Doctors of Death

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Doctors of Death Page 10

by Peter Nealen


  Price actually smiled at that. “Oh, I don’t have to imagine,” he said. “I’ve heard the worst. I’m sure there are all sorts of rumors about the sort of nefarious things I might be up to here in Africa.” He jerked his head toward the tent. “Come on. Let’s have a sit-down. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Brannigan exchanged glances with Flanagan and Wade, shrugged, and followed Price into the tent. They had already stuck their necks out, and if Price wanted to explain himself, he’d give him a shot. It didn’t look like he had a big team here in the first place, which was odd. Price was the PMC magnate; he should have had entire sections with him. It was almost as if he was there on a recon mission.

  Just like the Blackhearts.

  Inside, there were two collapsible tables with folding camp chairs gathered around them. Price unclipped his SCAR 16 and laid it against a storm case before he slumped into a chair, running a hand over his face before waving Brannigan to another chair across from him. “Have a seat,” he said. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “First of all, what have you been told about the situation here?”

  “From what I’ve seen since we got here, we got the wavetops,” Brannigan said. “Chad hasn’t exactly been at the center of anyone’s attention lately. We were told that several WHO doctors disappeared while out here to investigate a mysterious outbreak in the refugee camps, and that we were coming to run recon and find out who was behind it.”

  “And that I was out here, possibly doing evil things to line my own pockets?” Price asked.

  “Your presence was mentioned,” Brannigan said.

  “Hmm,” Price said. “I was here before the WHO team went missing. What’s your working theory?”

  Brannigan shrugged. “While I’ve heard all sorts of wild conspiracy theories about your operations, this country’s crawling with jihadis, bandits, and militias of all stripes. Occam’s Razor.”

  Price nodded. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.” He sighed. “Except that I don’t think it is, in this case.”

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest rig. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing here, Colonel,” he said. “Did the unknowns—presumably some shadowy government back office—who hired you tell you about an operation in the Anambas Islands a couple years ago?”

  “A little,” Brannigan allowed. “Some Chinese frigate captain went pirate, the Chinese Navy moved in on him, and you were believed to be peripherally involved somehow. Something about illegal pirate hunting, that I gather the powers that be were worried was going to escalate matters and draw the US into direct conflict with China.”

  Price didn’t bat an eye. “That was certainly a concern,” he allowed. “But under the circumstances, I thought the rewards were worth the risks.”

  “And how many men died for those rewards?” Brannigan asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Death is always lurking only a short distance away for the warrior,” Price answered. Damn, he is a cold, calculating bastard, isn’t he? “And you’re right; things didn’t exactly go according to plan. The Chinese were a couple steps ahead at crucial points in that operation. Nevertheless, I got those I could out. Vernon was one of them. And, ultimately, the objective was met.”

  “And just what was the objective?” Brannigan asked. “What led you to risk everything to send contractors into that mess?”

  “Two things,” Price said. “Yuan had seized assets belonging to an American company, that I had interests with. Taking him out was a primary concern. Two?” He got serious. “Yuan was running amok right at the edge of the Straits of Malacca for two months before even the Chinese dared do anything about him. Beijing is usually death on deserters, and they don’t give a damn where that deserter might be hiding. There was no way in hell they were sitting on their hands just because he was in Indonesian territory. He had to have something that was keeping them at bay. And I knew that it had to be information.

  “I wanted it.”

  “So, they were there to find out what he had over the Central Committee?” Brannigan asked.

  “Yes,” Price confirmed. “Though it was only known to certain leaders, all of whom unfortunately were killed when an attack on Yuan’s base camp went awry. It was only the quick thinking of those who stepped up that got me the information I needed.

  “You wouldn’t believe just how much information Yuan stole,” he continued. “It laid just about every secret operation the Chinese have going worldwide open. And yes, I’ve used it since then. It’s provided me some considerable leverage when dealing with the Chinese over the last few years. Unfortunately…”

  “It’s put you on their target deck,” Brannigan finished, putting some of the pieces together. “That’s why they were watching us so closely. They thought we were here to link up with you.”

  Price’s lips thinned. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “But, given what I’ve found out, it was worth it.”

  He leaned forward again, steepling his fingers in front of him. “There was a lot in that blackmail file that Yuan had stolen. Including several keys that allowed me to monitor some of their more secure information systems. That led to a bunch of seemingly-disconnected messages that didn’t seem to fit. They were intel reports, mostly, about some unnamed organization that only had a code number attached. The Chinese like numbering things; I think it has something to do with the Communist mind. Names are too bourgeoise, or something. But this code number kept popping up, all over.

  “And the context was similarly interesting. It seems that in some areas and times, they were being referred to as a strategic asset. Other times, they were the subject of threat reporting, usually whenever they ventured into the Chinese sphere of influence, or got too close to certain Chinese interests internationally.

  “One of the reports correlated with the terror attacks leading into the Tourmaline-Delta incident a few months back. I’m sure you’re familiar with that.” Brannigan said nothing. Apparently, Price wasn’t so well-informed that he knew anything about the Blackhearts or their involvement. “Another mentioned an increased presence in Chad, of all places, and possible biological weapons.”

