Doctors of Death

by Peter Nealen

  “’Desert den of iniquity?’” Curtis quoted, as the stepped around the hood of Flanagan’s old truck. “You’ve either been reading the dictionary again, or the Bible. I’m not sure which one scares me worse.”

  The two men looked back the way they’d come. They were a study in contrasts; Flanagan was a half inch under six feet, wiry, with black hair, a black beard, and tanned skin. He was, as always, dressed in jeans, a western shirt, and boots.

  Curtis was wearing a skin-tight white t-shirt and designer jeans, accenting the rippling lines of a compact bodybuilder’s physique. “Compact” being the operative word; Curtis came to about five feet, seven inches high on a good day. He was also shaved bald, and the streetlights gleamed on his ebony scalp.

  Where they were similar lay in the fact that both men were currently armed, and watching for the same thing.

  “You’re sure these guys have been following you?” Flanagan asked. “Because I didn’t see anything that looked like a tail on the way here.”

  “They’ll be here,” Curtis replied. “They’re too dumb to give up. Probably too damned dumb to notice that I’m not alone tonight.”

  “You do know that if this was about a chick, I’d have told you to sort it out yourself, right?” Flanagan asked, as the two of them turned and started to walk toward the glowing green neon of a bar called, with shocking originality, “Oasis.”

  “Why do you think I’d tell you that it was about money, instead?” Curtis said, without missing a beat.

  Flanagan glared at him. Curtis laughed. “I swear, Joe, it’s not about a chick. I’ve been keeping to my regular booty calls since I started chatting Sanda up.”

  “Which I’m sure she appreciates,” Flanagan said sarcastically.

  “What she don’t know, won’t hurt her,” Curtis said smoothly. “I’ll be good once I get into her pants. But until then, as I have tried to tell you before, a man has needs.”

  “You’re hopeless, Kevin,” Flanagan said.

  “And you are a hopeless nag, Joseph,” Curtis replied. “I’m sure Rachel finds it endearing, though, somehow. Hell if I understand women…”

  “Coming from Mr. Ladies’ Man himself?” Flanagan countered. “That’s a laugh.”

  Curtis didn’t rise to the bait, but jerked his chin at the shadows of the alley next to the Oasis. “See?” he said. “I told you they’d be here.”

  Flanagan looked. Sure enough, there were two young men lurking in the alleyway, trying unsuccessfully to look like they weren’t watching the two of them. “You’re sure they’re the same guys?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Curtis said. “You think I’m so wrapped up in the women and booze that I can’t recognize the same thugs from one day to the next?”

  “You never know…” Flanagan said.

  Curtis had called him the day before, concerned that someone he’d beaten at cards had decided to take it personally. He said he was being followed around Vegas, and needed backup. As friends do, Flanagan had sighed, cursed Curtis roundly, and driven down to help him out.

  “Two more, behind us,” Curtis said, glancing back. “They think this is their shot.”

  “Of course they do,” Flanagan said. “Just be cool for a few more minutes.”

  “You’re the tactical genius here, Joe,” Curtis said. “That’s why I called you.”

  The two of them continued toward the bar, walking normally and casually, as if nothing could possibly be the matter. As if they didn’t notice the young men coming out of the alley ahead, or rapidly closing in on them from behind.

  The thugs, for their part, were equally casual. They clearly didn’t think they had anything to worry about. Their prey was outnumbered and walking right into the net. The two in the alleyway stepped out into the street as they got closer.

  And then Flanagan moved.

  In two fast strides, he was right up in the first guy’s face. He’d been expecting Mexican gangbangers, it being Vegas and the world being what it was. He was momentarily surprised to find himself facing a somewhat preppy-looking white kid.

  Not that that slowed him down any. He still hammered a fist right into the kid’s temple before anyone had a chance to react to his sudden move.

