Doctors of Death

by Peter Nealen

  “Who the hell are you?” the old guy asked. His right hand was out of sight, which was bad. If he had a weapon… It’s a hospital. But what makes you think that these guys aren’t carrying anyway, just like you are? They play for keeps, you’ve seen that already.

  “We heard about Sam,” he said. “Haven’t seen him in a long time; it came as quite a shock.” He kept advancing as he spoke, hoping that he sounded somewhat sincere. “We go way back.”

  “That’s funny,” the old guy said, standing up. His hand was still out of sight. Got to do this fast. “I was under the impression that all of his old friends were out of town.”

  “We were,” Flint said. Two more paces.

  The old guy started to pull. He’s not buying it. Flint moved.

  He threw himself at the oldster, one hand going for the weapon hand, getting a glimpse of a SIG subcompact clearing leather, even as he brought his own right hand up with the tranq syringe held like an icepick, his thumb on the plunger.

  He slammed into the oldster with his shoulder, shoving him backward and off-balance. He missed the man’s wrist, catching his sleeve instead, even as the syringe caught on his shirt, bending the needle. The guy flinched as the needle poked him, but it wasn’t a solid injection, even as Flint’s thumb compressed the plunger spasmodically, spraying most of the sedative across the man’s shirt.

  He let go of the syringe and grabbed for the gun hand that was coming up, twisting toward him, even as he head-butted the lookout, finally overpowering him and bringing both of them crashing to the floor. He could hear scuffling and grunts behind him as Knocker and Clutch clashed with another one.

  The old man was tough, and had a wiry strength that had surprised him. He hadn’t fired yet, but that gun was getting all too close to his head. He head-butted the man again, even as he grabbed for the gun and tried to twist it out of the man’s hand. He was dimly aware of screams and yells, but he was focused on his adversary to the exclusion of much else. If that old bastard got that gun around and put a bullet in him, the screaming was going to be the least of his worries.

  Finally, he resorted to bashing the man’s wrist against the chair where he’d been sitting. The first impact didn’t do much, but the second loosened his grip. The third sent the pistol clattering to the floor.

  Flint twisted his body around, hooking his leg around the old man’s and kicking them both away from the chair and the fallen weapon. They slid across the polished tile floor, as Flint writhed around the old man, hooking an arm around his throat and a leg around his knees. Wrapping his other arm back behind the man’s head, he bore down, trying to choke him out.

  The old man was still fighting, though, and had tucked his chin as soon as Flint had gotten an arm around his neck. He was jabbing an elbow hard into Flint’s ribs, while clawing at the pressure points in his forearm with the other hand and bending double to break the hold. For the first time, Flint started to wonder if he was about to get his ass beat by a senior citizen in a hand-to-hand fight.

  Then Knocker loomed above them and jabbed his own tranq into the old man’s leg. It took the sedative a few seconds to work, but in short order, the old man had gone limp, and Flint scrambled to his feet.

  “About fucking time,” he grunted. “Did Klutz handle the other one?”

  “Yeah,” Knocker said. “Except now we don’t have a tranq for the cripple.”

  “Doesn’t matter; we’re blown,” he said. He glanced in the room, to see Clutch holding the dark-haired man named Childress down. The guy was fighting, but he was in a bad position, and for all his idiocy, Clutch was a strong bastard. “Grab him and let’s go. If you’ve got to choke him the fuck out, do it.”

  Clutch didn’t say anything, but just did what Flint had instructed, wrapping Childress up in a blood choke until his struggles got feeble and finally died away. He hastily zip-tied the paraplegic and levered him into a wheelchair. It was going to be too much trouble to try to carry him.

  As they came out of the room, two cops appeared in the hallway, their hands already on their still-holstered weapons. “Stop!” one of them shouted.

  Flint didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, practiced motion, he snatched up the front of his shirt, whipped his Glock 43 out of its holster, and double-tapped the first in the face. As the cop’s buddy stared in shock and horror, he transitioned and gave that one the same treatment. Blood, bone, and brains splashed out of the man’s ventilated skull and he collapsed.

