DARC Ops: The Complete Series

by Jamie Garrett

  “What’s that? No more insulin injections?”

  “No. That wouldn’t be good news,” said Fiona. “That would result in you being sick.”

  “Some days I’d rather be sick.”

  “No it’s better news than that.” Fiona held up a little cardboard box. “Can you guess what this is?”

  “Oh, heavens,” Marva said, cocking her head in delight. “You brought me a box of chocolates.”

  Fiona laughed as she opened the box. “No. It’s your fancy new insulin pump.”

  Marva’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh! That thing?”

  “Yep. You were approved for a trial.”

  “The thing where I won’t have to get so many needles?”

  Fiona was a little uncomfortable with how little Marva actually knew about it, how little she understood her illness—despite the constant education sessions—and how willing she was to try anything that would take away the needles. It seemed that she thought that’s what diabetes was, that it just meant she’d get stuck with needles constantly.

  “Oh, yes, that thing. My thing.”

  “It’s called an insulin pump,” Fiona explained for the hundredth time. “With continuous glucose monitoring.”

  “Thank you so much, Fiona. I’ve been thinking about this thing, this pump, all week. I had dreams about it. I can’t tell you how much I hate getting pricked by that thing, and then getting all those needles.”

  “Well, you’ll still get pricked,” said Fiona, un-boxing the small device. It smelled like new plastic and freshly sterilized packing materials. “But it will only be once or twice a day.” She broke and tore through a plastic bag that held everything together. It was packed well. There were little bits of tape that needed removing, and then more plastic. When she finished, she glanced back at Marva, expecting to see that big smile of hers.

  But her face had twisted up into a slight grimace.

  “Marva?”

  She was crying.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Marva shook her head, sniffling.

  “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just so happy,” she said, her voice cracking.

  Fiona frowned. “You don’t look so happy.”

  “No, I am, I am.” She sniffled. “Thank you, Jesus.”

  There was a part of Fiona—the increasingly bitchy part of her—which wanted to inform Marva that Jesus had nothing to do with it. That he played no role in her going through a bunch of bureaucratic red tape and bullshit just to get her name placed on a list.

  “I really am happy,” said Marva. “I am.”

  Somewhere in there, beyond the flushed and teary face and the glistening red eyes, was, perhaps, some amount of happiness. But it seemed to Fiona more of relief, or rather, the release of emotions that comes only after the passing of some primal fear-invoking event. It looked as if Marva had just been freed from her hostage taker, and finally, after the brave face, collapsing and melting into a puddle of emotion. The nightmare was over. The needles, for the most part, could go away.

  “Do you want to start using this today? Or do you want me to—?”

  “Yes!” she cried, sitting up. “Yes.” She started wiping the tears off her face. “Sorry, I’m just . . . I’m just getting . . .”

  “Excited,” Fiona finished for her.

  “Yes, excited.” She chuckled quietly. “I was going to say old, but yes. Could we begin today?”

  Fiona gave her the crash course on how the device works and how to use it. But there really wasn’t much using to be done by Marva. The very point of the device was that it would do everything automatically. A live analysis of her blood sugar levels. Painless injections of glucose when needed. Everything done without her even having to watch a screen or push a button. And, knowing Marva, she probably wouldn’t even know what was happening or when it ever did.

  One thing she definitely noticed was the initial pinch of the needle, thankfully the last Fiona had to give her that day. It had to be done, Fiona placing the device on Marva’s bare midsection and then pressing a button that made her flinch at the pain. But that was it. She was good to go for two, maybe three days before they’d have to replenish the pump and redo the infusion site.

  “That hurt a little,” said Marva. “But it’ll be well worth it, I’m sure. No more for a while, right?”

  “That’s right,” said Fiona as she helped Marva with her blankets. “Do you need anything else before I have to go?”

  “Oh, no, Dear, you’ve already done so much for little old me. When I get out of here, and when I’m healthy enough, I’m gonna have to reward you with one of my legendary key lime pies, let me tell you.”

  “Marva, you know what we said about those sweets.”

  “No, no, it’s for you, Dear. I’m all done with that.” She smiled. “I promise I am.”

  “I just want you to be happy and healthy. Okay, Marva? That’s all the reward I need.”

  “Okay,” she said, settling back down into her bed, head on pillow. “Okay, I’ll try, Dear.”

  Dr. Wahl had been waiting for her in the hallway. His usual sour expression had deteriorated into a nasty scowl. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  He gestured with his head. “Come with me.”

  As she followed him down the hall and then into an unoccupied room, she couldn’t help feel the growing sensation that she needed some help. Outside help. The union. Someone.

  Jasper would help, certainly. She liked the way he had handled the jackass Dr. Wahl. She doubted if she could be as strong and persuasive.

  “Fiona,” he said while staring out one of the hospital’s seventh-floor windows. “Would you mind telling me who that man really was?”

  She had to make a decision on the spot, not whether or not she should lie, but to which degree of lying. She certainly couldn’t tell him they’d hooked up before in the past like two horny teenagers. But did she admit they were friends at all—which, actually, was untrue. She hadn’t heard a peep from Jasper in five years.

