A Matter Of Protocol (continued)
New Orleans stirred under a December 1999 dawn, its golden light reflecting off the Mississippi's muddy ripples. Steven Bird's one-bedroom apartment on a quiet Magazine Street had creaking oak floors, the air filled with brewing coffee and damp river breeze. Through a cracked window, a moss-draped live oak swayed, its shadow dancing across faded Mardi Gras posters on peeling walls. A saxophone wailed from a French Quarter dive bar, mingling with the distant clang of a St. Charles streetcar. The radio buzzed about Y2K fears and the Saints' latest loss, but Bird's mind was elsewhere. Today, he'd guard a U.S. senator—a rookie cop thrust into a crucible that could make or break him.
His stomach churned as he cooked eggs in a chipped skillet, the sizzle barely masking his nerves. The bulletproof vest slung over a chair loomed like a challenge. Yesterday's mistakes lingered: mishandling a woman's domestic complaint, Lieutenant Stane's cryptic warning about Senator Thomson's "enemies" tied to shady business deals. Bird sipped bitter coffee, its burn grounding him as he dressed in his crisp uniform. The mirror reflected a 24-year-old with shadowed hazel eyes and a clenched jaw. His black sedan, paint chipped but reliable, waited in the lot under a flickering Gumbo Shack sign.
As Bird drove, New Orleans came alive: vendors selling pralines on Bourbon Street, buskers' saxophones weaving through crowds, tourists snapping photos of Creole balconies. The humid air carried river silt and beignet sugar, but traffic crawled, horns blaring. Bird's hands gripped the wheel, his pulse a drumbeat of dread. The Ernest N. Morial Convention Center appeared by the Mississippi, a glass-and-steel giant under a gray sky. Vendors along its riverside walkways hawked crawfish étouffée and Y2K survival kits.
Faded Sugar Bowl banners fluttered, and riverboats' horns echoing distantly. Inside, polished marble floors gleamed under chandeliers, the air sharp with cleaner and cologne. Bird's radio crackled as he joined Officer James, a wiry veteran chewing a toothpick, on perimeter duty. "Stay sharp, Bird," James muttered, scanning the crowd. "Big shots like Thomson draw trouble."
Bird nodded, throat tight. The hall was a security maze—too many exits, too many shadows. He spotted Senator Thomson, a striking man in his early 60s, striding from a side entrance. Silver-streaked auburn hair swept back, navy suit tailored to his frame, he exuded command.
Two aides flanked him: a man with short hair speaking into a headset and a small woman clutching a portfolio. They'd escorted him from a black SUV, shielding him from reporters shouting about his "crusade." Thomson's hazel eyes, sharp yet warm, met the crowd's gaze, his smile guarded.
Stane's warning echoed in Bird's mind: He's got enemies. The kind that don't play nice. The crowd settled, protest signs bobbing at the back. Bird's vest chafed, his heart pounding. Failure wasn't an option.
Thomson took the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm honored—" A sharp crack cut him off.
Screams erupted. Bird's head whipped to the balcony. A hooded figure in black, face cloaked, gripped a rifle. Their eyes locked on Bird's—cold, predatory, chilling his spine. The shooter disappeared into the shadows.
"Down!" James roared, yanking Bird behind a pillar. Blood sprayed. Thomson staggered, clutching his shoulder. His bodyguard dropped, a bullet piercing through his chest.
Bird's legs moved, terror clawing his chest. His first gunfight since he became a cop in the city, and he wasn't ready. Another shot rang out. James lurched, a bullet tearing through his temple. He collapsed, toothpick rolling free, dead.
Bird's breath caught, a raw ache spreading through him. James's lifeless eyes stared up, and for a moment, Bird froze, guilt slicing through the panic. My partner's gone.
Training kicked in. He dove for Thomson, shielding him as bullets splintered wood. "Stay with me, sir," he said, voice steadier than he felt. Thomson's eyes, wide with pain, met his. "Don't let them get me," he rasped.
Bird dragged Thomson toward a service exit, arms burning, heart slamming. Glancing back, he saw only pandemonium—chairs toppling, voices shrieking. No sign of the shooter. They stumbled into a dim corridor, pipes creaking, air thick with dust. Bird barricaded the door with a metal chair. Footsteps pounded outside—pursuers, maybe the shooter. His pistol shook in sweat-slicked hands.
