Chapter 7
After nearly thirty years as a cardiologist, Dr. Nicholas Matthews had seen almost everything in the book, but today truly took the cake. He never imagined anything like this would ever happen in one of his surgeries, it was inconceivable, yet here he was, a witness to the improbable.
The morning had started out just fine for him. He may not have shot his best score at the country club before breakfast, and it had started to rain on him halfway through, but he still enjoyed himself and even after being paged into work on his day off, he had retained his good mood.
When did it all begin to deteriorate so fast? It must have been when he learned that Jameson would be doing the anesthesia for the cardiac tamponade surgery he was called in to perform. Matthews was not a friend of Jameson's. He wasn't one to put much credence into rumors and innuendo, so it wasn't the hospital scuttlebutt that said he had something to do with his wife disappearing that had Dr. Matthews worried. It was only that man always rubbed him the wrong way and he never quite understood why. He got along fine with everyone else he worked with, but Jameson always held an air of smug superiority and deep narcissism that irritated him to no end. He truly did not want the man in his surgery, but there was simply no one else available.
Grudgingly, he had to accept the anesthesiologist's presence in the operating room and went about his normal pre-surgical routine. First, he had a cup of coffee, the caffeine would help him to stay alert and on his feet for however many hours this procedure could take. Next, he picked out some of his favorite CDs to be played while he worked. He always tried to pick music that everyone would like, usually opting for something classical. Then at last, it was time to make his way to the surgical suite.
As he scrubbed up, Jameson came in and moved to the sink next to him. He gave him a nod to let the other doctor know that he accepted his presence, but gave him little else as he entered the OR and was dressed by a nurse into a surgical gown and help with his gloves. Jameson entered next and headed for the head of the patient. The poor man was already unconscious, shot in the chest. Matthews had a lot of respect for those who put their life on the line for others, he himself had served as a combat medic in the marines and knew what the NCIS did to protect sailors and marines alike. Knowing that this man had been shot after chasing a possible murderer of a sailor made him want to work all that much harder to save his life.
Matthews watched Jameson as he worked the lines of anesthesia, waiting for the go ahead from him to begin the procedure. When he got a nod, he started the surgery, incising the chest, spreading the ribs and exposing the heart muscle. Immediately, he could see the cause of the trouble, but repairing the damage would require the patient's heart to be stopped and he be placed on the heart-lung machine to keep him alive.
Delving into the surgery, he paid little attention to much of anything except for the task at hand. He never noticed Jameson order his nurse to leave and get his glasses and he never saw the other man change anything with the anesthesia before she returned. He was in a zone, all else around him faded away as he worked, enjoying the CD of Mozart Symphonies he had chosen earlier. After he had removed the bullet and repaired the pericardium, there was not much left to do, but restart the heart. As any cardiologist could tell you, this was always the most critical portion of the surgery as so much could go wrong.
He signaled to Jameson, who took the patient off of the heart-lung machine. It was now up to this man's heart to begin circulating and oxygenating his blood again, sometimes a heart would start by itself after it was refilled with blood and allowed to do its work, but many times it needed a little help to get started and this was one of those times where it needed some help. He called for the staff to clear as the defibrillator was charged and he placed the paddles on both sides of the heart. He depressed the button that would send the electricity coursing through the heart muscle, shocking it back into a rhythm. As the juice flowed into the organ, it constricted tightly, but failed to beat again after that, something that was not unusual, sometimes it would take a few tries to get things back. With his hand, he massaged the heart a few times, sometimes that was all it needed, a little push to get things going, but still the heart refused to find a rhythm, beating a few times, but sluggishly and irregularly before it stopped altogether once more. Again, he called for the room to clear off the patient and he charged the paddles, but the same results followed.
Once off the cardiopulmonary bypass, there was not much time for the surgeon to restart the heart before the body began to be starved for oxygen, killing cells, damaging organs and even leading to brain injury. The patients oxygen saturation rate was dropping rapidly and he tried several more times to get the heart to start with the defibrillator. If he kept this up much longer, the patient would be dead. His only other option would be to place him back onto the heart-lung machine and re-check his repair, perhaps there was some bleeding or damage that he had missed, even though he was quite certain that he had caught it all.
Sighing in frustration, he looked up at Jameson and ordered him to place the man back onto the heart-lung machine. Maybe it was his imagination, but something just wasn't right with his colleague's response. He seemed happy, almost ebullient that the surgery had hit a snag. What was the matter with this fellow anyway?
Just as Jameson finished placing the patient back on the machine, Matthews turned to hear a disturbance coming from outside the OR and was more than surprised to see a grey-headed man in a tan polo shirt and blue sport coat, barge into the observation room and pound on the glass. The man was yelling, but he couldn't hear him through the partition. Another man, much younger than the other, entered the room after him and pointed to the intercom button before the older one gave him an angry, stern look and slapped the button forcefully.
“Which one of you is Dr. Jameson?” He asked urgently with blazing, blue eyes.
“Who are you and what are you doing in there?” Dr. Matthews demanded to know. “This area is for hospital staff only.” The grey one answered his question by pulling out an ID and placing it up to the glass.
“I'm special agent Gibbs with NCIS. That's my agent you have in there and he was shot with your anesthesiologist's gun and I want him out of there right now!” By the tone and fierceness in his voice, Matthews knew that Gibbs must have been in the military and was used to the people around him jumping to obey his orders.