  “I don’t know who he is,” she finally said. And it was the truth. Aside from knowing that he’d been a Green Beret in the Army, she hadn’t known a single thing of substance about him. Had he turned into an ax murderer? Possible. Had he moved on from Fiona and gotten married to a stunning blonde? Very possible.

  Did he maybe still have feelings for her too, after all these years?

  “So he’s just the IT guy, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “As far as I know.”

  “What do you mean, as far as you know?”

  She tried staring at him as hard as she could. Be brave. Be firm. “I don’t know what to say, Doctor. I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you.”

  The doctor sighed and then started walking over to her. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being pushy.”

  She actually hadn’t noticed. He was always like this. “It’s fine.”

  “I’m just . . . I’ve been extra cautious lately. We’ve had a lot of technical problems, as you know. And that’s half the reason why we’ve been so hard on you. We’re just trying to assess what’s going on. Whether or not, you know, there’s someone . . . you know . . . someone from the inside . . .”

  “So you thought I was sabotaging things?”

  “Maybe not you. But, someone might be. That’s the problem. We don’t know a damn thing.” He walked past her and approached the doorway.

  “Well, you can add me to the list of people who don’t have a clue,” Fiona said, watching him shut the door. After a loud thud, they were finally away from the noise of the busy hospital. Finally alone. It made her shudder.

  “There’s something else,” said Dr. Wahl. “There’s also been rumors of . . . undercover evaluators. Have you heard this?”

  “I heard some things about that. But you know, I’m just trying to stay focused.”

  “I think I just caught one of the evaluators,” he said, nodding his head. There was almos
t a look of satisfaction on his face, like he’d accomplished some great task.

  “Oh?”

  “How do you feel about that? About the hospital sending in undercover spies like that?”

  She shrugged, tried to mumble something.

  “Because that’s what they are,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Spies.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Fuckin’ spies.” He started walking away with his head down and shaking side to side. “Can you believe it?”

  She didn’t know what to believe.

  “So, Fiona, come on. How do you feel about that? Huh? It’s dirty, isn’t it? A dirty trick?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “So what do you think they’re watching for?” she asked. “These spies.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret. The hospital’s losing money. Big time. And not only that, they’re losing funding. So there’s a storm brewing.”

  Parts of what he said resonated with her. She had noticed a certain dark cloud that has seeped through the hallways, a heaviness that had settled upon the hospital in the past several months. There was a lot less smiling. A lot more griping. More worries.

  “As a nurse, I’m sure you’ve picked up on that.”

  She nodded.

  “So on top of the money problems, they have a union problem.”

  “Oh?” Fiona didn’t quite understand. Weren’t they supposed to have union problems?

  “And I’ll be honest, Fiona, that’s why you’re still here.”

  “What do you mean?” She hated having to play along for information. The way he strung her along with—

  “They’d love to fire you.”

  Fiona’s heart sank. It was one thing to suspect it, but being told this by one of the attending physicians was a rather tough pill to swallow.

  “But don’t worry, they’d love to fire a lot of people.” He said this in a cheerful tone as if it was some solace for her. “They’d rather fire them, you know, before laying them off. Cut hours, cut people. How else are they going to recoup their losses?”

  Fiona swallowed hard. “I had no idea . . .”

  “Well, that’s just how it goes. They have to be able to pay the shareholders. So they’ve bussed in these spies to build strong cases for firing people. Nice, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Fiona moved slowly toward the door. “Well, thanks.”

  He laughed. “Thanks?”

  She opened the door.

  “Watch your back out there.”

  15

  Jasper

  The elevator he was in didn’t belong to the hospital, and when he stepped off it wasn’t the sick medical smell and mint green walls that greeted him, but the fresh and smiling faces of Jackson’s DARC Ops receptionist staff.

  “Jasper,” cried one particularly high-voiced young lady. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She came rushing over with a frenzied click-clack of high heels, and then very gently she wrapped her arm around his back. It was the type of side hug one gave to not-so-acquainted acquaintances or people with broken bones. But with the smile on her face and the brace on his arm—and, if he remembered correctly, this woman’s historic propensity for flirting—Jasper guessed it was the former.

  “We thought we’d never see you again,” she said, pulling away from their side hug. Her hand was gently rearranging his shirt cuff over the brace.

  “Why?” he asked. “I haven’t been OUTCONUS for awhile. I’ve been at Fort Bragg for—”

  “No, I don’t mean that.” She stopped messing around with his sleeve and looked at him in the eyes. “We heard about your accident. How you got run over behind Watergate?”

  “Oh,” Jasper shook his head. “No, no I didn’t get run over. No, it was hardly anything.” He looked down at his injuries unconsciously, rotating his wrist slowly and still feeling a bit of pain. “I just hurt my wrist.”

  “Well, we heard it over the radio when it happened. It sounded crazy.”

  “We heard you got run over by a Dumpster,” said another perky-voiced receptionist. She hadn’t bothered to come over to personally inspect the injuries. Thankfully, she was less dramatic than the woman presently clawing at him.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said, biting her lip. “Jackson doesn’t have you working, does he?”