  Brannigan’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. That sounded serious, and, if Price was telling the truth, put this entire operation into an entirely different light.

  They’d gone up against the mysterious and well-equipped terrorists who had seized the Tourmaline-Delta platform twice, once in Mexico and again in Transnistria. Now, if Price was on the up and up, they might get another crack at them, and maybe even find out, finally, who they were.

  “And have you figured out just who this mysterious, code-numbered group is?” he asked.

  “I see I’ve got your attention,” Price said, a faint smile quirking the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t absolutely confirmed it, no. But I have my suspicions. And I’m about ninety-five percent certain of them.”

  When Brannigan just stared at him, he said, “There was one humanitarian aid organization here before the outbreaks started. And the WHO team wasn’t the first group to disappear, either. They’re just the first big enough for somebody outside to take an interest. In fact, from what I’ve been able to find out, the Humanity Front is the only group that hasn’t had anyone disappear.”

  Brannigan frowned. The Humanity Front was a big name. They were the up-and-coming international humanitarian organization. Celebrities, politicians, industrial magnates, tech giants; everyone liked to tout their support for the Humanity Front. Personally, he’d always found them more than a little off-putting; they tended to espouse “progressive” ideas he found repugnant. But they were one of the most popular and internationally respected NGOs in the world.

  “Seems like a bit of a stretch,” he said. “They certainly have enough security around here that they might have just been too well-protected.”

  “Maybe,” Price allowed. “But there are some irregularities that I can’t get o
ver. Including the fact that they maintain the biggest pool of military contractors I’ve ever seen an NGO hire. Including some of my less-savory former employees. And they’ve got a camp halfway between Abeche and Iriba that’s as heavily-guarded as a military FOB, and has what appears to be extensive biohazard precautions set up around a very closely-guarded, air-conditioned trailer. It’s the closest thing I’ve found to a germ lab. It fits with the Chinese reporting.”

  “You’re still accusing the most respected humanitarian organization in the world of being a terrorist organization,” Brannigan pointed out, even as he thought back to some of their PR materials with a certain prickling unease. They often preached about “making humanity better,” and that tended to get his hackles up. “You’re going to need a lot of proof.”

  “I know,” Price said. “Which is why I’m out here. Unfortunately, I’m being hunted, and by extension, so are you. And from what my guys have seen, the Humanity Front’s contractors have a lot of surveillance out, too. They know you’re here, and let me tell you from experience, they are a suspicious and hostile bunch.”

  “So, you’re suggesting that we join forces, then?” Brannigan asked. He really wasn’t sure about this. The security risks of letting an outsider like Price find out anything about the Blackhearts were high.

  And yet. There was something about what Price had said that was making him uneasy. There were certainly a lot of coincidences, and Brannigan didn’t necessarily believe in coincidences in combat situations.

  “I don’t think we’ve got a choice,” Price said. “I’ll show you all the reporting I’ve got. But I’m in a crack here, and so are you, simply because you’re not with the Humanity Front. You know as well as I do that a hemorrhagic fever outbreak didn’t just appear out of nowhere. Not when the Chinese were already reporting on bio weapons tests in central Africa.” He spread his hands. “I’ve been out here since this started. There simply aren’t any other suspects. Not really.”

  Brannigan frowned at him. “You understand that I can’t take any of this on your word alone,” he said.

  “I’d be surprised if you did,” Price replied. He pointed to a Toughbook laptop sitting on another table. “You’ve got access to everything I have.

  “Just don’t take too long. This isn’t exactly a permissive environment.”

  Brannigan nodded slowly, his fingers tapping the pistol grip of the L1A1 across his knees. That statement could be taken in more than one way. And Price did have a reputation. Not altogether a savory one, either.

  Chapter 11

  Mario Gomez’ phone rang and he snatched it up. He’d heard that the rest were going somewhere, but he hadn’t gotten the call from Brannigan, Hancock, or Santelli, and it irked him.

  He knew why he’d been left out of the loop; after the massacre of his parents and brother, he was his sister’s sole protector. Brannigan hadn’t wanted him to leave her alone, even with the two of Drake’s Old Fogey network staying in a trailer out by the barn. The Colonel thought he needed a break, to take care of her and for the two of them to start to recover from the trauma of their family’s murder.

  But he was a Blackheart, damn it. If the others were going out, he needed to go with them. For the pay, if nothing else. It was now his family’s sole income.

  He answered the phone. “Gomez, it’s Santelli,” the Bostonian-accented voice said.

  “Did the Colonel finally decide to let me come?” Gomez asked.

  “Not exactly,” Santelli answered. “We’ve got another problem, closer to home. Childress got snatched.”

  Gomez felt his blood go cold. “Do we know who did it?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but we’ve got our suspicions” Santelli replied. “It was a planned hit. Somebody wanted him, and Roger and I are both thinking that it was because of our previous operations. Everybody else who’s still Stateside is heading for Virginia. I just thought you needed to know. If Sam was a target, we all might be.”