  Flanagan often appeared—quite rightly—to be the calmer and quieter of the two of them. But he was a fighter; he’d never have signed on with Brannigan otherwise. The kid was lucky that punch didn’t crack his skull. As it was, he dropped like a rock, at the same time that Flanagan was already moving on his buddy.

  That one was already backing up, having seen his friend go down like a puppet with its strings cut, his hands up in a fighting stance. It was one that Flanagan ignored completely, blasting right through it with a hard left jab that crunched the kid’s nose, then following up with a brutal right hook to the solar plexus. The air whooshed out of the thug’s lungs and he doubled over, opening the base of his skull to Flanagan’s fist, which he brought crashing down as hard as he could. Lights out for Bad Guy Number Two.

  The others behind them had been joined by two more by then, and Curtis was backing up, facing the half-encirclement, his fists raised. An impeccably groomed young man, clean-shaven and wearing what looked like an expensive polo shirt, was walking toward them behind the line.

  Flanagan took a long step to one side, getting clear of the two downed thugs before one of them could regain his senses and rejoin the fight. A glance around the street showed him that there wasn’t going to be any help forthcoming; they were away from The Strip, the bright lights of the hotels and casinos leaking through the night but not enough to banish the gloom of the back street. This was the seedy part of Vegas, the seamy underbelly away from the glitz and glamour that really was only camouflage for a different kind of sleaze.

  The law steered clear of this area.

  “I want my money,” the rich-looking young man said.

  “It’s my money now, bitch,” Curtis replied. “It stopped being your money when you got stupid playing cards.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the young man said. “I’ve got friends. You’re going to give me what I want.”

  Flanagan had about had enough by this time. The beat-down apparently hadn’t been enough of a message, and two on four wasn’t good odds anyway, especially since they were going to be somewhat more cautious now. He yanked his Ruger LCR out of his pocket and leveled it at the young man.

  “Last chance,” he growled. “I left those two battered but breathing. You keep pushing this, and I’m not going to be so thoughtful anymore.”

  The young man had suddenly blanched, the loss of color obvious even in the sickly green of the Oasis’ neon lights. “There are still five of us,” he said.

  “Five of you, five bullets,” Flanagan answered. “You’re less than fifteen feet away, and they’re .357s, too. I’m not too worried.”

  The threat became amplified when Curtis reached into his back pocket and pulled out a PPK. “And I’ve got another seven,” he announced.

  “Yeah,” Flanagan said, “but they’re .380s, so you might have to shoot twice.”

  “Really?” Curtis asked. “We’re having the caliber debate here?”

  The young man and his friends were starting to rethink matters. While he clearly didn’t like losing—Flanagan expected particularly to a black man—he didn’t like the idea of getting a .357 Magnum round to the face, either. And that LCR was pointed at him.

  “This isn’t over,” the young man said bitterly, pointing at Curtis.

  “Yes, it is,” Flanagan told him. “Either one of us see you again, and start to get even the tiniest bit of the heebie-jeebies, you’re getting a bullet to the face. You reading me, son?”

  The young man didn’t answer, but he jerked his head at his cronies, all of whom were looking more than a little nervous and uncertain. The two that Flanagan had felled were starting to stir and groan.

  “Take your little buddies with you,” Flanagan said, the revolver still motionless. “I don’t want to
see them again, either.”

  The four wannabe toughs hurried over and picked their compatriots up off the ground, hustling them away toward the very expensive SUVs and sedans at the end of the street. Flanagan lowered his pistol, but still kept it out as they retreated.

  “Well, thank you, Joe, that was downright beautiful to see,” Curtis said.

  “Whatever,” Flanagan growled, finally holstering the LCR as the vehicles pulled away from the curb. “You’ve got plenty of money from work. Why are you still tempting fate like this?”

