Lethal Misconduct Read online

  He texted the rest of his team and set out to follow the suspect, still not sure of what he’d do or say when he caught up to the guy.

  +++

  Dr. Price’s mind worked to process the busy street, wary of any onlookers. He didn’t see anything suspicious, but that didn’t mean no one was watching. His enemies were cunning and skilled.

  A familiar prickle ran up his neck, tickling his scalp. Not one to doubt his senses, Price stepped to the curb, deciding to cross the street, glancing both ways as if looking for a break in the traffic, when in fact he was looking for a tail. Nothing. Everyone looked the same.

  But still, he felt that nagging urge to run. He resisted, instead waving his thanks to the two drivers who stopped to allow him to cross Jefferson Park Avenue, heading toward the heart of the campus, or as he’d just remembered U.Va students called it, Grounds.

  He picked up his pace as he hit the opposing sidewalk, slipping through the throng of kids heading to class.

  +++

  Cal let his target cross first, taking his time to do the same. He knew the campus well and his team was closing in. It was only a matter of time before they cornered the man.

  A half a block later, Cal crossed Jefferson Park Avenue and picked up the pace.

  +++

  Still part of the line of students, Price walked into the back of New Cabell Hall, deciding to make a few passes up and down the stairwells and classroom hallways. The sensation of being watched hadn’t subsided and he resisted the urge to bolt. Instead, he plastered a bored look on his face and made his way up the stairs.

  +++

  Cal texted the rest of his team and told them to cover the New Cabell Hall exit. He reiterated that they not make a scene. That was the last thing they needed. Colleges were even more frightened at the thought of having weapons on campus. Every one of Cal’s men was armed. All it would take was a tiny altercation for the authorities to be called.

  His team knew the better way was to maintain surveillance and hopefully confront the suspect away from Grounds.

  Satisfied that his team was in place, Cal slipped into the building, barely catching a glimpse of a blue hat up ahead.

  +++

  The warning bells in Price’s brain blared like a klaxon. He’d seen the face of a man who he thought he recognized from earlier. Young. Fit.

  Adrenaline hiked his blood pressure, his breathing increased. A trickle of sweat ran down his back as he ducked into an empty classroom on the third floor. Hustling to the back of the space, he sat in a chair and pulled his backpack off, laying it on the desk in front of him. His hand now held his loaded Glock inside the zipper. He didn’t want to use it, but he would if needed.

  +++

  Cal saw the guy duck into a classroom. Instead of following, he made a discreet pass to see if there was a class in session. Nope. Empty.

  He quickly texted the room number to his team. They’d be there in a moment. Taking a deep breath, Cal opened the door and stepped inside.

  +++

  Price’s body tensed as the same face he’d seen outside walked into the classroom. Without hesitation he stood, slipping his weapon out of the backpack and aimed at the man.

  “Put your hands—”

  Before he could finish, the good-looking guy whipped out his own pistol.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, buddy.”

  +++

  The guy’s pull was quick, practiced. It had taken Cal by surprise. He stared down his sights, wondering what the guy was thinking. For a moment they just stood there, no sound except for the muffled footsteps from the hallway.

  “I already told Cromwell I’m not coming in,” said the man.

  “I don’t know any Cromwell, dude. Now why don’t you lower your weapon and I’ll do the same.”

  His opponent cocked his head, eyes taking him in.

  “You’re full of shit,” said the guy.

  Cal shrugged. “Sometimes. I’m a Marine. I can’t help it.”

  +++

  The stranger’s demeanor confused Price. He didn’t look like one of Cromwell’s goons. He sure as hell didn’t act like one either.

  “How do I know you don’t work for Cromwell?” asked Price.

  The supposed Marine exhaled and put one hand in air, lowering his weapon. He surprised Price further by bending down and setting the pistol on the ground.

  “Happy now?”

  +++

  Despite still having a loaded weapon aimed at him, Cal was calm. The guy didn’t look like he was new to guns. He’d never once dropped his gaze and had even removed his finger from the trigger when Cal had placed his pistol on the ground.

  “Why are you following me?” the man asked, suddenly curious.

  Cal scratched his head. “That’s sort of a long story.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “That’s an even longer story.”

  The man coughed out a sarcastic laugh. “Tell me why I shouldn’t tie you up and leave you.”

  Cal was tired of the back and forth. “Look. We know about the cancer thing.”

  The guy’s eyes widened, his finger once again jumping to the trigger. “How did you—”

  “Like I said, it’s a long story. Listen, I’ve got a place right around the corner. How about we head over there and talk this out?”

  “No thanks. I think I’ll in the other direction.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  Chapter 14

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  9:04am, April 6th

  Price’s finger tightened on the trigger. He could feel the pressure keenly, knew how much it took to make the weapon fire. Countless rounds downrange. He expected his adversary to go for his weapon. What happened instead surprised him even more.

  Before he had a chance to respond to the cocky guy standing there with an annoyed look on his face, three more men rushed into the room, weapons trained on him. Price did a quick appraisal of the new arrivals.

