Lethal Misconduct

by C. G. Cooper

  Cal didn’t know what to believe, but he did know that Daniel was imbued with some kind of… Well, he just called it a gift.

  “You were looking for me?” asked Cal, sidling up to see what Daniel was looking at. He instantly recognized it as a map of the surrounding area.

  “Yeah. A call came in from Brandon. He wanted to see how things were going.” Aside from Cal and his cousin, Daniel was on a very short list of people who could call the president by his first name.

  “Do I need to call him back?” Cal wasn’t a fan of people looking over his shoulder, even his friends.

  “I think so. He probably just wants to see if he can lend a hand.”

  Cal rolled his eyes. He had enough to do without having to report in to the president. Maybe he hadn’t made himself clear. He shook the orneriness away, constantly battling to control his short fuse.

  “Okay.”

  Cal clicked the speaker button on the secure phone in the center of the conference table and pressed the only preset phone number there. It was labeled “Pres.”

  “Cal Stokes for the president, please.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  “Cal?”

  “Good morning, your Holy and Mightiness. How may your humble servants be of even humbler service?”

  The president chuckled. “You sure you don’t want to join me in D.C.? I don’t get enough ass-kissing up here.”

  “No way.” The president knew that Washington, D.C. was one of Cal’s least favorite places to visit, what with all the politicians and partisan bickering.

  “Fair enough. How are things going?”

  “Somehow we’re ahead of schedule. It probably has to do with the way Jonas pays his people. I don’t think the city of Charlottesville had ever approved any renovation this quickly.”

  “He knows what he’s doing.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “Good. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Cal bit back another smart remark. “I don’t think so. Daniel, can you think of anything?”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “I think we’re good,” said Cal. “How’s my cousin behaving?”

  “You know Trav, steamrolling the assholes with a bulldozer.”

  It was Cal’s turn to laugh. Although his cousin’s disdain for politicians was more tempered than his own, Travis was still a no BS kinda guy. In the short time he’d been in the White House, the former SEAL had purged the non-performers and constructed what even the media considered a strong presidential team.

  “Tell him I said hi.”

  “I will, and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. I mean that, Cal.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  The call ended and Cal looked at Daniel. “Would you have thought two years ago that we could call the president of the United States whenever we wanted?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No way.”

  Chapter 3

  National Institutes of Health (NIH) Headquarters

  Bethesda, Maryland

  9:51am, April 4th

  The muted walls of the corner office were plastered with black picture frames. Not the typical “I Love Me” items of a military veteran, but the remnants of death. A picture of a mass grave in Rwanda, bodies stacked like cords of wood outside a mill house. Numerous shots of victims of disease, wounds still seeping with puss, gashes oozing dark blood. Dead eyes everywhere.

  New visitors to the space left either appalled or disgusted. There was no other way to respond. No one thought to ask its owner why he had such a grisly collection displayed so prominently.

  There was a reason. Not unlike the gruesome images collected and hung precisely on his walls, the face of Army Colonel Gormon Cromwell spoke of pain and disease. The left side of his face sagged grotesquely, the after effects of some unknown bacteria he’d contracted while on assignment as a young captain in the jungles of central Africa. He’d been left for dead when he failed to check in with his team. It was only by sheer will and the aid of a nomadic huntsman that the Army Green Beret had stumbled back into camp a full week after disappearing.

  His face swollen from infection, feet aching from immersion foot, and body racked with malaria, the local doctor had written him off. He said he’d seen the disease before, something the locals called ‘the nodding disease.’ The prognosis? Death. That was until Cromwell had pressed his always present pistol into the doctor’s forehead and croaked, “You cure me or I’ll kill you and all your people.”

  Whether it was the wild determination in the emaciated soldier’s eyes, or the leveled rifle of the African huntsman who’d stayed on Gormon’s side on promise of payment, the doctor relented, quickly calling in a team of Red Cross physicians.

  He’d spent a month in that mosquito-infested clinic, finally attaining the needed stability to be transported back to Ramstein Air Base in Germany.

  How had his superiors thanked him? They’d kicked him out of the green berets. They said he was in no shape to continue his career. More than one senior officer had suggested he medically retire, take his disability, and try to build a new life outside the military.

  Cromwell would have none of it. He told them all. He forged a new career on his own. Instead of running from the diseases that had almost killed him, he embraced them. While recovering from his ailments, Cromwell pulled some strings and was accepted into Johns Hopkin’s School of Public Health, earning a PhD in Global Disease Epidemiology and Control in half the time as prescribed.

  Over the next fifteen years he’d become a legend, utilizing his former green beret skills along with his voracious appetite for unraveling the mysteries of infectious diseases to help contain outbreaks around the world.

  Technically he was assigned to the Center for Disease Control (CDC) on loan to the National Institute of Health (NIH). Technically.

