Lethal Misconduct (20 page)

With a final leap, over the cliff he went, flying for the first time. Few thoughts crossed his mind as he fell toward the rocks below, some ten stories down.
Flying
. Then darkness.

Marine Master Sergeant Willy Trent looked over the ledge. The crushed form below wasn’t moving. No way it would. Dude was deader than dead.

“Well, I guess that’s option three,” Trent said to the wind.

He pocketed Vespers’s pistol and stuck his own in his back waist band. Gaucho was waiting out front in the tiny rented Fiat that he had a helluva time getting in and out of.   

+++

Waldo Erickson lounged in the steaming water of his thermal bath. He’d paid a hefty sum to rent the private spa, telling the owner that he wanted 24-hour use of the place, and to be waited on hand and foot.

The owner had gladly taken the fat man’s money. It would probably support his business for a year.

Beside Erickson lay an assortment of local delicacies. He ignored most, focusing on the delectable slices of grilled pizza, Neapolitan style. He preferred them simple with a light coat of olive oil and tomato sauce and a healthy heaping of buffalo mozzarella.

As he started in on his third pie, the oils from the sauce running down his chin as he shoved the whole piece in his mouth, he felt a tapping on his head.

He struggled to turn around as he chomped twice then swallowed the pizza whole.
It better not be the owner’s daughter
, he thought. She knew better than to disturb him without calling out first.

It wasn’t the owner’s daughter. It was someone he’d never seen before. A younger guy. Brown hair. Good looking. Fit. He was wearing board shorts and a shirt like an American. 

“Hey, look. I found Waldo,” said the uninvited guest.

Erickson froze. He hadn’t used his real name since they’d left the U.S.

“Who are you?”

The young man walked around the small bath and touched the rock walls like he was sightseeing.

“It doesn’t matter who I am, Waldo. I’ve got a message for you.”

Erickson could feel his bowels loosening. He didn’t want to shit in the water. What did this guy want?

“Give me the message and then get the hell out of here,” Erickson ordered, trying to regain a measure of dignity. He was used to control. Not this.

“I have a message from the president.”

“What president?”

“The only one that matters, Waldo.”

The young man walked back to stand behind Erickson.

“You tell Zimmer that if he tries to threaten me…”

“You mind if I have a piece of this pizza, Waldo?”

Erickson didn’t know what to say. Who was this guy?

The guy shrugged, bent down, and picked up the remaining three quarters of the pizza. He folded it like you would a New York style pie, and took a big bite. His eyes closed as he savored Erickson’s lunch.

“Wow. That’s some good pizza,” the man said through his mouthful of food.

“Would you
mind
getting to the point?”

The man swallowed and looked down at him.

“Here’s the message. You crossed the line, Waldo. It’s not okay to try to murder a whole race and then think you’re gonna get away with it.”

Erickson face paled despite the heat. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Cut the crap, Waldo. You and Cromwell planned on killing every Arab on the planet. I get it that you’re pissed about your brothers dying. Trust me, I’m a Marine. But this wasn’t the way to do it.”

“I didn’t—”

Instead of answering, the young man pounced, bowling Erickson over in the water. He felt his face go under and tried to push the man off. He couldn’t. Then, through it all, he felt the man shoving something into his mouth. He tried to clamp down but a finger did something to his jaw and his mouth opened involuntarily. Along with the bitter water he tasted the dough and the sauce of the pizza.

As Erickson began to lose consciousness, he wondered how they’d found him. He thought he’d been careful. And then his breath finally left him, and the murky blackness consumed him.

+++

Col. Gormon Cromwell was strapped to a chair when Cal arrived. Daniel was leaning against the wall, his arms across his chest, pistol in hand.

“Good afternoon,” said Cal, running a hand through his still wet hair. “He give you any trouble?”

Daniel shook his head.

Cal pulled something out of his pocket. It was syringe. Cromwell’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll give you two guesses to see if you know what this is, Colonel.”

“I know what it is and it won’t work on me,” said Cromwell, not the least bit of fear on his face. “If you’re going to kill me just do it. I’d rather not sit here and listen to your bullshit threats.”

Cal grinned. “You
think
you know what this is, but you’re wrong. Want another guess?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you. Did you know that your frog doctor was keeping a little insurance?”

By the slight widening of Cromwell’s eyes, Cal saw that he hadn’t known.

“He had a backup plan. And let me tell you what he made. This little sucker holds a specially made cocktail just for you. You see, Dr. Merrifield didn’t trust you, Colonel. And people that don’t trust you are bad news. This syringe contains a strain of the same stuff you were making, but it’s mapped to your DNA. It’s one of a kind. Just for you. Pretty cool, right?”

Cromwell just glared in response. Either he didn’t care or he was trying to keep up his tough guy posture. Cal assumed the latter.

“So here we go. As a final thank you for all that you’ve done for our country, you get to be the first and last guinea pig for your sick as fuck project.” Cal had moved closer and closer as he was talking and now stood directly beside the wannabe mass murderer. “Sorry, I don’t have an alcohol swab.”

Cal stabbed the exposed needle into the meat of Cromwell’s thigh, depressing the plunger. Cromwell winced, but said nothing.