The corridor led to a loading dock, its bay doors half-open to a grimy alley. Rusted dumpsters and graffiti-scrawled walls loomed, the stench of stale beer and rotting fish heavy. The Mississippi's muddy waters glinted beyond, sirens faint under riverboats' horns.
Bird scanned—no stretcher, no cart. His sedan, parked near the convention center for the detail, sat across the street, a lifeline. "Can you walk?" Bird asked. Thomson nodded weakly, leaning on him.
They staggered across the alley, exposed, Bird's eyes darting. The city's pulse—horns, street chatter—felt distant, drowned by his pounding heart. At the sedan, Bird eased Thomson into the passenger seat, blood staining the upholstery. Thomson's face was pale, eyes fluttering. "I'm Steven Bird, Officer Bird," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm gonna get you outta this, sir." Thomson's gaze flickered, a faint spark of trust.
"Thanks, Officer Bird," he whispered, voice faint. Bird slammed the door, keys jangling. A bullet pinged the hood, sparking metal. Dark figures spilled from the alley, guns flashing.
The chase was a nightmare of steel and terror. Bird floored the gas, tires screeching through the French Quarter's neon maze. Bullets came from rooftops, alleys, shadows. The rear windshield shattered, glass raining.
He swerved, dodging a streetcar's clang, heart in his throat. Bourbon Street blurred—jazz spilling from bars, tourists scattering, Mardi Gras beads glinting in headlights. A black SUV loomed behind, headlights blinding, shots tearing through the night.
A side mirror exploded. Bird's knuckles whitened, sweat stinging his eyes. He glanced at Thomson—slumped, blood pooling, breath shallow. "Hold on, sir," Bird urged, voice raw.
Thomson stirred, murmuring, "Steven…" before his head lolled against the window. Bird veered down a cobbled alley, crates toppling, the sedan scraping brick walls.
The hospital's silhouette loomed under floodlights. Bird zigzagged, the Mississippi's glint guiding him. Another shot clipped the trunk, but cop cars swarmed ahead, lights flashing.
Bird screeched into the hospital lot, tires smoking. The sedan—bullet-scratched and dented—held. "Help!" Bird shouted, lifting Thomson. The senator's auburn hair fell loose, his face ashen, blood soaking his suit.
Medics came quickly, prying him onto a gurney. "Gunshot to the shoulder!" Bird barked, following them into the ER's fluorescent glare. Antiseptic stung the air, monitors beeping chaos.
A nurse grabbed his arm. "Name?"
"Senator Thomson… Douglas Thomson," a medic snapped, reading his ID. Bird's eyes widened—Douglas Thomson, senator from Virginia, a crusader against corruption, now fighting for his life because of Bird's detail.
Cops flooded the halls, radios crackling. Bird's gaze darted to every shadow—nurses, orderlies, visitors. Was the shooter here? Stopped by the police? His hand hovered near his pistol, James's dead eyes haunting him.
As Thomson was wheeled to surgery, a distant gunshot echoed—blocks away, maybe. Bird's pulse spiked. Were their attackers still hunting? He sank into a plastic chair, hands bloodied, adrenaline crashing.
Thomson's murmured trust—"Steven"—and his limp form burned in Bird's mind. He'd saved him, for now. But someone, maybe the hooded figure, was out there, relentless. And they might come for them both.
***
Tulane Medical Center's intensive care unit was a cold, sterile world, its fluorescent lights humming like a swarm of angry wasps. The linoleum floor gleamed under their glare, streaked with scuff marks from hurried boots. Antiseptic stung Steven Bird's nostrils, warring with the faint, bitter whiff of chicory coffee drifting from a nurse's station. Senator Douglas Thomson lay motionless in the hospital bed, his face gray as ash, chest rising in shallow, mechanical breaths. Tubes snaked from his arms to a tangle of machines, their rhythmic beeping a cruel metronome of survival. Blood-soaked bandages clung to his left shoulder, marking the bullet's path.
