless voice filled Sancho with fear as he turned to see her standing in the doorway.

  The head nurse at City of Roses was as tall as Flynn but considerably wider, tipping the scales at over two hundred pounds. She sported an immense bosom barely restrained by her starchy, white nurse’s uniform. Her hair, tied back in a tight red bun, sat atop a wide, meaty face. She directed two icy blue eyes at Sancho and Flynn.

  “Mr. Perez, you know the rules. You can’t let patients like Mr. Flynn run roughshod over them.”

  Chloe looked at Flynn with surprise. “Patient?”

  “I’m sorry, Nurse Durkin,” Sancho said. “But I didn’t want to upset her more than she already was.”

  “Patients need discipline. Boundaries. Without them they feel out of control.”

  O’Malley and Barker loomed behind Durkin. The two burly orderlies traded smiles as they leered at Chloe’s naked legs. Sancho tugged her hospital gown down as Flynn worked on opening her last restraint.

  The two goons stepped into the room and pulled Flynn away from the bed. Flynn’s jaw grew taught with anger. Sancho got between them and put his hands lightly on Flynn’s chest. “Dude, just stay cool.”

  O’Malley grabbed Chloe by her right wrist and wrenched it back into the restraint. She slapped him with her left hand, leaving a red mark and enraging the big man. Barker caught her arm before she could slap O’Malley again. As she fought to free herself, Barker twisted her arm until she winced and cried out.

  “Whoa, whoa, not so rough!” Sancho tried to intervene. Barker elbowed him in the gut, backing him up.

  Durkin looked on as Chloe kicked and struggled. “Get those restraints back on her!”

  O’Malley bent her arm back and Chloe cried out, “No! No! No! Let me go!”

  Flynn put his hand on O’Malley’s shoulder. “Enough! You’re hurting her.”

  O’Malley tried the same elbow-in-the-gut move he used on Sancho, but Flynn turned just in time and used the bigger man’s momentum to pull him back, sweeping O’Malley’s feet out from under him. Down he went, his head bouncing off the floor.

  Barker released Chloe’s wrist to go after Flynn. He was wider, but Flynn stood taller and moved faster. He sidestepped the attack, tripping him. Barker fell and his fat head collided with O’Malley’s. Both collapsed in a heap.

  Nurse Durkin looked perturbed as Flynn attended to Chloe. “Are you all right?”

  Chloe nodded through tears as an angry O’Malley used the hospital table to pull himself up.

  Flynn casually kicked it out from under him and O’Malley fell back down, clunking heads with Barker again.

  Sancho saw the syringe in Durkin’s hand an instant before she injected Flynn in his right shoulder. Flynn tried to jerk away, but it was too late. He glared at her, his eyes flashing with fury. “Nurse Durkin, what did you do?”

  “I gave you something to relax you.”

  O’Malley and Barker scrambled up, their faces red with rage and embarrassment.

  Sancho took Flynn by the arm and tried to usher him out of there. “Let’s get you back to your room, brother.”

  “I got this.” O’Malley growled, grabbing Flynn by his other arm.

  A tug of war ensued before Durkin finally took charge. “Let him go, O’Malley. Get those restraints back on Miss Jablonski.” She then aimed her chilly eyes at Sancho. “Perez, take Mr. Flynn back to his room.”

  Flynn tried to turn around, but he wavered unsteadily as the sedative and antipsychotic cocktail did its thing. “Come on, James. Let’s get you to bed before you take a header.”

  “I was just simply… I was trying… I only wanted…”

  “I know, brother. I got you.”

  Durkin injected Chloe with her own B52 cocktail. Being much smaller, the drugs took immediate effect. She sank back into the bed as Barker and O’Malley tightened the restraints. Her big brown eyes locked on Flynn as Sancho ushered him out.

  “He’s not a doctor?” Chloe mumbled, her eyes beginning to droop. “What is he?”

  “He’s out of his goddamn mind,” O’Malley said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In 1429, the three kingdoms of Okinawa came together as one. The Kingdom of Ryukyu. When King Shō Shin came to power in 1477, he banned the practice of martial arts. The ban continued even after Japan invaded the island in 1609. Rebels secretly practiced the ancient arts and this led to the development of kobudō, a practice that uses common household an
d farming implements as weaponry. They combined Chinese martial arts with their own existing arts to create what came to be known as Okinawan Karate.