  “Don’t just fucking stand there!” he snapped as he quickly reloaded. “Let’s go! Troll’s waiting!”

  The three of them hurried toward the elevator, Flint hoping that they were still ahead of the desperate 911 call that had to be heading out to every law enforcement department in the county. He was seething. The pressure would be on, now. He had no moral compunction about killing the two cops. They were in his way. But he knew that cops tended to get really, really intense about hunting cop-killers. They were going to have to step carefully and move fast.

  Fortunately, that was something he was well-practiced at.

  ***

  “Well, this looks inviting,” Hancock muttered. He was staring at a narrow dirt lane leading back into the trees. What looked like a cargo-container cabin was just barely visible, about five hundred meters from the road. And it wasn’t a main road by any stretch of the imagination. Just judging by the potholes and cracks, it was on the county’s backlist for maintenance, if they even knew it was still there.

  “Kirk is an interesting guy,” Burgess said. “But he’s solid.” He looked away as he muttered, “If this isn’t one of the bad times.”

  “I heard that,” Hancock said, giving him a narrow stare. Hancock’s stare was an intense one, well-practiced from many years as an NCO and Staff NCO. It was often referred to as a “basilisk stare.”

  “Kirk’s moody sometimes,” Burgess explained. “He gets reclusive. If he’s in one of his moods, he won’t join anybody for anything. But don’t worry. He’ll be alright. He’s a hard-core prepper and one of those guys who served for twenty years but hates the government and always has. But he’s got a soft spot for fellow soldiers and contractors, and he’s addicted to the work. He’ll be on board. Might take an hour or so of talking, but he’ll join up. He can’t help himself.”

  Hancock was still skeptical as they pulled up next to the cabin. The trees had been deceptive; there was cleared ground for at least fifty meters around the cabin, and the windows had been cut for good fields of fire all the way around. And it looked like they could be closed with steel shutters. Yeah, he was familiar with the type. Kirk clearly was one who never had quite gotten out of the downrange mindset. That could be an asset. It could also be a liability.

  Burgess didn’t seem concerned, though. He got out of the car and walked toward the cabin, the sound of the slammed door surprisingly loud in the quiet of the Kentucky backwoods.

  “Hey, Kirk!” he called out toward the house as he approached. “It’s Tom.”

  The door opened a crack, then the rest of the way. A burly, barrel-chested man with a red beard spilling most of the way down his chest stood there. He wasn’t carrying a weapon, but somehow, from the way he was standing, Hancock was sure that he had a shotgun or rifle just inside the door.

  “Howdy, Tom,” Kirk drawled, his eyes sweeping across the car and the two Blackhearts getting out of it. “Long time, no see. Who’re your friends?”

  “This is Herc,” Tom said, pointing to Javakhishvili. “He came on the Albatross contract just after you left. He’s solid. And that’s Roger.” He nodded toward Hancock. “They’ve got a proposition for you.”

  Kirk scanned them both again. His eyes were bright flecks in a mass of squint lines, but there was an appraising look in them. “Come on in,” he said. He stepped back from the door and Burgess went inside.

  Hancock shrugged a little. He had his own P320 under his shirt. Burgess vouched for this guy, and Herc vouched for Burgess, so he’d play along. And they
did need another hand.

  He looked around as he entered. The cabin might have been built from cargo containers, but Kirk clearly knew what he was about. This was no serial killer’s shack in the woods. The walls had been paneled with wood, there were gas lights mounted that clearly weren’t needed at the moment; the windows let in plenty of light. The furniture was spare but comfortable and clean. Kirk had an “I love me” wall, with certificates, mementos, and a shadowbox from a long, and apparently illustrious career with Fifth and Tenth Special Forces Groups. In addition, there were more photos of what had to be contractor groups, gathered in kit and weapons in various exotic locales, from Kabul to Tripoli to Baghdad. The other walls were largely hung with hunting trophies ranging from a truly massive moose head to a Dall sheep.

  He nodded to himself. He’d been a little worried when their new candidate had a tiny cabin far from civilization, but this wasn’t a nutcase’s house. This was an old vet who liked his privacy.

