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He heard his own groan as they maneuvered him onto the board and secured his head and body. The sound reminded him he was still alive. He had to stay that way. He had to find out who'd shot him. He had to protect his legacy.
And he had to know if Ruisseau was his only legacy, or if he had another one out there—one that was a living, breathing human being.
Determination was suffocated by the fog enveloping his brain.
"Stay with us, Mr. Brooks." The paramedics were talking again. They'd lifted him onto a stretcher and were moving. They were racing him through the lobby toward the front door. Strange, he didn't remember the elevator ride down.
"Is he conscious?" Dylan grilled.
"In and out." The glass doors blew open. Thick summer air enveloped them. Manhattan pollution. A hint of it seeped around the oxygen mask and invaded his nostrils. There were flashing lights—police cars flanking the ambulance. One cop rushed up to the paramedics. More ran into the building.
He was transported to the ambulance. "Mount Sinai?" Dylan was asking the paramedic who'd climbed in beside him.
"Yup. We'll get over to Madison and fly straight uptown. With the siren on, we'll be there in minutes."
"I'm riding with you." Dylan was getting in even as he spoke.
"Uh, Mr. Newport..." The ambulance driver turned and cleared his throat uneasily. "The police want to talk to you about—"
"Fine." Dylan cut him off at the knees. "Then they can meet us at Mount Sinai. I'm riding there with Mr. Brooks. That's not up for debate. And like I said, you're bringing in a 'John Doe.' No names, no press. Let's go."
There were no further arguments. Doors slammed. A siren screamed. The ambulance zoomed off.
"Heart rate's up to a hundred seventy. BP's down to ninety over fifty." The paramedic leaned closer. "Mr. Brooks, can you tell me how old you are?"
"To-o old. F-f-ifty."
His voice mingled with the scream of the siren. The traffic on Madison Avenue seemed to part like the waters of the Red Sea.
"Carson." Dylan's voice was low, very close to his ear.
"Still... alive..." he managed.
"I never doubted it. You're indestructible."
"Yeah... tell that to whoever... did this."
"Talking isn't what I have in mind for that bastard." A pause. "Did you see who it was?"
"Saw nothing... too fast... and from behind." Carson drew a slow, raspy breath. "Dylan..."
"We'll get him, Carson. Don't worry."
"Not that." A weak shake of his head. He was fading. For now or for good, he wasn't sure. But, just in case he'd be around to hear the answer, he had to try. "That situation... I was wrestling with... the confidential one..."
"I remember."
He swallowed, fighting the waves of darkness. "If I've got a kid... I want to know. Find out."
CHAPTER 2
Tuesday, September 6th, 9:30 AM.
Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership
Auburn, New Hampshire
"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to CCTL."
