The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2)

by Chris Fritschi

  “I’m impressed, Rosse,” said Tate. “I didn’t know medics had access to that kind of equipment.”

  “I don’t,” chuckled Rosse. “But you hang with convicts long enough and you pick up a thing or two. For instance, pure coke melts at about 195 degrees. The more impure, the lower the melting point. The sample I tested melted at 130, and that’s way low. So, I sprinkled some on a glass of water. Coke dissolves right away in water. This stuff just sat there on the top. Just to be sure, I tried a drop of vinegar on some and it foamed like hell.”

  “Baking soda?” asked Kaiden. “Did you test the next packet?”

  “All of them,” said Rosse.

  Tate and Kaiden looked at each other knowingly. He rested his elbows on the table while Kaiden sat back in her chair, her gaze wandering around the room.

  “They murdered him,” said Wesson, breaking the short-lived silence.

  “And?” said Tate, noting Kaiden’s approving nod.

  “The reason all the other packets were baking soda was because Stockton’s drug source knew he wouldn’t live to use them.”

  “Very good, Sergeant,” said Kaiden.

  The sincerity of the compliment puzzled Wesson; she didn’t know if Kaiden didn’t like her, or she was misreading her.

  “That’s half of the why,” said Kaiden. “What’s the other half?”

  Wesson could see that Tate and Kaiden had already worked out the story behind the evidence on the table and were giving her the space to reach their same conclusions.

  Just before the formation of the Grave Diggers, Tate was their squad leader in name only. She had shouldered the weight of leading the squad as Tate only tagged along for the ride.

  As Grave Diggers, their training intensified and Tate would show up late, if at all. Wesson easily remembered the night she reached her breaking point. Alone in her quarters, she cried out her anger and frustration with the decision that she’d transfer out, or quit. Walking to her own firing squad would have been easy compared to the long walk to the training area to tell Tate she was out, if he even cared.

  When she arrived at the training field, everything had changed. Tate was a different person. He had the squad running through their paces, giving orders and expecting results. The burdens that hung from Wesson’s shoulders were suddenly gone. Tate was making the decisions, setting the squad’s goals and kicking asses when required. The sudden change left Wesson bewildered, but grateful.

  They never discussed what made Tate change, and she was content to let her curiosity go hungry because what really mattered was he was leading.

  Wesson shifted her focus back to the objects on the table and their deeper meaning.

  She pointed to the logo of the crown with the sword pierced through it. “I think that’s from the King of Hearts,” she said. “The playing card.”

  “The Suicide King?” said Tate. “I think you’re right. That could be their street name.”

  “If word got out,” said Wesson, “the Suicide King was poisoning its own product, nobody would touch it.”

  “That’s true,” said Rosse. “But, if things had gone a different way, nobody at that outpost would’ve survived, and Miss, uh, I mean Kaiden, wouldn’t have been around to figure out what happened.”

  “That’s the other thing that’s nagging at me,” said Wesson. “I keep asking myself, why kill this one guy?”

  “Did they just kill this one guy?” asked Tate.

  The light switched on in Wesson’s face. She became very still as the realization took hold.

  “Holy hell,” she said.

  “They only put drugs in the first packet because they knew Stockton wouldn’t live long enough to use any more,” said Kaiden.

  “They wanted to set a Vix loose in that camp,” said Tate. “And they used poisoned cocaine and Stockton to do it.”

  “It had ta kill him quick,” added Rosse, “cause as soon as he knew something was wrong, he’d a yelled for help.”

  “Hang on,” said Wesson. “This is guess-work. We don’t know if the source actually planned for this to happen.”

  “Planned and executed,” said Tate. “But, you’re right. We need to have that syringe tested to see what’s in it. Rosse?”

  “Sorry, Top. I’m just a medic. I don’t know how to do stuff like that,” He said.

  “Do you know anyone in the lab who could test it?” asked Tate.

  “And keep it quiet?” added Kaiden.

  Rosse chewed his bottom lip as he thought it over. It was obvious he knew something, but didn’t know if he should say something.