Bird stood frozen, his rookie uniform a map of the morning's hell—smeared with dust, sweat, and specks of James's blood. At twenty-four, he felt like a fraud in that badge, a boy drowning in a man's war. His navy-blue uniform hung loose, the collar frayed where a bullet had grazed during the chase. Bullet holes pocked his jacket, fabric torn over his left sleeve, and his boots were caked with convention center grit. The bulletproof vest he'd worn lay discarded, but its weight still pressed his shoulders, a phantom ache. His sandy hair was matted, slick with sweat, and his hazel eyes—red-rimmed, haunted—stared at Thomson's monitors. Numbers blinked: 82 beats per minute, 94% oxygen saturation. They meant nothing to him, but they screamed failure.
Bird's hands, callused from gripping his pistol, trembled as he rubbed his neck. The morning's chaos clawed at him, dragging him back to where it all went wrong. It had started at the New Orleans police station, a domestic complaint that exposed his inexperience. The The morning's events haunted him: Thomson's blood on his suit, James's lifeless eyes, the shooter vanishing. At Tulane Medical Center, Thomson lay in the ICU, critical but alive. Captain Lewis' words burned: "You were supposed to protect him, Bird!" He'd gotten Thomson there through gunfire, but it wasn't enough. Lewis saw failure. Bird was just a kid from Alexandria, chasing his uncle's badge, but New Orleans was full of corruption and death. Stane's warning about Thomson's enemies—"business types who don't like snoopin'"—stuck with him. Was it a hit? The questions kept him up.
The Ernest N. Morial Convention Center loomed in his memory, its cavernous hall packed with hundreds. Thomson, known for his polished charm and unflinching stance against corruption, had barely begun his speech, his honeyed baritone silenced mid-sentenced. Bird, posted at the perimeter, had scanned the crowd, radio crackling with Stane's warning: "Thomson's got enemies, Bird. The kind that don't take kindly to snoopin'." Then the screams erupted. A hooded figure—lithe, eyes cold as a bayou gator—raised a pistol. Bullets tore through wood, glass, flesh. Bird lunged for Thomson, shoving him behind a podium, but a round grazed the senator's shoulder, blood blooming dark and fast.
Officer James had saved him. Bird saw it in agonizing clarity: James, toothpick jutting from his lips, yanking him behind a pillar. Then a crack—a single shot—and James crumpled, blood pooling beneath his temple, toothpick rolling free in the dust. Bird had frozen, heart hammering, staring into James's lifeless eyes. The shooter's gaze met his—predatory, unyielding—before they vanished into the smoke. Bird had dragged Thomson to safety, medics swarming, but James was gone. Gone because Bird hadn't been fast enough.
The chase afterward had been reckless. Bird's 1995 Ford Taurus sedan—department-issued, already battered—took a beating. The shooter's accomplice, fleeing in a black Chevy, had fired wildly. Bullets punched through Bird's windshield, spider webbing the glass. Another grazed the driver's side door, leaving a jagged dent. The rear bumper hung loose, clipped during a sharp turn through the French Quarter. Bird had lost them in the bayou's maze, his car limping back to the station. Now, in the hospital's hush, he tallied the damage. A new windshield in 1999 New Orleans ran $150–$200, per the mechanic shops on Magazine Street. Bodywork for the door and bumper? At least $500, maybe $600 with labor. His rookie stipend—$2000 a month—should be able to cover it. But then after a $400 rent he'd pay, he'd have consumed a significant portion of his take-home pay. He'd have to scrape by, maybe skip meals. The thought knotted his gut, but it paled next to James's blood on his hands.
Guilt coiled tighter, barbed and unrelenting. Bird's gaze drifted to the TV bolted to the wall, droning about Y2K fears and the Saints' dismal 3–13 season. Its blue flicker danced across Thomson's face, making him look half-dead. The Mississippi River's tang seeped through a cracked window, carrying faint jazz notes and a siren's wail. New Orleans pulsed on, indifferent to Bird's failures. He thought of James's toothpick, his easy grin, the way he'd called him "cher." Bird hadn't known his first name. Now he never would. And Thomson—why him? Stane's words gnawed: enemies, business deals. Bird's fingers brushed his empty holster, his pistol logged as evidence. The shooter was out there, and Bird would find them, green or not.
