Lethal Misconduct (2 page)

The president’s idea had first come as a surprise to Cal, who was still reeling from the shock of being dismissed from his own company. But without much prompting, the stubborn Marine came to see the merits of Zimmer’s proposal. He would have complete autonomy, as long as they didn’t get caught.

So while the split from SSI still stung, Cal was getting used to his new role. The first thing the president had suggested when Cal said yes was for Cal to reach out to a billionaire entrepreneur named Jonas Layton. Jonas had been one of the key pieces in an operation the previous month when the secretary of state was implicated in a complex scheme involving the Russians trying to collapse the U.S. stock market. The threat had been dealt with and Cal and Jonas departed friends.

What the president had in mind worked to perfection. Jonas, who was known as “The Fortuneteller” by most of the tech world for his prognosticative skills, would be the face of the new organization. Because he had plenty of money, the young billionaire would front the start-up capital, and any outlays not recouped through investing would be reimbursed by one of the president’s discretionary funds. Jonas hadn’t flinched, already bored despite his constant traveling.

Cal had two requests. The first was that he be allowed to choose the location of the new headquarters. He’d picked Charlottesville both for his love of the area and its proximity to Washington, D.C. The president and Jonas agreed and within days Cal had purchased a home just off of the University’s popular Fraternity Row on Rugby Road.

His second request was that he be allowed to bring on anyone he wanted. Again, the president didn’t object.

They were still finalizing their official cover, but were in no rush to do so. Jonas had been the first to craft his story, securing a visiting professorship at U.Va within the McIntire School of Commerce. The dean, an old friend from their days in Silicon Valley, had readily accepted the offer, and Professor Jonas Layton’s fall class was already the talk of school. Enrollment would fill in seconds.

The crowd had thinned by the time Cal neared the intersection where Rugby Road continued at a sharp left and Preston Avenue went right. They’d purchased one of the properties on the corner and were in the process of negotiating with the owner across the street for another. With just under two acres on their new property and about 4,500 square feet of living space, the growing team could make due for the time being. They really needed to double the space – hence the purchase of the second property.

Jonas had money to spend and didn’t mind splurging a little bit on real estate. He’d already offered the second homeowner well above what he could make on the open market. Jonas said it was just a matter of time. Cal believed him. He’d come to understand that the billionaire didn’t let much stand in his way. Jonas would fit right in with the determined group of warriors now taking up residence in the heart of Charlottesville.

Cal turned left onto the path that was more dirt than grass, the current back entrance to the property. It would soon be walled off with the latest security equipment designed by none other than the tech genius Neil Patel, himself also a University of Virginia alum.

The parcel of land was shaped in a rough pentagon. That fact, along with the location of the property, had initially grabbed Cal’s interest. His team was already calling the property Pentagon II due to its shape and as a tribute to its larger cousin just outside Washington, D.C.

Cal walked along the row of perfectly placed hedges that flowed into the half moon back patio. In the center was a round fountain pond. They still hadn’t decided what to do with the backyard other than to limit entry. Another item on their ever-growing to-do list. Luckily Jonas would handle it.

Cal passed under the white columned portico, nodding to a stern faced electrical contractor installing the wiring needed to power the impressive array of technology that would soon be delivered to the small headquarters. Jonas was inside looking down at a set of blueprints laid out on the foldout table they’d been using to eat on. He was talking to a short Latino with a thick beard braided into twin strands below his chin. The former delta operator everyone called Gaucho looked up as Cal entered.

“Hey, boss. You gotta check out what Jonas is planning. Dude is gonna make this a fucking sweet joint.”

Cal smiled, always amused by Gaucho’s colorful personality. You’d never know by his near constant joking that the Mexican-American was deadly. He’d been one of Cal’s first invitations, Gaucho joining the new organization along with eleven of his own operators.

“Let me go check my email and I’ll be back down,” said Cal.

“Boss, Snake Eyes was looking for you. I think he’s in the War Room.”

The War Room was a miniature version of the Situation Room in the White House and had been the first space they’d remodeled. Secured from the eyes of the constant stream of workers by a steel reinforced door, the War Room was the heart of their new venture.

Cal headed that way.

Once he’d entered his personal code and passed the retina scan, Cal pushed the door open. The space was about twenty by twenty feet; the walls lined with computers screens. A temporary conference table sat in the center of the room. That’s where Daniel Briggs, aka Snake Eyes, the former Marine sniper, blond ponytail and all, sat analyzing a map. Daniel was one of Cal’s closest friends and rarely left his boss’s side. Part bodyguard and part advisor, the sniper oozed quiet confidence and a certain streak of luck that his friends liked to rib him about. Cal had never seen Daniel get so much as a scratch on the many operations they’d conducted together. Gaucho had once said that Daniel was blessed by God and that maybe everyone else should carry around a Bible like Snake Eyes.

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 4
th

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.”