  A guy roughly the size of the first, but this one with his blond hair tied back in a pony tail. Eyes steady like a snake about to strike. The second, a huge black guy who would’ve had to duck to get inside the door had he been standing straight up. He looked like an NFL lineman. The third a short Hispanic with a funny looking beard weaved in twin braids hanging off of his chin. He could tell they all meant business. No hesitation. All pro.

  “Put the gun down, sir,” said the black giant.

  Price knew he was cornered. All he could do was nod and lower his weapon.

  +++

  Cal was relieved when the guy finally put his weapon on the ground. Daniel moved to secure the firearm along with the man’s backpack. Gaucho frisked the man, giving Cal a curt nod when finished.

  “I think we can put those away now, guys,” said Cal. His friends re-stashed their weapons, but still kept a wary eye on their target. “Let’s head back to the house and chat. Can you make the trip without making a run for it? He may look like a slow beast, but Master Sergeant Trent can outrun the rest of us in a foot race.”

  The man nodded, his shoulders sagging.

  After retrieving his own weapon, Cal walked up with his hand extended. “Cal Stokes, Mister…?”

  “Price. Doctor Hunter Price.”

  +++

  The four men escorted Dr. Price up to the Lawn side exit facing Thomas Jefferson’s famous Rotunda at the far end. Workers were busy doing something to its once white dome. Lush moss green grass blanketed the interior of the Lawn, students taking advantage of the early sun to lay back and soak in its rays. Some were throwing Frisbees or footballs.

  Price wasn’t sure, but he felt more eyes on the periphery, probably with this Cal Stokes and his men. It was obvious that the others deferred to Stokes, who looked to be the youngest of the group. They chatted like old friends as they made their way up the Lawn and exited around the Rotunda.

  They didn’t talk to him and he didn’t try to make conversation. Any casual observer might
think that the five were traveling together, nothing amiss. These men were definitely pros. Price had no doubt that if he made a break for freedom one or all of the men would have easily incapacitated him, especially the quiet one with the pony tail. Something in his eyes screamed professional. Hell, they all did. And yet, he didn’t get the feeling that these were cruel men, men Cromwell might hire. Strange.

  Price decided to bide his time and see what would happen.

  +++

  Cal had observed Price on the way back to their new headquarters, watching for any signs that the man was wavering on their accord. The man seemed lost in thought. Hell, Cal didn’t blame the guy. More than anything, Cal couldn’t shake the feeling that despite his earlier posturing, Price seemed relieved, like a man who’d been through hell and back and finally got a chance at a sip of water.

  After dodging the workers in the backyard who were busy installing a full outdoor entertainment area, courtesy of Jonas, they were greeted in the kitchen by the rest of the team, arranged casually in the dining area and on the chairs in the living area. They were operators who’d seen all manner of good and evil in their travels. Few things spooked them and even fewer made them stare in awe. But that’s what happened when Price walked in the door. They all wanted to know the same thing, whether or not this doctor was, in fact, the key to the cure for one of the world’s most deadly diseases.

  Their number made Price hesitate, pausing at the door. Cal ignored the nervous look on his face and asked, “Can I get you something to drink, Doc? Water? Beer?”

  Price nodded and stepped inside. “Do you have anything stronger?”

  There were chuckles from the rest of the men, Cal among them.

  “Sure. Whiskey. Bourbon. Vodka…”

  “Whiskey, please. Neat.”

  Cal smiled and fetched the drink for their guest. Dr. Price downed it in one swig and handed it back to Cal.

  “Another?” asked Cal, eyebrow raised.

  “Please.”

  +++

  They convened in the War Room. Cal asked Dr. Higgins to join them. It never hurt to have the master of the human psyche in attendance. The others scattered around the room included Daniel, Trent, Jonas, Gaucho and Neil.

  Jonas was almost giddy, still having a hard time believing that his hunch had nabbed the interesting specimen who now sat nursing his third drink. “You’ve got to tell us, Dr. Price, is it for real? Are you really healing people?”

  A sip and a nod later, Price said, “It’s true.”

  Silence in the room. They’d been talking about it since Jonas had floated his crazy idea. All eyes were on the mysterious Dr. Price.

  “How did you do it?” asked Neil, leaning closer just like his friends.

  Price didn’t answer at first, his hesitation apparent despite his alcohol-coaxed calm. Finally, he sat his drink on the conference table, folded his arms across his chest and began his tale.

  +++

  Three years earlier, Price was in the middle of containing four separate Ebola outbreaks in Africa. It was his team who was sending much needed medicine and staff to assist local officials. Dr. Price had already made seven trips himself.

  It was at the end of an exhausting Friday that one of his assistants came to him with a shot in the dark.

  “Dr. Price, I know you probably don’t have time for this, but I thought I’d put it in your inbox.”

  Price kept an open door policy with his staff, always encouraging them to be creative and experiment on their own. He’d found that option to be rare in the confines of government funding, but his time with the SEALs had taught him the value of individual initiative coupled with a strong team dynamic.

  “I’ll take a look at it this weekend, Sheila. Why don’t you tell the others to head on out. I’m about to leave myself.”

