Doctors of Death

by Peter Nealen

  “You’ve been helping with this little operation since the beginning,” Brannigan said. He glanced at the light outside. It was starting to get dark, but the boys were still going to keep at it for a few hours. Hancock would see to that.

  “I’ve been facilitating,” Chavez replied with a grunt. “Not the same.” His face fell a little. “Of course, I’m not doing much more than that, now.” He sighed. “Damn, I wish I was going with you.”

  Brannigan looked at his old friend. They’d been platoon leaders together, many years before. And while Chavez had learned to play the staff and flag officer game better than Brannigan ever had, even getting within sight of stars before his heart had gotten him medically retired, he’d never forgotten his roots, down in the dirt with his Marines.

  There were far too many officers, Brannigan had long thought, who forgot those roots as soon as they graduated The Basic School.

  “I wish you were, too, Hector,” he said quietly. But it isn’t to be. And you know it as well as I do. Why pick at that scab?

  He knew that there was no helping it; if he’d been in Hector’s shoes, he’d be thinking the same thing.

  “Weapons and equipment are going to be dicey,” he said, changing the subject by getting back to the matter at hand. “There’s no way that we’re going to be able to fly in with them, not if we’re going in openly.” They’d jumped into Burma, but that was a different situation altogether. “And it’s far enough into the boondocks that trying to make contact with the local black market for military supplies is going to add about fifteen new points of failure to the equation. Not the least being the probability of being kidnapped and beheaded on the Internet.”

  Chavez nodded. Any arms dealers in that part of the world were likely to be hard-core jihadis. Even the Suleiman Syndicate types that the Blackhearts had encountered—and ended up killing through improvised violence—in Dubai had been far more secular. There was a possibility for non-Islamist black marketeers with weapons and equipment in Chad. But it was a slim one, and there were too many unknowns, too many variables that could go wrong.

  “Van Zandt can have cases airdropped to predetermined cache sites,” Chavez said. “Speaking of which; what are you thinking for weapons? I doubt that M4s are going to be particularly common there. AKs?”

  But Brannigan shook his head. “FALs,” he said. “The Chadian military still uses them, so there’s ammo commonality, and they’re more reliable and accurate than most AKs are.” He grimaced. “We’re still probably going to be stuck with RPKs for the machinegunners, though.”

  “We’ll make sure to get some good ones, or as good as we can find,” Chavez said, making another note. He looked up at Brannigan. “There’s something else,” he said. “You’re down two, and the team hasn’t been getting much bigger since Burma. Should you really go out with just nine guys?”

  “I talked to Herc when he showed up,” Brannigan said. Erekle “Herc” Javakhishvili was their medic, a Georgian national who had joined the US Navy as a Fleet Marine Force Corpsman to win his citizenship, and had since been bouncing between Eastern Orthodox missions in Africa and PMC work, as his fancy took him, until he’d been recruited by way of Ben Drake. He’d showed up at Brannigan’s place for the job, unannounced, and before Brannigan had even called him. He’d apparently heard from Bianco and rushed over. He was eager for the work, even if he did sometimes seem to be a bit of a loose cannon. “He’s got a couple of buddies from his past work who he thinks will be interested in coming along. He assures me that they’re good dudes, and will fit in with the rest of our band of miscreants just fine.”

  “You think he’s on the level?” Chavez asked. He wasn’t entirely sure about Herc, and Brannigan understood why. While he hadn’t been on any of their missions, Chavez had read the reports. He knew that Javakhishvili was one of the more “morally flexible” of the team, or at least he gave that impression.

  “Herc’s been with us for two jobs now, and he hasn’t let us down yet,” Brannigan said. “And Hancock’s staying back to meet these guys with him; he’ll have the final sign-off.”

  “So, you’re going into Chad initially with just seven,” Chavez said slowly.

  “Afraid so,” Brannigan replied. “The timetable’s too tight to wait. They’ll have to catch up with us downrange. But if this really is just a reconnaissance mission, seven could turn out to be almost too many.”