  “Because there’s no such thing as too much money, Joseph,” Curtis replied, exasperated. “And because it’s fun. Maybe if you gave it a try yourself…”

  But Flanagan was shaking his head. “Nice try,” he said. “But I’ve got no need. Now come on. The Colonel wants to see us in another eight hours, and we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

  ***

  The man who called himself “Flint” could have been a poster boy for a special operations unit. Square-jawed, medium height, with dirty blond hair and tattoos crawling over both arms and most of his chest, he had an intensity about him that a lot of people found intimidating.

  He liked that. And most of those people had no idea just how dangerous he really was. Which was even better.

  He pulled up to the safehouse in Northern Virginia, looking it over appreciatively as he got out of his rental Mustang. An upscale brick house on almost an acre in the Virginia hills, not far from Langley, it was well-situated, and far, far nicer than any safehouse that he’d ever stayed in while he’d been employed by the government.

  Running a hand through his unruly shock of hair, he headed up the concrete walk toward the front door.

  Clutch answered the door before he could knock. “We weren’t expecting you for another hour,” he said, as Flint walked inside, looking around the equally upscale entryway, currently devoid of any indication that there was anything out of the ordinary about the occupants. Someone might find the presence of four men in their thirties and forties, all with some sort of military bearing and fitness level, but then, it was Northern Virginia. You couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting someone with a special operations or intelligence background around there.

  “Is everything all set?” Flint asked, as Clutch shut the door.

  “Yeah,” the big man replied. Clutch was a massive slab of meat, easily three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He was dangerous as hell at close range, but he wasn’t suited for any kind of long distance. Flint sometimes wondered just what his background was. Of course, he was Portuguese, not American, so it quickly ceased to have any bearing on Flint’s mind. “They’ve moved rooms once, but the hospital is too busy to let them bounce around much.”

  “You’re sure they’re the right guys?” Flint asked, peering into the prep room Clutch had set up in one of the bedrooms. While the place had clearly been furnished for a family, the bed and dressers were cluttered with weapons and body armor, the desk in the corner covered with laptops and comm gear.

  “A paraplegic with guys who look like contractors keeping an eye on him, and a big dude with a handlebar mustache has come to visit a couple of times,” Clutch confirmed. “Plus, the timing fits. They showed up just after the Transnistria op finished up.”

  Clutch had the good sense not to mention just how that op had ended. Flint felt himself start to get mad, anyway. Another total team kill that he’d survived, only to do two months in Russian prisons before the Board had finally gotten him sprung. And then, they’d kept him in isolation for another month, grilling him about how things had gone wrong. Only his past history, and his plan to deal with the American contractors who had gotten in his way twice, had kept him from being disappeared altogether.

  “You’d better be right,” he said. “We might be ahead of these assholes so far, but better to take them out now. They’ve already been a thorn in the Organization’s side.”

  And mine. They’ve made me look like a fucking incompetent. Never again. He glanced out the window, picturing the hospital he’d already been studying remotely for the last three days. I said I’d get you cocksuckers. And I will. You’ve fucked with me for the last time.

  Chapter 5

  The rattle and thunder of gunfire echoed across the wooded hills. Brannigan knew he should be out there, practicing break-contact drills with the others, but there was still planning to do, and without Santelli, it required even more of his concentration.

  That was why Chavez had come, and was sitting in his kitchen. “Insert shouldn’t be too hard,” Chavez said. “There are hundreds of ‘humanitarian aid workers’ going into and out of Chad on a daily basis. It’s its own little industry.”

  “I know,” Brannigan growled, looking down at the intelligence package and the maps on his kitchen table. “Hundreds of rich Western liberals, who want to feel like they’re making a difference. A bare handful might actually help some people. Most of them are there to feel good about themselves and show everyone back in the US or Europe how virtuous they are, and the locals are ready and willing to take any handout they bring. So much so that they can actually count on the handouts instead of trying to improve their own country.”

  “One might think you’ve seen such things before,” Chavez remarked.

  Brannigan looked up at him. “So have you,” he said.

  “I know,” Chavez replied. “I was being sarcastic. Still, I rarely hear rants like that from you. It’s a bit surprising.”