  It was a white lie and Sheila knew it. Dr. Price rarely left the office before 9pm. There was always some new outbreak to look after or a lead on a cure.

  After making the rounds through the confines of his small domain, gently prodding his staff to go home for the night, Price headed back into his paper-strewn office, taking in the mess the week had rained down on his once orderly second home. He was tempted to lie down on the olive drab military cot in the corner, but grabbed another cup of coffee instead and decided to attack his inbox. It was overflowing as usual, so he did what he always did: started from the top.

  He made quick work of the thin report Sheila had submitted, wondering at first why she’d brought it to his attention. It had nothing to do with infectious disease, making it outside their purview. Nevertheless, Price read through the interesting notes, impressed by the connections. She had a flair for storytelling, and this was no exception.

  Price looked up from the report and closed his eyes. He didn’t have time for fantasy, but Sheila’s conclusions were intriguing, if a bit farfetched. In her concise abstract she’d given a brief history of an obscure tribe of natives living in a dense region of the Amazon rainforest in south-eastern Colombia.

  According to Sheila, the area had one of the lowest per capita rates of cancer in the world. That interested Dr. Price, not because of the articles outlining superstitious rumors and old wives’ tales referenced by the talented author, but because of the raw data she’d provided. Reports from traveling missionaries and reputable health organizations. The occasional census by Colombia’s government. And yet, no one had ever made more than a passing note of the extremely low incidence of cancer among the population. They’d never connected the dots.

  Sheila thought along the same lines as Price, hypothesizing that no one had ever taken a moment to step back and gather the correct information. They were too busy feeding the hungry or providing much needed medical care to orphans and the impoverished. Or worse, fighting the constant battle against narco-traffickers.

  Dr. Price sat back and let the first inkling of possibility seep in. It wasn’t time to alert his superiors. They wanted concrete evidence, results to back up his team’s assumptions. Price yawned into his hand and glanced at his calendar. He had some leave time coming, and he’d just earned another grant, a portion of which could easily support a small expedition down to South America.

  Two weeks later, Dr. Price, Sheila and a three-man security team hopped a commercial flight from Washington, D.C. to Bogota, Colombia. From there they boarded another plane bound for Alfredo Vasquez Cobo International Airport, located in Colombia’s most southern city of Leticia. Price hadn’t told his boss the true nature of the trip, still not convinced that the stories were real. Instead, he’d submitted the request citing an increased need for local contacts in the region that could source potentially life-saving resources from the Amazon basin.

  Leticia’s location made things a bit complicated, mostly because the city sat on the border of Brazil, and was at the tip of the cocaine pipeline, hence the added security.

  Luckily for Price, the trip down proved uneventful. He found the Colombians to be gracious hosts and it seemed as though they’d made major progress in their battle against the drug cartels. Or maybe it was a happy truce after the heavy bloodshed of the 1990s. Either way, they reached Leticia without incident, their local guide waiting in the hotel lobby as they entered.

  They left the next morning in their guide’s mud spattered Toyota Landcruiser. More than once Price had wished he’d brought a mouth guard what with the near constant jostling as Antonio sped them toward their destination. Finally, after almost six hours of driving, they unloaded their gear and stepped into the rain forest. Price had never been to South America except on vacation, and the sheer grandeur of the place enticed his senses. It made him feel alive. Sounds he’d never heard called from all around. Smells both fresh and damp mingled in the humid air.

  Where others might have been overwhelmed by the heat and the oppression under the tree canopy, Price marveled at the greenery, the flecks of bright color here and there, from lichen and animals alike.

  Antonio led the way, guided
by the worn GPS Price was sure had a whole roll of duct tape keeping it together. It didn’t seem to worry their guide, who picked his way effortlessly through the tangle.

  Two hours of trudging got them to their first destination, one of three known camps used by the tribe they were looking for. They were all soaked as they made their way to the center of the small village. Crude huts made from roughly cut tree branches and covered in foliage made a ring around the fire pit in the middle.

  No one was there.

  “Where are they?” Price asked their guide.

  “Maybe hunting, señor. We wait and see,” said Antonio.

  Apparently the entire tribe usually went out on daily hunting parties, the men doing the finding, and the women and children doing the prepping on the way back to camp. Antonio said by the looks of the camp he might have picked the correct location.

  “How do you know?” asked Sheila.

  Antonio just shrugged and took a long drink from a bottle of orange soda.

  They got their answer just as the sun was setting three hours later. The first warriors, if you could call them that, sauntered into camp, unperturbed by the presence of strangers, wearing an assortment of tattered rags, all barefoot, bare-chested and a full foot shorter than the Americans. The tribe scattered to their chores as Antonio struck up a conversation with the fattest man of the bunch who wore what looked like the large teeth of some predator in each ear.

  He gestured with his hands and jabbered on in a dialect that Price couldn’t pinpoint. Spanish? Portuguese? The man kept pointing to the jungle, back the way they’d come.

  Antonio came back to join his charges. “He says the medicine man that way.” He pointed the same way the chieftain had.