  “So,” Kirk said, opening his fridge and pulling out a beer. He held it up with an inquiring look, but Hancock shook his head. Javakhishvili looked a little crestfallen, but also turned one down. Kirk just shrugged, popped the top, and sat in an overstuffed, leather easy chair, taking a long pull. “Before you get into your ‘proposition,’ let’s just get one thing on the table. I don’t know what company you’re working for, or what agency by proxy, but I said a long time ago that I really wasn’t interested in playing the ‘monkey on a shelf’ game.” At Hancock’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated.

  “I worked for just about every major contracting company in the business at one time or another,” he said. “Every one ended up the same way. Started out good, with good pay, treated their contractors like gold. Then they got big, figured they had it made, and started treating their guys like monkeys on a shelf. You can always pull another one who wants to make some money and is more desperate than the guy who’s fed up with getting nickel-and-dimed to death while having his income threatened to keep him jumping overseas whenever the company can’t fill an opening.” He shook his head and took another pull off the beer. “I’m too old to play that game,” he said. “So, whatever your proposition is, it better be good.”

  Hancock smiled. “No company,” he said. “Just some old hands ready to wreck some house where it’s needed. No middleman, so the pay’s good.” He named a figure, and Kirk’s eyebrows climbed. “And it ain’t sitting in a tower or in a car on venue, either.”

  Kirk set the beer down and leaned forward. There was an almost pained look on his face, as if he was afraid to hope. “Combat action?” he asked.

  “More than likely,” Hancock replied. “Current mission is reconnaissance, but we’ve been up against some nasty customers over the last couple years or so. This is high-risk stuff.”

  Kirk looked over at Burgess. “You know anything about this, Tom?”

  Burgess was leaning against the wall and spread his hands with that same easygoing grin. “Brother, I know about as much as you do at the moment. But I know Herc, and he says it’s a good gig. And yeah, there’s combat. It sounds like it’s gonna be the old days all over again.”

  Kirk took a long look at Javakhishvili, then Hancock. He downed the rest of his beer in one long pull, glanced again at Burgess, then leaned forward.

  “Well, I’m in, then,” he said. “Tell me more.”

  ***

  Santelli had just gotten Carlo Junior to sleep when his phone rang. He winced, beating a hasty retreat from the nursery and closing the door behind him. He paused for a second, but there was no wail of infant crying, so he breathed a sigh of relief and looked at the phone. As far as he knew, Brannigan should be wheels-up to the new job, so he wasn’t sure who this was. He wasn’t used to getting many calls that weren’t involving the Blackhearts.

  He frowned. “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Carlo Santelli?” a weary voice asked.

  “Speaking,” he said cautiously.

  “This is Gary Hild,” the voice said. “I’m a friend of Ben Drake.” Santelli started to pay more attention. If one of Drake’s guys was calling him…

  “There’s been an incident,” Hild said. “Three guys came to Sam’s hospital room, stabbed us both with tranqs, and took him. We’ve got people looking for them already, and the cops are on the prowl; they killed two of them on the way out. But you’d better get out here. Ben’s already got reinforcements on the way to your place, and after today, they’re gonna be loaded for bear.”

  Santelli felt his guts clench. He felt a certain fatherly responsibility for Sam Childress. He glanced at the nursery door. If Drake had more guards coming, then Carlo Junior and Melissa should be safe. Should be.

  He shook his head. “I’ll be out there by tomorrow,” he said. “I’m getting my wife and kid to someplace more secure first. I’ll make sure to coordinate with your guys.”

  “Do that,” Hild said. The old man really sounded rough; it must have been a hell of a fight for a man his age. “We’ll get things rolling out here.”

  Santelli hung up. He looked down at the phone for a moment.

  No. I’d better tell Melissa first. Then I’ll call Roger and get him and Herc moving. Hopefully they’ve got some new blood, too. I think we can use all the guns we can get, especially with the rest of the team overseas.

  He’d call Gomez, too. He knew why Brannigan had shut the younger man out, but this was different. They’d gone to help him when he’d needed it, and he’d never forgive them if he didn’t get called in to rescue Childress.