All eyes went directly towards Jameson, who stood up from his stool by the patient. Even with the surgical mask on, his face visibly paled and sweat began to bead up on his forehead. He backpedaled and bumped into a tray, sending it to the floor with a loud crash. Looking very much like a cornered animal, Jameson's face took on a new look of terror and desperation. Sally, his nurse, stood by his side in shock, looking at him in disbelief, shaking her head. It was then that the anesthesiologist took action. Knowing that he had been caught, he grabbed Sally and a scalpel that lay next to him at the same time with surprising speed. Putting the blade to her throat, he pulled them both towards the exit.
“Nobody come near or she dies!” Jameson yelled, his voice near hysterics. Sally cried out as he dragged her out of the OR and out of a stunned Dr. Matthews' field of vision, leaving the assembled medical team and his patient behind. From the corner of his eye, he saw the two agents in the observation room take off running.
Yes, today was one for the record books, he mused.
OOOOO
“Wake up, Tony!” Face down on the soft surface, a voice floated over him, hands shaking him, coaxing him to get up from his position. He snapped his eyes open to see who the owner of the voice was and there she was above him, her braided hair falling to the side of her face as she bent over his prone body.
“Ziva?”
“Come on Tony, get up. You need to finish the fight.”
“Huh? What's going on, what fight?” He asked as she helped him to his feet. Still confused and in a daze, it took a moment for him to process the situation and even after that, it was still surreal. He was in an alleyway, the alleyway he realized, but instead of a pile of garbage bags and dumpsters, there was a boxing ring around him and he came to the conclusion that he was the main event of the evening.
Spectators had gathered and when he took a closer look, he recognized everyone in the audience. McGee, Abby, Palmer, Ducky and everyone he worked with, even those from Baltimore, his frat brothers from Ohio State, all of his ex-girlfriends where yelling and cheering, even his father stood in the back, his arms crossed in a disapproving manner. The only people missing seemed to be Nonna, Paula and Kate. He wondered vaguely why, but had little time to ponder it as Ziva pulled him to a corner and sat him down on a bench.
Looking down, he noticed he was shirtless and sweaty, wearing a pair of boxing gloves over his hands and shiny red trunks, reminding him very much of Rocky. Ziva too was dressed in an Israeli battle dress uniform, complete with combat boots and rifle slung across her shoulder. His nose was bleeding and she was tending to it, sticking cue-tips up it to stop the flow. She looked him in the eyes.
“Okay, Tony. He got you good there, but you can come back from this, he is slowing down and getting tired. All you have to do is keep throwing punches and stay on your feet and you can win this.”
“Win what, Ziva?” He asked confused.
“The fight, of course.” She sighed in frustration. “My goodness, he must have hit you pretty hard.”
“Who is this guy I'm fighting anyway?”
“That guy.” Ziva pointed to the other corner. Wearing only black boxers and black gloves, the greasy-haired vagrant he recalled from the last time he had been in this particular alley was bouncing up and down on his heels in a perfect boxing dance, hitting his gloved hands together, looking fiercer and crazier than he had the first time Tony had encountered him.
“You gotta be kidding me.” He told Ziva incredulously.
“Look, I am going to do all that I can to help you win this fight, but you are going to have to do the work.” Tony was listening to her, but staring at the homeless man as well until she grabbed his face and turned it to her direction, her dark eyes connecting with his. “You have to win or you do not get to come back.”
“What?” He asked, still bewildered by the whole spectacle.
“This is it, Tony.” She told him, moving her hands to his shoulders and digging in with her fingers, massaging him. “This is the fight for your life. If you want it, if you want to see me again, you have to win it, you have to beat him. He is tough, but you can do it.”
“Oh, I get it now.” He laughed, pointing at her and then gesturing around the boxing ring. “This is more of the dream right? This is all some kind of...of..whatchamaycallit...a metaphor? Is that it? I beat this guy and I live. I don't and I die?”
Ziva rolled her eyes and pulled the cue-tips out of nose.
“I know it is cheesy Tony, but this is your lame imagination conjuring this and you watch way too many movies, so do not blame me, I am only here to help you out and offer encouragement.”
“Fine.” He looked at his opponent, he looked a lot bigger and stronger than he recalled from the time he fought him after the chase to the alley. He glanced back up at Ziva. “I'm really not much of a boxer, why would I dream this up? Why not a friendly game of basketball or flag football, why boxing of all things?”
“I wish I knew.” She returned, grabbing him by the elbows and helping his back up. “Just stay loose and focused and you should be fine.”
“Great.” He spoke to her sarcastically.”Thanks for all of the advice.” He could see this all ending very badly. He turned back to Ziva to see her looking up at him expectantly.
“What?” He asked.
“Well, what are you waiting for? I am here to encourage you after all, yes? Is there not something you want to do before you fight this guy? This is your dream after all.”
“You're right it is.” He replied with a sly grin. “I've wanted to do this for a long time.” Instantly, Ziva's clothing changed from her uniform into a tight leather outfit that hugged every curve and covered just enough cleavage to leave little to the imagination. With as much grace as he could muster in gloved hands, he moved towards her and swept her up, kissing her fiercely and passionately against the lips. She returned the gesture, sliding her tongue against his own, probing deeper as they pressed against each other, sharing one anothers heat.
“All right you two. Break it up!” Tony jumped at the voice and turned towards its source, surprised to see Gibbs standing in the middle of the ring, wearing a ref's outfit. “We have a fight to finish, remember?”
“Win this Tony, and we can do that again,” He looked back down at Ziva who smiled seductively “only for real next time.” He smiled, wanting nothing more than to kiss her again, but Gibbs was already pulling him towards the center of the ring. After that little preview, Tony knew there was no way he was going to lose this fight, not when he had more of that to look forward to.
To Be Continued.....
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