  Gomez was already on his feet, heading for his go-bag and the LaRue OBR he still had from the fight with the Espino-Gallo family. “I’m on my way,” he said.

  “Gomez, you don’t need to,” Santelli said. “Your sister…”

  “I’ll bring her with me if I have to,” Gomez growled. “You bastards came out here for me. I’m not sitting this out.”

  “Gomez…” Santelli started to protest, though there was a distinctly reluctant note in his voice. But Gomez didn’t let him finish. He was already shouldering his go-bag and starting out the door.

  ***

  Roger Hancock paused at the same corner where Flint had, though he didn’t know it. In this case, he was pausing because of the police tape across the hallway, as well as the armed officers all over the scene.

  He took it all in. As befitting a crime scene, everything had been marked and left as found. The bodies of the dead officers had been removed, but with tape outlines on the floor where they had fallen. The bloodstains were still dark red on the tile.

  He took another step toward the police line, and a young officer, who looked about twelve to Hancock’s eyes, stepped forward, raising a hand to forestall him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “You can’t come in here.”

  “Sam Childress is a friend of mine,” Hancock said, putting as much earnestness into his voice as possible. It was the truth, and deep down, he was as anxious for Sam as he was projecting. But he was in work mode, every emotion shut down except for a distant rage that fueled the cold, calculating killing machine that was Roger Hancock at work. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  The cop’s expression changed fractionally. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “To the best of our knowledge, he’s still alive; he appears to have been the victim of a kidnapping.”

  “Why would anybody want to kidnap Sam?” Hancock asked, trying to sound shocked. The truth was, he didn’t really know, though all of the Blackhearts had their suspicions, that Santelli had already voiced. The problem was, they didn’t know if the mysterious terrorists they’d crossed swords with twice now had any way of knowing who they were.

  “We don’t know,” the officer replied. “Do you have any ideas? Any enemies, any reason that someone might want to hold him for ransom?”

  Hancock shook his head. “No,” he said. “Sam wasn’t exactly a rich man, and his family was even poorer. I don’t know why anyone would want to kidnap him.”

  “Whoever it was was playing for keeps,” the officer, whose name tag read “Martinez,” said. “They killed two police officers on the way out.” His face hardened, and Hancock saw the deep-seated rage that went hand-in-hand with a cop-killer investigation. Cops were a lot like soldiers in that respect. You kill one of them, the rest want your blood.

  “Really?” he asked, though he’d already heard that. The info-dump from Gary had been pretty thorough. And Hancock had already been to see him and Bob. They had descriptions, but Hancock wanted to know if the cops had more than that.

  “Yeah,” Officer Martinez replied. “Don’t worry. We’ll find them.”

  “But if they killed cops,” Hancock suggested, “wouldn’t they have run? They’ve got to know that cop-killers have a bullseye on their backs.”

  “They can’t have gotten far,” Martinez said, now thoroughly at ease and talking freely. Which had been Hancock’s goal in the first place. “Officers Donald and Padalecki had already called for backup when they intervened. Backup got here less than five minutes after they were shot, and roadblocks started going up less than ten minutes after that. We have the make, model, and license number of the van, and we have security camera footage. Every major road for fifty miles is blocked off. We’ll get ‘em.”

  Unless they already expected everything you just described. If this was the Tourmaline-Delta terror group, whoever they were, then he had to expect that they were smarter than the average cop-killer.

  Still, unless they’d managed to move really fast with a paraplegic in a wheelchair and a van, then th
ey were probably constrained. Which was good.

  He looked pensive, even though his mind was already miles ahead of where the conversation was. He had Santelli, Javakhishvili, Kirk, Burgess, and a couple more of Drake’s Old Fogeys, named Ian and Dale. It wasn’t much for a zone recon, but it was going to have to do.

  “You said you’ve got pictures,” he said, sounding hesitant. “Is there any way I can see them? So I can keep a lookout? I want to help any way I can.”

  Martinez looked even more hesitant than Hancock thought he’d sounded. “I don’t know…it’s kind of evidence…”

  “Don’t they usually put these things out on the news?” Hancock asked. “If you’re looking for these guys, wouldn’t every set of eyes on the street be an asset?” He had to remind himself not to lay it on too thick. He didn’t want this guy to have an attack of conscientiousness, and tell him to wait for the BOLO to come out on the news.

  “You know what?” Martinez said, his face hardening again. “You’re right. This is gonna be out on the local news and the internet in another hour anyway. You got a phone?”

  Hancock fished it out. Jackpot. In short order, the cop had transferred the photos, that had apparently been freely distributed among the force. And Hancock had his target package. Or at least the beginnings of one.

  “I wish there was more that I could do,” he said, glancing at the crime scene again.

  “Just keep your eyes open and if you see anything, call us,” Martinez said. “And if you’re a praying man, I’d suggest doing that. Now, there’s really nothing you can do here, and we don’t need rubberneckers hanging around the crime scene. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Hancock said. “You guys are just doing your jobs.” He held up his phone. “I’ll keep an eye out and let you know if I see anything.”

 

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