  In reality, he now reported to a very small group of leaders who were nowhere in his chain of command. He’d become an anomaly, a soldier who wasn’t afraid to make the tough calls within a broken bureaucracy. It had started off innocently enough. His real bosses at NIH would give him a small job and he’d take care of it. Small jobs led to bigger ones and pretty soon they never asked. When new bosses took the place of the old ones, they just assumed Cromwell was on his own, and that was fine with him.

  It was one member of his unofficial hierarchy who he was on the phone with now.

  “You know I wish I could help, but I don’t see how.”

  “You know goddamn well what I’m asking. Don’t be coy, Cromwell.”

  Col. Cromwell grinned. Of course he knew what the wily politician wanted. “Maybe if you tell me—”

  “I could have you—”

  “Now, I know how you must be feeling, but let’s not say things today that we’ll regret tomorrow.”

  Cromwell listened as his boss tried to get his temper under control.

  “Fine. How much?”

  “Ten million,” Cromwell said without hesitating.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “You know I only have a couple left.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money!”

  “I’m sure you could come up with it if you really thought about it. I could put in a call or two…”

  “No. I’ll handle it. When can you make delivery?”

  “I can have a courier take it to you as soon I hang up.”

  “Good. And you’ll take my word about the payment,” asked the caller.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Cromwell looked out at his expansive view of the campus gardens and grinned. His retirement fund would almost double with this payment. Now, if he could only get his hands on Dr. Hunter Price and the rest of his stash.

  Chapter 4

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  11:25am, April 4th

  Jonas had just finished explaining the impressive plans he’d developed for their new properties when the doorbell rang. Cal
reached over and pressed the button on the video screen they’d had installed in each main room. Instantly the feed from the front door popped up.

  There were three figures waiting, holding a variety of personal belongings. “Sorry, we already bought a case of Girl Scout cookies,” said Cal into the microphone that patched to the outside speaker.

  Two of the men on screen lifted their right hands and extended their middle fingers.

  The four men assembled in the kitchen laughed as Gaucho went to let the three visitors in.

  “You have correctly identified our secret password,” said Cal in a bad British accent. “Our Mexican valet will be with you shortly.”

  “Fuck you, Cal,” said Gaucho over his shoulder.

  A moment later Gaucho reentered the kitchen with the three men in tow. The first, a near seven foot muscle-bound former lineman with a flat top and bulging black arms, entered with an easy smile.

  “I thought you boys would be out trying to round up some co-eds,” said Marine Master Sergeant Willy Trent.

  “Yeah,” said Neil Patel as he walked in next, the dark complexioned Indian-American dressed impeccably as usual with a pair of lime green pants and a stylish form fitting sweater to match. His eyes smiled behind the stone colored Dolce & Gabbana glasses. The tech genius had an above 200 IQ score just like Jonas, and could hack into almost anything that was connected to an electrical outlet. He and Cal had first become friends at the University of Virginia, and it had been Cal who’d recommend his friend to his father for employment. Neil Patel made a lot of money for Stokes Security International, mostly through his constant tinkering and highly lucrative licensing deals. “You break in the Biltmore yet?”

  The two men joined the others with handshakes and hugs. They’d been through a lot together. Other than Travis, these men were the only family Cal had left. He would gladly give his life for any one of them, and almost had on more than one occasion.

  The last man stood back and watched the welcome. Shorter than the others and portly where the others were fit, Dr. Alvin Higgins, one of the top interrogators in the country, and probably the world, took it all in.

  “I wasn’t expecting you, Doc,” said Cal, walking over to shake the old CIA employee’s hand. While the Marine hated most shrinks, he loved Dr. Higgins. Behind his jovial facade lay a cold and calculating interrogator with the ability to extract information out of the most stubborn adversaries. His skills not only lay in the questioning, but in the apothecary-like crafting of potions that made criminals happy to tell the man in glasses, who liked the occasional pipe and talked like he could be from London, anything he asked.

  “Nice to see you too, Calvin. Marjorie thought I might be of some use what with the change in SSI’s role.” Cal knew Higgins had made the last remark to see Cal’s reaction, and despite trying, Cal couldn’t help but wince.

  “Does that mean you’ve decided to join our new fraternity?” asked Cal, the others now listening to the conversation.

  “If you’ll have me, I’ve already put in a call to an old friend at the medical school. Depending on what you need, I am prepared to join your fraternity, as you call it.”

  Cal couldn’t help but smile. Having Higgins would seriously boost their capabilities. Not only was the good doctor indispensable with enemies in hand, he’d also been part of Travis’s inner circle, the top of SSI, a highly valued part of the team.

  “Are you kidding, Doc? We’d love to have you!”

  There were cheers in the kitchen as they welcomed the last member of their team.

  After the newcomers were shown to their temporary quarters (they were making due with multiple cots in each bedroom), the team gathered in the War Room to discuss their new mission. Cal took the lead.