  Brannigan shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t usually get spun up like that. I’m just remembering some things.”

  Chavez nodded. “Oh, I know. I was there for a couple of those run-ins, remember?”

  “All right,” Brannigan said, rubbing his hands together and getting back to the issue at hand. “So, we go in as part of some alphabet soup NGO, there to help the refugees, etc.”

  “Better to be there to ‘observe and report’ on the situation in the Darfur refugee camps,” Chavez put in. “No offense, but none of you guys look like the usual ‘relief worker’ type.”

  “We don’t exactly look like your average idealistic college student, determined to speak ‘truth to power’ about the horrible situation in Africa that we have to do something about, no,” Brannigan agreed wryly.

  Chavez snorted. “So long as ‘doing something’ doesn’t include military force, remember?”

  “Whatever,” Brannigan retorted. “You’re right, though. An observer group would probably go over better. If we wanted to act like genuine relief workers, we’d have to bring in a lot more stuff.”

  “Some of that sort of medical supplies could actually be useful,” Chavez mused, rubbing his chin. “Especially if you get into combat.”

  But Brannigan shook his head. “We’ll take whatever Herc brings for trauma kits,” he said. “The problem with being an aid worker is that if you don’t do some kind of ‘aid work,’ people start to wonder.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad cover, really, the more I think about it,” Chavez pointed out. “There are a few veterans-only medical relief organizations. I’m sure that you guys could probably pull that off, and once you blended in with the background roar of rich Western do-gooders, you might have a lot more leeway to act.”

  “Except for one thing,” Brannigan pointed out. “Those relief workers are probably going to have Chadian military minders, no matter how dysfunctional Chad’s government and military are. If nothing else, they’re going to be looking to loot some of the medical supplies. With everything else going on in that country, we need to be able to disappear immediately, and I don’t really feel like murdering some jumped-up African militia just because they know where we are.”

  “I’m sure most of them have done something to deserve a bullet,” Chavez mused, but Brannigan’s piercing glance wasn’t amused. Chavez held up his hands. “Okay, okay, never mind. Observation group it is.”

  “We’ll still probably have minders, at leas
t at first,” Brannigan thought out loud. “But I think we’ll have a better chance of losing them as ‘observers.’”

  “Your call,” Chavez said.

  “Besides,” Brannigan said, sitting back in his chair and waving at the papers on his table. “Aid workers would get tied down to one particular refugee camp. We need to be able to move, to try to find any information that might lead to whoever’s making these WHO doctors disappear. Van Zandt and his bosses might have their eye on Mitchell Price, but there really is no shortage of possibilities. Chad’s been the next best thing to a ‘failed state’ for years. It’s listed as a high kidnapping threat everywhere except in certain enclaves around N’Djamena, the UFR is only the latest of a long string of rebel groups fighting the government…hell, even Daesh has gotten in on the game. Not to mention all the fights between companies, families, and clans over land in the south. There’s way too much going on there for Mitchell Price to be the sole suspect.”

  Chavez was nodding. “And you need to be mobile to check on all the possibilities.”

  “Rather than stuck in, potentially, the wrong refugee camp, playing doctor while the real enemy kills more people,” Brannigan completed.

  “Fair enough,” Chavez replied. “So, chartered flight, shell company masquerading as an observation group NGO…” he was writing as he talked. “I think we can get everybody matching CIA starter kits; khakis, polo shirts, Merrell boots…”

  Brannigan rolled his eyes. “Just make sure there are some practical field clothes in there.”

  Chavez grinned. “5.11 tuxedos it is. You’ll be the latest of contractor chic from 2005.”

  Brannigan just shook his head, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache.

  “Oh, come on, John,” Chavez said, laughing. “I’ve been flying a desk, doing admin stuff ever since my ticker let me down and they threw me out. This is the first time I’ve been able to help plan an actual operation in years.” He shook his head. “Planning maritime security deployments just isn’t the same thing.”