  Chavez didn’t say anything, but his troubled expression spoke for him. Brannigan’s Blackhearts regularly operated far from support, and they didn’t go into what could usually be termed “permissive environments.” Seven men, far from home and with no backup, were taking their lives in their hands whether it was “just a reconnaissance mission” or not.

  And neither man really believed that there was any such thing as “just a reconnaissance mission.” Not in this line of work.

  “I’ve got to get out there and get at least a little trigger time in,” Brannigan said. “We’ll be leaving in two days. Can you get the basics we’re going to go in with by then?”

  “Easily,” Chavez replied. “I’ll pull it from my own company if I have to.”

  “Don’t,” Brannigan warned. “Use the shell companies. That’s what they’re for. You start cross-pollinating like that and it’s going to compromise this entire operation’s security.”

  He stood and turned toward the door. “And then Mark’s really going to get insufferable.”

  ***

  “When did you see this guy last?” Hancock asked, as he and Javakhishvili walked up the sidewalk.

  “About two years ago,” Javakhishvili replied, looking around him. This really wasn’t what he’d expected; the neighborhood was damned near a Norman Rockwell painting, even down to the white picket fences around several of the well-groomed front yards. It wasn’t the kind of place he’d necessarily expected to find his friend. But it was where the address had led them. “I jumped to the contract he was working after a hit on the mission I was supporting in Kenya.” He shook his head. “I really didn’t have the background for it; he was a SEAL back in the ‘90s, and most of the other guys on the contract were SOF guys, too. But he vouched for me after the missionaries bugged out, so I got on.”

  “Is he even still in the business?” Hancock asked, ducking beneath the low-hanging limb of a weeping willow. The two of them had parked a couple of blocks away, and were walking casually, scoping out the neighborhood as they went. Both of them wanted a good idea of the terrain before they actually walked up and knocked on the door. And that meant the human terrain as well as the physical layout of the neighborhood.

  And Javakhishvili had a feeling that this neighborhood was telling Hancock the same thing it was telling him.

  Retirees.

  “As far as I know,” Javakhishvili replied. “He’s never talked about quitting, not seriously. He loves it too much, no matter how many times he gets screwed on a contract. He’s the kind of guy who just shrugs, walks away, and finds another contract later on.” He stopped, peering at the numbers on the side of the house. “Here we are.”

  The house fit with the rest of the neighborhood. This was no drifter’s house, or at least it didn’t look like one. The siding was pale green, with dark trim, and the grass had been mowed.

  “I thought you said this guy lived in a yurt,” Hancock said.

  “He did, for a while,” Javakhishvili said. “I spent the night in it. Maybe…” he trailed off. He really didn’t have an answer. So, in lieu of just standing there staring and scratching his head, he did what he always did.

  He plunged in with both feet. Striding up the walk, he stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the door.

  There was no response at first, but he thought he heard some movement inside. Then the door opened, and Tom Burgess was standing there, grinning.

  “Come on in, brother,” he said. “It’s been quite a while.”

  Javakhishvili stepped into the living room, looking around, with Hancoc
k behind him. The room was sparely but tastefully furnished. The blued Winchester 1886 leaning against the hearth made it clear that Burgess called the place home; he’d always had a soft spot for big-bore lever guns.

  He looked Burgess himself over. He hadn’t changed much. Medium height, wiry, dark haired. He was showing a little bit more gray and a few new lines, but that was about it. “You cut your hair and shaved your beard,” he said. “What happened?”

  “Ekaterina happened,” Burgess replied, grinning. “She’s away right now, but this is actually her place. Our place, I guess I should say.” That was when Javakhishvili noticed the ring on Burgess’ left hand.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “You finally got hitched?”