  Tate was about to break the long silence when Rosse spoke up.

  “And keep it quiet? Nah, but I do know a guy in town who could do it,” he said.

  “A chemist?” prompted Tate.

  “Not so much a chemist,” said Rosse, shrugging his shoulders. “More like a vet who helps me out sometimes.”

  “A veterinarian?” said Wesson. “How would he know about cocaine?”

  Rosse sat back, putting his hands up in protest. “Now before you guys get all judgmental,” he said, “ya gotta understand this guy’s okay.” He had opened a can of worms and was squirming under Tate’s stare.

  “I don’t know where this is going, Sergeant,” said Tate, “but I’m hoping it doesn’t involve you in drugs, or the black market.”

  “It does, but it ain’t like what you’re think’n,” said Rosse. “See, here’s the thing. The army treats us AVF types like we’re the ugly step-son of the family. We get all the hand-me-down, beat up, used stuff, an sometimes we get nothing at all. They keep the real doctors supplied pretty much, but I guess they don’t figure you ain’t gonna survive the kind of wounds you get in the field, like Vix bites. So, there ain’t always stuff for our field medical kit. Someone told me about this guy who runs a business out of his veterinarian shop. When my supplies run low, I go to him.”

  Tate’s initial misgivings began to ebb, but he still had questions. He liked Rosse and trusted him to take care of the team in the field, but dealing with the black market could get you into trouble, no matter how good your intentions were.

  “He’s not giving you these supplies for free,” said Tate. “How are you able to pay him, or what are you paying him with?”

  Rosse looked down and fidgeted with his watch for a moment. Tate couldn’t remember ever seeing this stocky, rough-talking man so uncomfortable, and wondered what horrible sin he was about to confess.

  “I ain’t proud of it, but I’ve been looting stuff off of Vix,” said Rosse, but rushed to head off any objections. “I know. I know. It ain’t right, and only a low-life would do a thing like that, but I ain’t doing it for me. I’m take’n care of my team, an if that means I gotta stick my neck out, then so be it.”

  Rosse believed in what he said and straightened up in his chair, sticking out his jaw. “If anyone’s got a problem with that, they can kiss my butt… you know, present company excepted.”

  “Whoa, take it easy,” said Tate. There were a number of scenarios Rosse could have said that could have been a lot worse, and Tate was thankful the truth wasn’t one of them.

  “I don’t think anyone here will criticize what you do. I’m glad to have a medic as resourceful as you on my team. What you do to keep that med-kit supplied stays in this room, agreed?” He took a quick look, getting a nod from Wesson and Kaiden.

  Rosse was practically beaming from Tate’s vote of confidence as a smile stretched across his square face.

  “Let your vet know we want this analyzed,” said Tate, tapping the bagged syringe. “He doesn’t need to know the backstory. I hope he’s not touchy about company. I’ll be going with you.”

  “Sure, no problem,” said Rosse. “He knows me. I wouldn’t rat him out. I’ll set it up and let you know when.”

  “All right,” said Tate. “That’s it for now. We’ll meet up again when there’s something to report.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  CLEAN ROOM


  Rosse hadn’t wasted any time in giving Stockton’s used syringe to the vet.

  Tate was surprised when Rosse had told him the vet had finished his testing a couple of days later.

  The vet didn’t go into detail with Rosse, but asked him if he could supply the vet with several grams of the poison.

  Rosse’s beat-up truck rattled though the night air of the southern outlying residential area of Coca de Cups, towards the south-side inner city. The original refugee shanty town was slowly transforming from shacks of thrown-together lumber and corrugated tin to more habitable, low income, dreary apartment blocks.

  Many of the people here found jobs working for the factories and manufacturing plants that were attracted by the abundance of cheap labor.

  Tate shook his head as he looked out the window. He’d been all over the world, and poor neighborhoods looked the same; good people busting their backs to make what living they could, while industries made a living off the backs of the poor. It wasn’t that long ago the human race was fighting for its very survival from the onslaught of Vix. Every life was worth saving, but then, over time, as people found a bit of safety, human nature, being what it is, kicked in and money returned as the highest priority.

