Lethal Misconduct (6 page)

“How about we stop playing around, Mr. Turnberry. We know about your relationship with Dr. Price. High school friends. Both went to Yale. Ran cross country together. Should I go on?”

Brad shook his head, all blood drained from his face.

Cromwell continued. “We also know that your wife is currently spending a relaxing long weekend in Cabo San Lucas with her three friends Michelle, Jen and Lilly. Would you like to know what they had for breakfast?”

Brad shook his head again, trying his best to stop shaking. The tip of the suppressor now rested against his temple, Vespers’s face placid.

“Here’s what I want you to do. First, wire the contents of Price’s accounts to this account,” Cromwell reached over the desk and set an index card in front of Brad.

For some reason Brad didn’t scream or call out for help. Later he would realize that the threat of physical violence had completely paralyzed him. Instead of yelling he tried to focus on his task, hoping that the two men would just leave after he finished. He hoped Hunter would understand.

“Okay. It’s done,” he announced.

Cromwell nodded and did something with his phone, probably confirming the transfer.

“Very good, Mr. Turnberry. Now, I want you to pick up your cell phone and call Dr. Price.”

That was when Brad’s bladder failed him, warm urine wetting his thigh then running down his leg into his shoes. “But, I—”

“Let’s not do this again, Mr. Turnberry. We know you’ve been in periodic contact with your old friend. I give you my word that as soon as I finish my conversation with Dr. Price, we’ll leave your office and never come back.”

It didn’t take long for Brad to decide. With shaky hands he picked up his cell phone and dialed a number from memory. Hunter had told him to only use it in case of an emergency.

The call rang twice and Hunter picked up. Brad didn’t say a thing, handing the phone to Mr. Vespers, who handed it to his boss.

“Hello, Dr. Price.”

Chapter 10

Miramar Beach, Florida

3:42pm, April 5
th

Dr. Price gripped the phone, panic spreading into his chest, its cold fingers reaching for his pounding heart. The raspy sound of his old boss’s voice made him want to scream. The man was a monster, no different than Hitler or Stalin. While at first Price had sympathized with Cromwell’s mission, he’d soon come to see the truth of it. Cromwell didn’t give a damn about anyone, except perhaps his trusted employee Malik Vespers. Their relationship was the only touch of emotion left in Cromwell.

“What did you do with Brad?” asked Price, fearing the worst.

“Hello to you too, Dr. Price. I’m hurt that you haven’t called.”

Price could picture his enemy’s face, cruel and unyielding. Lethargic on one side, always intense on the other. It was a vision he saw in his nightmares, Cromwell on black wings swooping down like a banshee as he ran for cover.

“Tell me what you did with Brad.”

“He’s sitting across from me. Of course, Mr. Vespers has a gun pressed to his head, but other than that and a little piss in his pants, Mr. Turnberry is fine.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to come in. We’ve got work to do.”

“I don’t work for you anymore, remember? Besides, didn’t you wipe out any trace of my existence?”

Cromwell chuckled. “What did you expect? You left in the middle of the night and took my property with you.”

“I know what you were planning. There isn’t a chance in hell that I’ll help.”

“Even if that means we have to shoot poor Mr. Turnberry?”

Price heard a muffled moan in the background. He winced, easily imagining what Cromwell would do with his friend. He’d seen it before, including the body of the man they’d said was him, the one that had washed up on the shores of the Potomac.

“I’m waiting, Dr. Price.”

“What assurance would I have?”

“Call it my word as an officer and a gentleman.”

Price would’ve laughed out loud were the circumstances different. Cromwell had endlessly besmirched the honor of the Army uniform he sometimes wore, and to call himself a gentleman was preposterous. It was like calling Charles Manson a boy scout.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I don’t think you’re really in a position to argue, doctor. We know where you are and we have your money.”

“You fucking—”

“Now, now, doctor. Why don’t you just turn yourself in and we’ll get back to work.”

Price seethed. He was trapped. Sure he had more money hidden away, but he’d been careful. Brad controlled close to ninety percent of his accounts under various aliases including, Frank Rounders.

I should have put a bullet in Cromwell’s head when I had the chance
.

Instead of continuing the conversation, Price said a silent prayer for Brad and ended the call. It only took him a moment to gather his possessions and step outside, dropping the cell phone on the gravel pavement and stomping it into the ground.

His decision made, Dr. Price headed for the nearest bus station and his next destination. He had a mission to complete.

+++

Wilmington, Delaware

Cromwell handed the cell phone back to Brad and nodded to Malik Vespers, who replaced the pistol in its holster. Brad hadn’t taken the conversation well, twice vomiting into his stainless steel trashcan.

“Thank you again for your assistance, Mr. Turnberry. We’ll be on our way.”

The two men in suits walked to the door, Vespers leading. Just before he exited, Cromwell turned back to Brad, whose head was resting on his soiled desk.

“I suggest you find some new friends, Mr. Turnberry. As far as you’re concerned, Hunter Price no longer exists.”

+++

After regaining a measure of his composure, and changing into a set of seldom used workout gear he kept in his office, Brad Turnberry told his boss that he’d taken care of the situation with the Feds, but was going to take an early lunch.

“Can I join you? My treat. I’m finally getting my appetite back.”

Brad did his best to look his friend in the eye and smile. “Mind if I take a rain check? I’ve gotta run home and clean up the place before Viv gets back,” said Brad.