  Jasper wasn’t sure anymore. That was the point of his visit, to ask him—that is, if he’d ever be allowed past the cute, blonde, mini-skirted Minotaur.

  “You should file for disability,” said the one behind the desk. She looked a little older and, likely was a lot more cynical.

  Jasper smiled. “Well, you know Jackson.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real slave driver.”

  “And he’s also got me convinced that I’m doing a duty to my country,” said Jasper. “That old claptrap.”

  The younger receptionist made a sympathetic if not overwrought face. “Can I at least get anything for our national hero? Coffee, tea?” And then she looked him up and down.

  “Hmm.” Jasper thought for a minute.

  “Anything at all?” She returned her gaze to his eyes, but this time with a more knowing smile. She’d always been overly friendly with him, but today, with his injury . . .

  “Thanks,” he said. “But I think I’m okay.”

  “Well, you just let me know,” she said, in a way that seemed to suggest that she’d be available for any and all of his needs.

  He was used to some segment of the female population who couldn’t help themselves at the sight of a man in uniform, or a military man in general. Perhaps it was this, plus the wounded warrior mystique, that had created such a powerful aphrodisiac for the receptionist. In his earlier days he’d perhaps take the bait, as he did with most pretty young things who threw themselves at him. And for a while, it was a problem, a topic of numerous meetings and evaluations, the pinpointing, finally, of that one flaw. But everyone was allowed at least one flaw . . . Or so he thought back then.

  He thought about this as he walked down the hall toward the briefing room, almost marveling at how little he responded to women like that receptionist, or last month in North Carolina, the woman he’d helped with an emergency roadside tire change. He’d done the rain-soaked job at the edge of a busy freeway, and then traded business cards for whatever reason. And then he’d find out that reason for the next two weeks, him receiving text after text of increasingly desperate and lurid thank-you notes.

  But even back in his heyday of depravity, it wasn’t he who accepted Fiona’s advances, but the other way around. Perhaps that was what held the lasting impact: her aloofness, her almost inhuman maneuvering from his charms. Until the final day of his rotation with her, when he’d all but given up hope, when he’d asked her out quite formally and openly as “just friends.” She came along with him, Fiona, his mind-wrenchingly sexy, platonic date, to an army friend’s promotion party.

  Walking into the conference room, the burst of applause snapped his thoughts back to the present. Congratulations for the hero. And then a round of questions. The first of which were about his health, his wrist, his shoulder, all of them seeming halfhearted, more of a formality before the real meat and potatoes: Was the hospital ready for the prince?

  But Clarence Mitchell, who had sitting next to him the hospital’s in-house cybersecurity manager, had something more important he’d like addressed.

  “Jasper,” he said. “Can you kindly explain to me what the hell happened with Dr. Wahl?”

  Jasper knew that question was coming. But despite that knowledge, and ample time to think it over, he had no answer.

  “What happened before the call?” asked Clarence. “Why was he so upset?”

  “I guess he didn’t recognize me, and thought I was a security concern.”

  “But why?”

  “Clarence,” said Jackson. “Does this doctor have any knowledge about the Saudi visit?”

  “None,” said Clarence. “That’
s why I’m so curious what made him react this way. It would be understandable if he knew, and if he was doing a security inventory. But . . .”

  Jackson took over, saying, “But as far as he’s concerned, it’s business as usual?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, it didn’t seem like that,” said Jasper. “He really thought I was, I dunno, some type of spy or something . . . I have to remind you guys that this was just after he’d lost a patient.”

  Clarence frowned. “In all my experience with Dr. Wahl, he’s always been very even-keeled. Especially after losing a patient. I’ve always noted that about him, that he has almost zero emotional range, even with the tough cases.”

  “But what about when it’s his fault?” asked Jackson.

  Finally, there was a brief silence in the room. Jasper could pick up the sound of Jackson tapping his fingers against his thigh. It was clear that the room was waiting for Clarence to answer a question he’d rather not answer.

  “So . . .” said Clarence. “You’re asking . . . How does he react after losing a patient when it’s been his fault?” Clarence sat back in his chair, appearing to be thinking it over.

  “Has that ever happened?” asked Jackson.

  “Of course that’s happened.”

  “Does it happen often?” asked Jasper. “With all due respect.”

  Clarence cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t say often. But, perhaps, a little more than average. But it’s nothing . . . It’s nothing we’ve ever had to . . . deal with.”

  “You mean investigate?”

  “Yes. It’s never come up.”

  “Well, Jasper,” said Jackson. “Why don’t you tell us about your findings there so we can decide what kind of reaction he was having.”

  “The findings from the room?” said Jasper. “From the machines?”

  “Yes,” said Jackson. “Why did that patient die?”

  Jasper watched Clarence shift uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Catastrophic brain damage,” said Jasper. “Brain death, due to lack of oxygen.”

  Clarence could be heard muttering something under his breath. And then he leaned over to whisper into his associate’s ear. He was clearly unhappy, his hands busy at a piece of paper, folding it onto itself over and over again until—