  There was a lot to do, and the clock was already ticking. He headed for the bedroom.

  Chapter 7

  Abeche was hot as hell, and Brannigan was already thinking back to his last visit to Africa. It hadn’t ended well. He hoped that this time was going to be different, but he remembered that it was Africa, after all.

  Nothing ever really ended well in Africa.

  Though unarmed and wearing the de facto NGO uniform, Brannigan was still the first man off the plane, the first one to set foot downrange. With his duffel over one shoulder, he stepped down the stairs that had been lowered from the charter plane’s door and scanned the tarmac.

  There were several technicals and a BMP-1 sitting near the flight line, along with two battered-looking Su-25 Frogfoot attack aircraft. No, three. One looked like it was being scavenged for parts. Typically, there were no hangars; the repairs were being done out in the sun, against the retaining wall built mainly from a berm that had been shoveled up next to the tarmac.

  The airport was busier than he would have thought, which probably accounted for the relatively large number of Chadian soldiers in evidence. Dozens of vehicles, several with various organizational insignia on their doors, were gathered around the terminal, and there were small parties of Westerners and others gathered around them, watching the new arrivals. There was already another charter plane on final approach behind them.

  He scanned the men and women gathered in little knots in the parking lot as he got to the ground, Flanagan behind him. There were quite a few Westerners, but almost as many groups of Africans, and what looked very much like Chinese.

  That’s different. I knew the Chinese had a major presence in Africa, but I never heard that Chad was one of the hubs for that presence.

  A lot of NGOs would have had advance parties enter the country to set up logistics, but the Blackhearts were on their own. Settling the weight of the duffel on his shoulder, acutely and uncomfortably aware of his lack of weaponry, he led the way toward the terminal. The soldiers, dressed in khakis with blue, yellow, and red striped patches on the shoulders, most with yellow shemaughs wrapped around their heads, watched as they walked across the burning ground. Brannigan stayed aware of them through the corner of his eye, but refused to return their stares. Especially unarmed, that would be a mistake, one that he was reasonably certain more than a few clueless Westerners had made. These guys were little more than a militia in many ways, and given to aggress
ive displays of dominance, their egos bolstered by the AKs and FALs in their hands.

  He had a sudden thought, and glanced back. I was afraid of that. Jenkins, his usual belligerent self, was staring back at the soldiers, and the shorter one with mirrored aviator sunglasses on hopped down off the back of his technical and started swaggering forward. Dammit, Jenkins. Even Wade had more sense this time. Wade was a belligerent son of a bitch, but he was smart. Brannigan was starting to wonder just how long he was going to keep Jenkins around. The guy was becoming a liability. He was every bit of a pain in the ass that Aziz had been.

  The soldier said something in Arabic, which none of them spoke, at least not well. They hadn’t replaced their Arabic linguist since Aziz had been killed on the Tourmaline-Delta platform. That was an oversight that Brannigan suspected they were going to regret.

  Jenkins flushed at the soldier’s tone, but the swaggering man with the rifle knew he held all the cards. He repeated his demand, at which point Wade stepped up. Brannigan started back toward them, unsure just how he was going to defuse the situation, since his own Arabic was rudimentary at best, but knowing that he had to, or else this mission was stillborn before it had even begun.

  To his surprise, Don Hart stepped forward, with the faint hitch in his step from his prosthetic, and spoke to the soldier in what sounded like fluent Arabic. Brannigan glanced at Flanagan, and saw the black-bearded man’s eyebrows go up at the same time he felt his own rise. None of them had known that Hart spoke anything but English.

  Hart gestured toward Jenkins, sounding apologetic, as Wade hissed at the former SEAL. The soldier said something haughty, and Hart nodded, putting his hand over his heart and saying something else. The soldier stared at him, then grinned and demanded something else.

  Hart handed him his passport, looking somewhat thicker than usual. The soldier looked in it, grinned again, and handed it back, noticeably thinner, before making one more flippant comment, loudly enough that his comrades could hear. They laughed as the soldier swaggered back to his truck, and Hart, Wade, and Jenkins turned to catch up with Brannigan and the others.