He sank onto a steel-framed bench outside Thomson's room, its vinyl cushion cracked and faded. The metal bench was sturdy and cold, built to endure. The bench creaked under his weight, its armrests scuffed from years of anxious hands. Bird leaned back, the wall's cool plaster grounding him. His uniform's stench—sweat, gunpowder, blood—clung to him, a reminder of the shootout's toll. He closed his eyes, the convention center's chaos replaying: screams, splintering wood, James's final shout. Who was Thomson to the shooter? A politician digging too deep, maybe, stirring up hornets with fat wallets and long knives. Bird's resolve flickered, fragile but growing. He'd failed James, failed Thomson, but he wouldn't fail again.
Boots rapped sharply, snapping him upright. Captain Lewis strode in, wiry frame taut, buzz cut glinting under the fluorescents. His gray eyes—hard as flint—pinned Bird. At forty-three, Lewis was a force, a beat cop turned captain through grit and scars. His voice, low and edged, cut the silence.
"Bird," he said, stopping short. "What the hell went down out there?"
Bird stood, drawl steady despite his racing pulse. "Sir, I followed protocol, secured the perimeter, kept eyes on Thomson. The shooter—they moved too fast. I got the senator to cover, but…" James's blood flashed in his mind. "Officer James took a bullet for me."
Lewis' jaw clenched, a muscle twitching. "Protocol?" he spat, voice rising just enough to sting. "You were on that detail, Bird. You and James. Thomson's fighting for his life, James is dead, and you're telling me you followed protocol?"
Bird's cheeks burned, but he held firm. "Sir, it wasn't random. The shooter knew the layout—entrances, blind spots. Someone wanted Thomson dead."
Lewis stepped closer, breath hot with coffee and fury. "You're a rookie, Bird, not some damn detective. Your job was to keep him safe, not play some streetwise gumshoe. I've got a dead cop, a senator on a ventilator, and the mayor up my ass. You got any idea the heat I'm taking?"
"Yes, sir," Bird said, throat tight. "I know I let you down, let Officer James down. But I saw that shooter's eyes. This was planned, sir."
Lewis' eyes narrowed, weighing him. Then his voice dropped, heavy with warning. "Thomson was digging where he shouldn't, Bird. Powerful men—cartel types, money launderers, the kind who hide behind fancy suits. He had the guts to pull back the curtain, and that put a target on his back. Whoever's behind this, they don't miss twice. He's safer in this hospital than out there, unless we get that shooter. You keep your head down, you hear me? This is bigger than you."
Bird nodded. Lewis' words sank deep—cartels, launderers, a conspiracy Thomson had provoked. The senator had stirred a viper's nest, and Bird was now in its coils. Lewis glanced at Thomson, his face unreadable, then spoke again, softer. "Clayborn James was a good man. Seventeen years on the force. Wife, two kids. You think about that when you write your report. On my desk by 0800. Every detail—sightlines, timing, what you saw. Internal Affairs is circling, Bird. Don't give 'em a reason."
"Understood, sir," Bird said, voice steady.
Lewis turned for the door, pausing. "And stay sharp. This ain't just a shooting. It's a message." His boots clicked down the hall, swallowed by the hospital's hum. Bird sank back onto the bench, exhaustion seeping into his bones. Lewis' warning—powerful men, bigger than you—gnawed at him. Thomson had gotten more than he bargained for, and dangerous forces wanted him silenced. Bird's hand hovered near his empty holster, James's lifeless eyes haunting him. He was in over his head, but backing down wasn't an option.
Hours bled away, the hospital's rhythm—beeping monitors, hushed voices—lulling him. His stomach growled, ignored since dawn. He stayed by Thomson's room, watching nurses come and go. Around 3 PM, two approached: Eloise, the older nurse, and Tasha, the younger one with cartoon stethoscopes on her scrubs. Bird stood, badge glinting, and cleared his throat.
"Ma'am?" he said to Eloise. "How's the senator holdin' up?"
Eloise—fiftyish, her tight bun streaked with gray—had a face etched with years of night shifts. Her brown eyes, sharp but kind, studied him over wire-rimmed glasses. Her scrubs, crisp despite the long day, hugged a sturdy frame, and her hands moved with practiced calm as she checked Thomson's chart. "Officer," she said, voice steady, "Senator Thomson sustained a gunshot wound to the left shoulder, transecting the subclavian artery. He's post-op from an emergency thoracotomy to repair vascular damage and manage a hemothorax."