“Now, as it’s been explained to me, this shit doesn’t take long. You should probably be feeling the effects right about…”

Cromwell’s body convulsed, the hyper energized cancer cells in his body feeding, expanding. The man’s face contorted, the normal side bulging weirdly. He started to moan.

Cal took one last look at the man and left, Daniel right behind. Cromwell’s dying wails followed them out to the car.

Epilogue

Charlottesville, Virginia

9:37am, April 22
nd

Cal sat nursing a paper cup full of crushed ice and Famous Grouse. Someone had forgotten to do the dishes, and Cal was feeling lazy. It was a beautiful spring day, and they were headed to Foxfield in a couple hours. He hadn’t been to the semi-annual horse races since he’d been a student at U.Va.

He thought about what they’d just accomplished. Not only had Neil and Jonas tracked Cromwell down through a building permit in Ischia, but Michael Thompson was back on U.S. soil. They’d found him on Erickson’s swanky submarine, guarded by some dudes in silly white sailor outfits. When Cal, Daniel and thirteen others showed up at the dock, the crew was more than happy to let them board. The submarine was now property of the U.S. government, and Michael Thompson was back in school, cancer free and dealing with the fact that his father was a would-be mass murderer. The Senator would be locked up in maximum security isolation until the day he died. The number of people who knew where he was limited to a handful.

Dr. Merrifield was in the beginning stages of a very long debriefing, one that could very well last the duration of his Federal prison stay. Thanks to Dr. Higgins, the scientist was a virtual encyclopedia of nasty information. The guy was brilliant, but sick. Cal hoped they could use the research to help Dr. Price and prevent any similar occurrences in the future.

To add to the good news, Cal had just heard that Dr. Price’s family business was back in working order. They’d managed to nab a couple lucrative government contracts thanks to President Zimmer. It was the least he could do to make up for the mix-up, and actually saved the government millions over the term of the contract. Not a bad deal for both sides.

Now that their first official mission was done, he felt that the boys deserved a day of boozin’ it up and mingling with the pretty coeds who were always dressed in their spring finery.

Halfway into his early start, Cal closed his eyes and soaked in the sun’s warmth on the back porch. Jonas had done a helluva job on the new patio, and they’d already made good use of the space. There was an unofficial gathering each night, and Top was all about grilling so they always had something great to eat.
I could get used to this
.

“Cal. You gonna get ready?” Neil was standing at the door, look splendiferous in a pair of blue and orange checkered pants and a nearly matching button-down shirt. A fellow U.Va alum, the sharp dressing Neil always had a new outfit for Foxfield.

“I’m coming. Chill out, grandpa.”

Neil hated being late. Well, he hated being late to Foxfield. In day-to-day stuff Neil set his own ‘on-time.’ Today he wanted to be early, to really put on a tailgating spread that would woo the ladies. It was just his style.

“Don’t make me take a paddle to ya, sonny!” Neil mocked, waving his hands over his head.

Cal laughed and got out of his chair. “You do the worst southern grandpappy impression that I’ve ever heard.”

Neil gave him a middle finger along with a smug look and went back inside.

Cal was now dressed in what he thought was appropriate Foxfield attire, khaki shorts and a t-shirt that said, “I Almost Graduated.”

The place was coming together, the living spaces now compete. Only the walls surrounding the compound were still under construction.

To cap it all off, they’d even come up with a name for their new venture. It had been Top’s idea.

“I’m surprised you college guys haven’t come up with it already. I think we should use Thomas Jefferson in the name. How about The Jefferson Group?”

“Why Jefferson?” Gaucho had asked.

“Jefferson was a bad dude, hombre. He gave the British Empire the finger by writing the Declaration of Independence. My favorite line he wrote was: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.’ Isn’t that what we’ve done from day one, protecting those rights?”

Top was right and the name stuck.
The Jefferson Group
. It sounded innocuous enough but had a meaning for the men who were part of the Charlottesville contingent.

Cal checked his laptop one more time, deleting a string of emails that he didn’t really care about. The last one caught his eye. It was an intelligence assessment regarding the further expansion of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIS) in Iraq. He clicked it open and was immediately greeted by the faces of the dead.

He read through the briefing, noting the tone of whoever had written it. Dispassionate, as if this wasn’t happening to real people. It pissed Cal off. He clenched his hands into fists as he read on, furious by the end of the report.

But there wasn’t anything he could do. He was one man with a small team. What the hell could they accomplish against a growing tide of 10,000? What could they do? What could
he
do?

The knock at the door shook Cal from his thoughts. “You coming?” asking Daniel, the only non-drinker and the designated driver for the day.

“Yeah. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Daniel left and Cal stood, thinking. He was torn. He’d done his time in Iraq. He’d often said that not even a command from God would make him go back. But now his thoughts changed. He felt a responsibility even if the rest of America didn’t. While he was getting ready to drink and hang out with his friends, people were getting killed. No, not killed, they were being murdered.

Cal exhaled and picked up his cell phone. There was only one person he could think to call. That person picked up quickly.

“Brandon, I want to talk to you about what we can do in Iraq.”

+++++

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