  Flynn awoke to the sound of someone belting the title song of Rogers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma. One of the older agents, a Miss Doris Frawley, claimed to have placed fourth in 1948’s Miss Arkansas pageant. She often started the day with a show tune.

  Flynn started the day in a very different way. He slept in a pair of sea island cotton boxer shorts and, upon waking, dropped to the floor to pump out forty press-ups. He would do them excruciatingly slowly. Until his muscles screamed. Turning onto his back, he’d do countless straight leg lifts until he couldn’t do another. Rising to his feet, he performed twenty standing toe touches, twenty jumping jacks, and then handstand press-ups, upside down against the wall. From his inverted position, he saw Doris Frawley smiling at him from the doorway.

  “You’re looking very handsome today, Mr. Flynn.”

  “And you look lovely as always, Miss Frawley.”

  The nonagenarian grinned and shuffled off down the hallway, belting out “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning.”

  Flynn glanced at his roommate, still asleep in his bed. Q headed Q Branch and created all the Secret Service’s state-of-the-art gadgetry. Elderly and eccentric, he always slept like a rock. Not even Doris and her exuberant singing could awaken him. Flynn opened his armoire and selected a black karate gi. He slid on the zubon and then the uwagi and tied it shut in the traditional fashion with a black obi.

  Sancho still lived at home with his mama, his abuela, and his tata. However early Sancho woke up, his tata was always awake before him, bustling around the kitchen, making breakfast, and getting ready for work. At five foot two, he was five inches shorter than Sancho, but broader and stockier, with a round rock-hard stomach and huge powerful hands. He worked construction and could build anything. Tough as he was, he wasn’t the toughest person Sancho knew. That would be James Flynn. Though his abuela came in a close second.

  Sancho drove to City of Roses Psychiatric Institute with a belly full of machaca and eggs. His Aston Martin DB 9 Volante turned a lot of heads. Few orderlies could afford such a high-end luxury sports car. In fact, none of the doctors at City of Roses owned anything comparable. Flynn gifted it to Sancho after their first adventure together. He nearly sold it numerous times and recently decided to see what he could get for it. The gas, insurance and maintenance costs were killing him, and it made him uncomfortable to drive such a fancy car. He could bank the money and buy himself a Camry. It was the smart thing to do, but he really enjoyed the looks on people’s faces when they saw him behind the wheel.

  He found a spot next to some doctor’s gleaming Bimmer and headed inside to start his day. After punching in, Sancho made James Flynn’s room his first stop. No Flynn. Next, he checked on Chloe. She wasn’t in her room either. He bumped into a nurse on the way out, a slender sloe-eyed beauty originally from Jamaica.

  “Hey, Wanda, have you seen Chloe?”

  “I think she’s with Dr. Nickelson.”

  “She was really upset yesterday.”

  “She’s doing better, but she’s still pretty paranoid. Thinks some Hollywood producer wants to murder her,” Wanda said.

  “No shit?”

  “Poor thing OD’d on Demerol and almost died.”

  “They bring her in on a 5150?”

  Wanda nodded. “Yep.”

  “She looks young.”

  “She’s a baby.”

  Wanda continued on. Sancho checked the TV room and the activity room and finally found Flynn in the inner hospital courtyard. The outdoor area had raised planters with all kinds of shrubs, flowers, and other greenery, as well as tables for nurses and patients who wanted to take their lunch outside. Exercise classes were often held on the well-manicured lawn, but at the moment only James Flynn took advantage of the fresh air and sunshine.

  Flynn often exercised there, and Sancho watched him perform a complicated-looking karate kata. He executed impressive jump kicks and punches, elbow strikes and spin kicks, knife hands and hammer fists. Sancho knew the moves, not because he practiced, but because he loved watching kung fu movies.

  Flynn was built like Jean-Claude Van Damme and moved like Bruce Lee. The dude had skills, and Sancho wasn’t the only one who noticed. Nurses often took their lunch outside when Flynn practiced. He always worked up a sweat and would often take off his top, revealing a torso packed with muscle and a six-pack that would put Hugh Jackman to shame. Yeah, the nurses knew he was delusional, but he was also movie star handsome and charming as hell.