  “I did,” Burgess said, stepping down into the living room and waving to the couch. “She’s worth it, too.” He sat down in the overstuffed armchair and pointed to the coffee pot and cups sitting on the coffee table. “Have a seat, pour yourself a cup.” He suited actions to words by pouring one for himself and sat back. “You said you had an opportunity,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Javakhishvili said, sitting on the sofa and taking a glance at Hancock. But Brannigan’s hatchet-faced second-in-command simply helped himself to a cup of coffee. This was going to be Herc’s show, until Hancock saw or heard something he didn’t like. “So, a few months back, I got a call through an old contact that a team needed a medic. Combat zone duty, good pay. I joined up. We did some real snake-eater shit, and the pay was good. Well, now we need a couple new bodies.”

  Burgess was looking between him and Hancock, and Javakhishvili knew that the wheels were already turning. Burgess was no dummy, and his laid-back persona often put people at ease, never suspecting the keen—and suspicious—mind behind the easy grin.

  “You don’t have to do all the beating around the bush with me, Herc,” he said, flinging an arm over the back of the chair. “Are we talking shooter work, or close protection work?”

  “Shooter work,” Hancock said.

  Burgess raised his eyebrows slightly, but the grin was still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he nodded. “Sounds like my kind of action,” he said. “Where?”

  “Africa,” Javakhishvili replied. “Can’t get more detailed than that at the moment.”

  “No worries,” Burgess answered. “Can’t say it’s my favorite continent, but I’ve certainly spent enough time there, the last few years. When are we leaving?”

  “Just as soon as we get another recruit,” Javakhishvili said. “I was thinking of Shane.”

  Burgess shook his head, though. “I just talked to Shane. He’s got a three-month-old daughter. He’s not going anywhere for a while.” He thought. “Let me see if I can get through to Kirk. I think he’ll be ready and raring.”

  Javakhishvili thought for a moment. “I don’t remember Kirk.”

  “He was before your time,” Burgess said. “Old SF dude. Crusty bastard, but he’s a fighter, and if he thinks he might get a chance at a genuine African bush war, he’ll jump at it. Trust me.”

  “I take it he can keep his mouth shut?” Hancock asked.

  Burgess grinned again. “He’s the most close-mouthed son of a bitch I’ve ever known. Good luck getting ten words out of him before lunchtime. He knows how the wind blows. He won’t breathe a word.”

  “Sounds like our kind of guy,” Hancock said. “How soon can you leave?”

  “As soon as I grab my go bag,” Burgess said.

  “What about your girl?” Javakshivili asked him.

  “She’ll be fine,” Burgess replied. “I’ll leave her a note. She understands.” At Javakhishvili’s raised eyebrow, he smiled again. “Trust me, brother, when you meet her, you’ll get it. She’s the most understanding woman in the world. She’s a gem.”

  “She sure sounds like it,” Hancock said, standing. Javakhishvili glanced at him. There had been an edge in Hancock’s voice that he hadn’t heard before. “If you’re ready, we should get going. The clock’s kind of ticking, here.”

  ***

  “In position,” Troll texted.

  “All right,” Flint said, shoving the phone in his pocket as he got out of the car. “You’re sure you’ve got the up-to-date room number?”

  Clutch nodded. “Yeah, it’s good,” he said. “There could be as many as three of them. They’ve been keeping somebody in or around his room for a while.”

  “That’s why we brought our contingency plans,” Flint said, walking toward the hospital. “Just be ready to move when I give the word.” He checked his watch. “No more than fifteen minutes on-site. Starting now.” He grinned, his eyes fixed on the glass doors ahead. “Time to reach out and touch these motherfuckers.”

  Dressed in civilian clothes, Flint and Clutch walked into the hospital and started toward the elevator.

  Samuel Childress’ room was three floors up.

  Chapter 6

  Clutch’s information was wrong. When Flint, Clutch, and Knocker came to Room 314, there was no paraplegic mercenary lying in the bed; there was an aging woman recovering from gallbladder surgery, or something. Definitely not their target.