  His thoughts ended with a sharp jolt as the truck bucked over potholes in the road, sending a stabbing pain through his side. The springs, if there were any, in the passenger seat did nothing to soften the bumps in the road.

  “She’s not the smoothest ride,” grinned Rosse, “but she’ll take a beating and keep on going.”

  “I’ve seen Godzilla leave Japanese villages in better condition than this truck,” wheezed Tate.

  “That’s how I trick car thieves,” said Rosse. “She’s beat up on the outside, but a finely-tuned machine on the inside.”

  The truck lurched over another pothole with a jarring hit that rattled Tate to the bone.

  “Inside where?” he winced.

  A few blocks later, Rosse turned down a street lined with a mishmash of storefronts. The businesses had closed up for the night, and metal screens shuttered their darkened store windows.

  Rosse turned down a dirty alley and came to a stop outside a two-story row of cinderblock buildings. A pair of weak lights shined over a weathered sign, near a steel security door, which said, “veterinario”.

  The entire back of the building was a chalky-blue, with a badly painted mural of dogs, cats and other animals. No light came from inside the bar-covered windows of the first floor. The flickering light of a television lit one of the windows above them.

  Rosse pressed a button near the door and gave Tate a nod. “He’s gonna need a minute to get used to you,” he said. “So, don’t overreact if he don’t trust ya at first.”

  “I’ll follow your lead,” said Tate, inwardly smiling at Rosse’s warning. He could have told him stories from his time as a Delta operator, working alongside psychotic rebels, blind drunk bush pilots, and one hallucinating bomb maker.

  The door on the other side of the steel security door opened and a backlit figure stood there looking at them.

  “Hey, Doctor Jer,” said Rosse. “I got your message about that syringe you tested.”

  The silhouette on the other side of the metal screen made no move to open the security door, or speak.

  “Oh,” said Rosse, pointing a thumb at Tate. “This is my friend I was telling you about. I vouch for him. He’s okay.”

  There was a buzz, followed by a click as the steel door unlocked. Before Tate could take a step, a bath-robed figure left the doorway and walked quickly up to him.

  “Hello,” said Doctor Jer, extending his hand out to Tate.

  “Hi,” said Tate, taking the offered hand. “Thank you for your help with…” He stopped short as the doctor shoved something solid and blunt against his belly. The doctor continued to shake his hand as he leaned in uncomfortably close to Tate’s face.

  “I got him covered, Tyler,” said Doctor Jer. “Are you all right, amigo?”

  Rosse walked over to Tate and the doctor, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Nah, really, Doctor,” said Rosse with a reassuring smile. “He’s a good guy. You don’t have to worry about him. Honest.”

  Jer’s face broke into a smile, and he put his arms around Tate in a quick hug, giving his aggravated broken rib another reason to punish him and making him wince.

  “You okay?” asked the doctor, appraising Tate.

  “He busted a rib,” volunteered Rosse. “Fell out of a helicopter.”

  “Sergeant,” warned Tate.

  “A helicopter?” said Jer. “Don’t those things have seatbelt?”

  “Hey, maybe you got something for the pain?” said Rosse.

  Tate flashed Rosse a sharp look, and Rosse clapped his mouth shut before the next words left his lips.

  “I have a great pain killer for that rib,” said the doctor.

  Since they were on the subject, knocking down the pain of his rib wasn’t a bad idea to Tate. “Does it work?” he asked.

  “I use it on dogs all the time and they never complain,” said Doctor Jer.

  “Dogs?” said Tate.

  “People, dogs. Close enough,” said Jer. “Let’s not stand out in the dark all night. Come in.”

  He turned and headed back for the door. Tate’s assumption was confirmed as he saw the doctor slip a fat, chrome, snub-nosed .44 magnum into the pocket of his bathrobe.