  “The president is giving us free rein. As long as we stay under the radar, we’re golden,” said Cal.

  “What’s our focus? Where do we start?” asked Trent.

  “That’s a good question, Top.” (Top is what Marines affectionately called their Master Sergeants.) “One of the reasons Jonas is here—”

  “You mean beside his billions?” interrupted Gaucho.

  There was an awkward pause as everyone looked to Jonas, some of whom had just met him for the first time. The billionaire suddenly burst out laughing, and gave Gaucho a perfectly executed middle finger. “You got that right!”

  The others joined in, realizing that maybe this new guy wasn’t so bad.

  “Now that Gaucho got the inappropriate comment out of the way, back to Top’s question. Our mission hasn’t changed much. We’re still looking for bad guys and taking them down, but now we have a new tool. Jonas has a gift for predicting everything from stock swings to elections. I won’t go into how he does it because, frankly, it’s way over my head, but I think it’ll help us track even better than we did before. The first step is to get him all the information he needs. Neil, that’ll be your job. You two know each other so you can figure out how to coordinate the work flow. The rest of us will help pick and choose what’s important and what’s actionable.”

  “What do we do when we’re not working?” asked Trent.

  “Are you already itching for liberty, Top?” asked Gaucho.

  “You know me, buddy, always lovin’ libo. But seriously, until we get ramped up, I’m assuming we’ll have some time to kill. Doc Higgins will be helping at the med school. What will the rest of us do?”

  “I know a couple restaurants nearby that could use your culinary skills,” said Neil, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Another middle finger and another round of chuckles.

  “Other than helping out around here, you’ll be free to come and go as you please. Same deal as SSI,” said Cal. “If you want to take classes, I’m sure we can accommodate it, but the missions come first.”

  Heads nodded around the room. Cal knew how to take care of his men. He trusted them completely. They’d find ways to stay busy until their operational level spiked.

  “What about training?” asked Gaucho. “Are we still allowed to use the SSI facilities?”

  SSI kept a second headquarters just outside Charlottesville in Albemarle County, not ten minutes from where they stood. Camp Cavalier was almost an exact replica of Camp Spartan near Nashville, including just over 2,000 acres, live-fire ranges and training facilities.

  “We’ll have full use of both camps. We may not technically be part of the old company, but we’re still part of the family,” said Cal. “Any other questions?”

  Dr. Higgins raised his hand. “What are we going to call this new outfit, Calvin?”

  “It’s funny you asked, Doc. That’s the first thing we need everyone’s help with.”

  Chapter 5

  Gainesville, Florida

  12:20pm, April 4th

  Dr. Hunter Price breathed a sigh of relief as he shut the door to his dilapidated motel room, paint peeling in numerous round spots along the faded baby blue walls. He latched the bolt and rested his back against the wall, exhaling. For the last five hours, he’d gotten on and off public transportation, making sure he wasn’t being followed. His body ached from the strain, brain thrumming.

  This was one of three rooms he’d rented for a week, with cash, for his brief stay in Gainesville. He was in no rush. There was plenty of money left in his secret bank account, completely untraceable thanks to an old friend in the business. He still had to be careful, but his travel funds had the ability to sustain him for years. He was eternally grateful to a highly efficient financial planner who took very good care of his investments.

  Hunter Price came from money. His entire family had gone to Yale, including his mother and his aunts. It’s just what the Price family did.

  It had all started with his grandfather, the stalwart Vincent Price, who’d immigrated to the United States from Poland shortly before the Second World War. Back then the family name was Koszt, which when asked about by the immigration official, was roughly translated to Price. From then on young V
incent embraced his new American name, enlisting as Private Price and being assigned to Gen. Patton’s U.S. 2nd Armored Division and later in U.S. II Corps. He’d become one of Patton’s favored translators due to his easy command of Polish, Russian and German.

  Vincent Price left the Army during the post-war drawdown and used his military contacts to make a name in the business world. First opening a translation company that provided translators to the now divided Europe, he also found a new opportunity completely by accident.

  On one of his trips overseas, Vincent purchased a glazed ornament for his new wife while traveling through Rome, a present for Christmas. Upon debarking, he happened to run into a wealthy business owner whom he’d met months before. The man asked Vincent about the package under his arm and Vincent showed him the beautiful ornament adorned with traditional Italian figurines.

  The man’s eyes went wide. Gushing over the craftsmanship, he offered Vincent an astronomical sum for the item that was purchased for mere pennies from a one-legged street vendor. Like any good businessman, Vincent sold the gift to the man and reinvested the proceeds in a gold bracelet for his wife.

  The incident planted the seed for Vincent’s new venture: importing. Through his friends both within the military and throughout Europe, Price’s Imports soon became one of the leading importers in the Northeast. Within two years, Vincent had secured his family’s future.