  Flynn finished his kata in “ready position”, eyes closed, as he held his breath for a count of two before letting it out. He opened his eyes and winked at the nurses watching him, enjoying their fluttery embarrassment and blushes. He spotted Sancho sitting on a cement bench and smiled.

  Sancho waved him over. “How you doing this morning, brother?”

  Flynn crossed to him, mopping his face with a hand towel. “I feel good. Fit. What about you, my friend?”

  “I’m better every day.”

  Flynn surveyed his damaged face. “Sorry about the other night.”

  “No worries, dude. How’d you sleep last night?”

  “Like a block of cement.”

  “Durkin dosed you pretty good.”

  “Yes, I’m a little upset with her and her lackeys. Young Chloe was obviously in distress. I assume our enemies held and tortured her. Was she released as part of a prisoner swap?”

  “Man, she’s here because she’s not in her right mind.”

  “Of course she isn’t. Not after what she’s been through.”

  “It was nice of you to help her, dude, but look at me. You really need to stay out of Durkin’s way.”

  “Does Durkin believe that Chloe’s been brainwashed and turned against us? I understand the need to debrief her, but that’s no reason to treat her like a traitor.”

  Sancho worked hard not to roll his eyes. “All I know is you need to keep away from her.”

  “Durkin?”

  “Chloe.”

  “You have a kind soul, Sancho. I applaud your empathy. Often compassion is seen as a weakness in our line of work. But we have to remember what we’re fighting for. We can’t become the monster to fight the monster.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Flynn needed a mission. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been operational. He was built for war. For taking the fight to the enemy. Too much inaction dulled the senses. Boredom sapped his energy and blunted his battle readiness. He worked hard to stay in condition, so when the call came he’d be ready. After all, he was a Double-0. The sharp tip of the spear. Those at the top needed to unleash him. Nothing made him feel more alive than risking life and limb. Danger made life more vivid, food and drink more delicious, the touch of a woman more exquisite.

  His lack of recent action allowed the Corsican to get the better of him. Why the killer let him live was a mystery. It’s possible Flynn wasn’t his ultimate quarry. Perhaps Flynn’s pre-emptive attack derailed his plan to take out another target. Could it have been Chloe?

  Flynn knew in his bones that Chloe was in danger. Yes, the torture she suffered created post-traumatic stress and sometimes that could result in paranoia, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t at risk. He needed to debrief her. As an expert interrogator, he knew he could discover the truth.

  After changing out of his gi and showering, Flynn put on a black polo shirt, taupe chinos, and gray suede chukka boots. He found Chloe in the lounge area with a few other agents and operatives enjoying some much-needed R&R—reading and playing cards and watching the telly. She must ha
ve finished her debriefing with the powers that be because she looked exhausted. Apparently, they decided she was no longer a threat to herself or others as they’d removed the restraints.

  She sat on a couch next to another agent. Ty was Black, young, rotund, energetic, and volatile. He had a teenager’s intensity. Flynn appreciated his passion.

  “Fact is Tupac ain’t dead. Homeboy faked the whole thing. Look at the evidence. Suge Knight paid three million for a private cremation and the bastard who did it disappeared. Poof. Gone. Tupac only had a hundred grand in the bank when he supposedly died. Didn’t own no property. How’s that possible, right? Homie made millions.”

  “Ty?”

  “Hey James.”

  “Mind if I have a word with Miss Jablonski.”

  “Who?”

  “Chloe.”

  “Who?”

  “The young lady you’re talking to.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Chloe.”

  “We’re kind of in the middle of a conversation, brother. Talking about Tupac. Brother faked his own death.”

  “You can pick it back up later. I just need a few minutes with her. It won’t take long.”

  Ty glared at Flynn and held the stare before finally acquiescing. “Fine. Gotta take a leak anyway.” He lurched to his feet, hiked up his baggy shorts, and made his way out.

  Flynn sat on the couch next to Chloe and studied her for a moment. Her eyes were half-lidded, her pupils huge and unfocused. Her chin drifted to her chest, her head bobbing as she went in and out of consciousness. No wonder they didn’t bother to strap her back in. They had her in chemical restraints.

  Flynn put his hand on her knee. “Chloe? Can you hear me?”

  She moved as if underwater, slowly turning her head, fighting the sedation as she looked at Flynn. “They drugged me with something.”

  “Try to focus. Look at me.”

  She struggled to push away the fog. “They…they don’t believe me.”