Bird blinked, the terms half-sinking. "So… is he gonna make it?"
Eloise glanced at Tasha, who scribbled on a clipboard. "He's critical but stable," Eloise said. "We've controlled the acute hemorrhage, and he's on mechanical ventilation to stabilize respiratory function. But recovery's uncertain. The next forty-eight hours are critical. Risks include sepsis, pulmonary edema, or cerebral hypoxia from blood loss. He might pull through—or he might not."
Tasha, her round face softened by a braid, added, "His vitals are holding. BP's 110 over 70, O2 sats at 94 percent. That's a good sign."
"How long 'til he wakes up?" Bird pressed.
Eloise's lips thinned. "If he stabilizes, maybe days. A week. Full recovery—if no neurological deficits—could take months. Physical therapy, wound care… it's a marathon. For now, we monitor and wait."
Bird nodded, grasping at straws. "Thanks, both of you."
Tasha smiled faintly. "Rough day, huh, officer?"
"Somethin' like that," Bird said, his grin weak. The nurses left, their footsteps fading. Bird sank back onto the bench, steel frame creaking. Lewis' warning replayed: cartel types, money launderers. The shooter's eyes—cold, calculated—flashed in his mind. This wasn't a random hit. The shooter had a motive, or someone with deep pockets had paid them. Thomson's speech, his digging into corruption—it had provoked someone powerful. Bird's jaw tightened. He'd get to the bottom of it, no matter the cost. He owed James, owed Thomson, owed himself.
Time dragged, the hospital's hum hypnotic. Bird's eyelids grew heavy, his body screaming for rest. He leaned back, head against the wall, the bench's vinyl cushion stiff under his thighs. His uniform's stench—gunpowder, blood—clung to him, but he barely noticed. The convention center's screams, James's toothpick, Thomson's blood—they swirled, pulling him under. He drifted off, boots splayed, one hand limp on his holster.
A gentle tap on his shoulder jolted him awake. Bird blinked, disoriented, the hospital's glare stinging his eyes. Eloise stood over him, her face softer now, glasses glinting. It was 4 PM, the sky outside bruising purple.
"Officer," she said, voice low, "you've been here all day. You can't change anything by staying. The senator's in good hands."
Bird rubbed his face, drawl thick with sleep. "Gotta stay, ma'am. He's my responsibility."
Eloise's eyes crinkled, maternal but firm. Her gray-streaked bun was looser now, strands framing a face weathered by compassion. "You're no good to him exhausted," she said. "It's late. Go home, get some food, rest. Your body needs it. Worrying won't heal him."
Bird hesitated, Thomson's monitors beeping in his ears. But Eloise's sincerity—her steady gaze, the faint coffee stain on her scrubs—cut through. She was right. He couldn't fight shadows on an empty tank. He nodded, slow. "Alright, ma'am. I'll go."
As he stood, stretching stiff limbs, a thought hit. "One thing," he said. "My car's beat up—bullet holes, busted windshield. Know a good mechanic 'round here?"
Eloise's brow lifted, but she nodded. "Try Jimmy's Auto on Clayborne Avenue, across town. Jimmy's fair, does good work. Head north on Canal, left on Clayborne. Can't miss it."
"Thanks," Bird said, meaning it. "For everything."
"Take care, officer," Eloise said, turning back to her rounds. Bird lingered, Thomson's pale face searing into him. Then he headed for the exit, boots scuffing the linoleum. His Taurus waited in the lot, a wreck of bullet holes and shattered glass. He'd drop it at Jimmy's, grab a po'boy from a corner joint, then keep moving. But as he slid into the driver's seat, engine coughing to life, a vow burned in his chest. Someone was targeting Thomson—cartels, launderers, maybe worse. They'd killed James, nearly killed the senator. Bird wouldn't rest until he knew who, and why, and saw them cuffed.
The city unfolded before him, jazz notes rising, the Mississippi's tang sharp in the dusk. New Orleans didn't care about his promises, but Bird did. He gripped the wheel, glass crunching under his boots, and drove into the night, a rookie with a fight he couldn't quit.