  “’We’re good,’ huh, Clutch?” Flint snarled as he turned away from the room. “You fucking retard. I’m sure grandma with a bad gallbladder was intimately involved in fucking up our plans.” He stormed down the hallway. “Why the fuck does the Board keep saddling me with fucking incompetents?” He stopped in the intersection of the hallway, looking both ways, frustrated. He turned back, glancing down the hall for any security, but it looked just like any other hospital; nothing but sterile pastels, people wearing scrubs, IV stands, and the antiseptic stink that he hated.

  He shoved the memories to the back of his mind. He didn’t want to think about the kid he’d been then. He’d been weak. He was stronger now.

  “Split up,” he hissed, his voice pitched low as a doctor, or nurse, wearing blue scrubs walked quickly past them, looking annoyed at having to walk around the three big men standing in the hallway. “I don’t give a fuck if you have to look in every room on every floor. Find that cocksucker. And get me on the phone as soon as you do.”

  Clutch and Knocker nodded, Clutch looking angry, and the two of them headed in different directions. Flint watched them go, his glare still focused on the back of Clutch’s head.

  Looks like I’m breaking another team. Why the hell can’t I get real meat-eaters? That he might be a borderline psychopath with as little regard for his teammates as for his victims never entered his mind.

  With an angry sigh, he spun on his heel and kept going down the hall, glancing into open rooms as he went.

  ***

  Checking every room in a hospital proved to be far more complicated and difficult than he had imagined. Several of them were closed, and a bunch of the others had curtains obscuring part of the room, making it impossible to identify the occupants without actually walking in. And he quickly discovered that the orderlies really didn’t care for unannounced visitors just walking into rooms, at least rooms with patients in dire circumstances.

  Twice, he seriously considered using the hypodermic he had secreted in his back pocket, or even the Glock 43 in his waistband. But he gritted his teeth and forced himself to be patient. Blowing their cover now was going to get him nowhere, and the Board had already made it abundantly clear that, regardless of his past successes, he was on thin ice. He had to take this Childress guy, and take him alive. The Board wanted to know who these unknown busybodies were just as much as he did.

  Then he came around the corner and saw the old guy sitting in a chair outside the room at the end of the hall. The oldster was bald, and appeared to be reading a magazine. But Flint hadn’t fallen off the turnip truck yesterday; he knew a lookout when he saw one. He hadn’t done much of that sort of work, himself, but he’d killed plenty of lookouts, usually in hotels.

  He had a feeling. That was their target. He just knew it.

  Before he could give himself away, he slipped back around the
corner, looking down at his phone. He glanced up at the number signs in the hallway and quickly texted Clutch and Knocker.

  Room 421.

  He stayed put, out of sight of the old man on lookout, and waited. Part of him was itching to just go in there, but he knew better. Flint might have been a violent, arrogant sociopath, but he hadn’t survived as long as he had by being stupid. He knew better than to underestimate an old guy in this profession.

  Knocker showed up first, coming from the side hallway and joining Flint without exposing himself. Clutch came walking down the same hallway that Flint had, in plain view of the oldster sitting outside the hospital room.

  Clutch came around the corner and joined the two of them where they stood. “Well, now that Klutz has been seen, too,” Flint said acidly, “we’ve got to move. One outside, be prepared for another one inside. Remember, we’re just friends coming to see our buddy who got badly hurt. That’s all.”

  “What if there are more?” Clutch asked. “I haven’t seen the old guy before. We only brought three tranqs.”

  Flint just stared at him for a long moment, his face slack and his eyes dead, until Clutch started to squirm a little. “You’re supposed to be the most violent, best-trained bastards on the planet,” he said, with enough sarcasm in his tone to indicate just how accurate he thought that assessment was. “Figure it out.”

  With that, he came around the corner, the tranquilizer already in his hand, concealed against his leg. He just hoped things went smoothly; he didn’t want to stick himself with the needle.

  As he’d expected, the old guy was watching him as he approached, and he had already shifted his weight in the chair. Fuck. He’s alerted, which means he’s ready for something to happen. Thanks, Klutz. Way to fuck this all up from the get-go.