  As he walked inside, Tate was struck by the smell of animals and ammonia. The doctor lead them past darkened rooms where they heard grunts, squeaks and the quiet rattle of metal cages.

  The doctor stopped at a large hole that had been knocked out in the cinderblock wall that opened into another building. Beyond was empty darkness.

  As he took off his bathrobe and hung it on a hook, the doctor saw Tate looking at the ragged hole.

  “As my businesses expanded, I needed more room,” said Jer.

  “The neighbors don’t mind your renovations?” asked Tate.

  Chuckling, the doctor ducked through the hole and took a lab coat from a hook. “I don’t have neighbors,” he said. “I own everything on this block.”

  “Business must be good,” said Tate.

  “Fortune favors the bold,” said Jer.

  There was a loud snap as the doctor threw a switch, bathing the area in white light. What had been a storehouse had been converted into the doctor’s workshop. Several lab tables lined one wall and in the center of the room was a large tent, draped in clear, plastic sheets.

  Tate stopped short. He recognized the clean room instantly. Used to create a sterile environment for patients in mobile surgical units, but they are also used by amateur madmen who tinkered with the Pandora’s Box of biological weapons.

  Tate’s memories threw him back to years before, when he was still part of the Night Devils, tasked to investigate reports a terrorist group was trying to develop a biological weapon. According to their intel, the terrorists had recruited Jaco Erasmus, a recently radicalized bioengineering student from South Africa.

  If they had gotten their hands on Jaco’s university records, they would’ve never have touched him. Jaco had failed several of his courses, routinely mishandled material leading to the infection of another student. When it was discovered he’d stolen school equipment to run illegal experiments in his home, the university kicked him out.

  In Jaco’s mind, the university was to blame for his failures. He believed they saw him as a new breed of bioengineer and resented him for it. Maybe even feared he would make them obsolete.

  But the world is filled with small minds who wouldn’t understand or believe him, so Jaco lied to the terrorists. He told them he was head of his class and more than qualified to use his skills to further their righteous cause.

  It wasn’t like there’s a terrorist version of LinkedIn, where they could validate his credentials, and they jumped at the chance to up their game from simple bullets and bombs to wholesale slaughter.

 
The big brains at the Pentagon gave an eighty percent chance young Mr. Erasmus would waste the sample and never come up with anything worse than skin rash. But, there was a twenty percent chance he might create something deadly. Nobody in Washington was willing to bet on those odds, and they sent in the Night Devils to find out what, if anything, Jaco had developed and either bring him in, or eliminate him.

  It wasn’t long before Tate and his team had tracked down Jaco and his terrorist cell. They were operating out of a small village in the south west of Afghanistan; in the middle of nowhere at the foot of a mountain range.

  The Night Devils had picked a barren ridge above the village as their vantage point. Below were scattered buildings of dried mud and stone. Patches of scrub brush and trees dotted the village. Some of the homes had wooden stalls holding livestock.

  Tate’s unit had observed a young guy hanging around a building on the edge of the village, who’s clothes were out of place. They confirmed his ID against the photos they had of Jaco.

  After four days of reconnaissance they had more questions than answers. They hadn’t spotted any of the villagers, which didn’t make sense. By Tate’s estimation, a village that size would have a couple hundred people, but they hadn’t seen a soul. The terrorists not acting as look-outs from the rooftops were feeding and watering the animals, which was strange. Normally, there was a mutual understanding between the bad guys and villagers; the bad guys hung out and lived off the provisions of the villagers until they moved on, and the villagers went about their business mostly unmolested.

  They had spotted Jaco leaving his main building and going into other homes, seemingly at random. The rest of the terrorists had a more regular pattern which made it easier for the Night Devils to plan their infiltration of the village. There would be no moon in two days and they watched and waited, unsure of what they would find.

  At zero hundred hours, the Night Devils began their quiet decent down to the village. The guards didn’t have night vision optics and since there was nothing to see but dark, they gave up any pretense of over-watch. Instead, they’d sleep until dawn provided enough light to see by.