His boss chuckled and waved goodbye as Brad rushed to leave, feeling another vomit attack coming.

By the time he pulled into his garage, his stomach and heartbeat had settled. While the events of the morning hadn’t been pleasant, at least the drama with Hunter was over. Sure they were friends, but he’d been in one helluva spot. Brad felt lucky that the two Feds hadn’t taken his securities license, or worse, thrown him in federal prison. He knew what could happen to bankers who knowingly dealt with fugitives, and it was never pretty. There’d been a handful of acquaintances who’d shared that fate in the wake of the Wall Street debacle not a decade earlier.

No, it was better that it was over. He’d move on and Hunter would have to take care of himself. Hell, the guy came from money. He had to have more somewhere. Sure, the millions Brad had transferred to the account that Cromwell guy gave him would hurt, but Hunter was a smart guy, a doctor no less.

That’s what Brad told himself as he entered his house, desperately needing a second shower, his body sticky with sweat and piss. He was so consumed with his thoughts that he didn’t notice the shadow descend like a wraith, a strong arm wrapping around Brad’s neck, muscles clamping down on his windpipe.

Malik Vespers didn’t let go, not through the thrashing or the release of Brad’s bowels. One minute, then two. Once he was sure Brad was dead, Vespers dragged the body to the tan microsuede couch, propping Brad up in the corner. A moment later he was back with a half-smoked cigar, its end still burning, and two liquor bottles, one a bottle of Bacardi 151 and the other a bottle of Everclear grain alcohol.

Vespers placed the cigar in Brad’s left hand and poured the equivalent of a couple shots down the cadaver’s throat. Then, after making sure the cigar was still lit and had already burned a portion of skin on Brad’s hand, Vespers poured a liberal amount of both bottles over the body and onto the couch and floor. With a lighter, he lit the flammable liquids and stepped back as the blue flames took, quickly engulfing Brad and the couch.

Normally Vespers would have worried about the trace evidence, but an advance team had already disabled the smoke detectors in the home, simply taking out the batteries. It was common for lazy homeowners to pull out a battery from a beeping alarm and forget to replace it. By the time the fire department arrived, Brad and his living room would be charred to a crisp.

Happy with his handiwork, Malik Vespers exited through the back door, walked around the house, and entered the waiting black tinted SUV.

“Done?” asked Col. Cromwell from the back seat.

Vespers nodded, once again happy that he could please his master.

Chapter 11

Charlottesville, Virginia

7:20pm, April 5
th

The War Room hummed with activity. Cal’s men had separated into groups, happy to be working on something, even if it did sound crazy. Luckily, they’d installed upgraded central air ducts in the workspace or else it might’ve been stifling.

Cal and Daniel were sitting beside Jonas and Neil, who’d been swapping tech lingo for the past four hours, trying to come up with some way to find out who or what administered the supposed cancer cure. One of the first places they’d looked was the suppliers for the IV liquids and medications, but that turned out to be a dead end. Only a handful of the hospitals used the same suppliers and the likelihood of a major drug corporation randomly, yet not so randomly, dispersing the drugs was unlikely.

Neil’s software was in the process of filtering through thousands of hours of video feed, trying to get a hit. Nothing yet.

“Come on, guys, there has to be some way we can figure out who is doing this,” said Cal, feeling worthless as he looked on.

“I think it’s just gonna take time,” said Neil.

“For all we know they’ve come and gone, already on their way out of Charlottesville,” said Cal.

Jonas shook his head. “Unlikely. According to the timelines I’ve built, I think we have a day or two until our window. Neil’s right. Just give it some time.”

Without further guidance from the president, and because they were still getting their own assets in place, there wasn’t much Cal could do. He looked at Daniel who, as usual, sat placidly, digesting everything around him.

“You have any ideas?”

Daniel took a moment before answering. “Let’s do it the old-fashioned way.”

“And what’s that?” asked Cal.

“Let’s set up surveillance in the most likely spots around the hospital and see what happens.”

“But we don’t even know who we’re looking for.”

Daniel shrugged. “We might get lucky.”

Cal didn’t like it. They could have men on the ground for days without anything to show. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he hadn’t let Jonas convince him to undertake the investigation. Before he could voice his thoughts, MSgt Trent walked over with Gaucho.

“I’ll volunteer for the first watch,” said Trent.

“Me too, boss,” said Gaucho.

Cal looked up at his men, then around the room at the others who’d stopped what they were working on to see what their leader would say. The Marine shook his head, but smiled.

“Okay. Gaucho, you and your boys take the lead on this one. Plug us in wherever you need.”

“You got it.”

Gaucho and Trent moved to rejoin the rest of the troops, who were already grouping their chairs into the middle of the room. Cal couldn’t believe how excited they were about a boring surveillance mission until he realized that these men, these warriors, were accustomed to action. They’d lived and breathed combat and covert operations for years. Now they were stuck in some fixer-upper, waiting for him to come up with something to do.

Daniel must have read his mind because he nodded to Cal with that all-knowing grin.

Cal laughed and pointed at his friend. “Keep it up, Snake Eyes. You won’t be smiling ten hours into the stakeout.”

+++

En route to Reagan National

8:05pm, April 5
th

Col. Cromwell and Malik Vespers were the only passengers on the Gulfstream V. The crew had been asked to stay out of the main cabin for the duration of the flight. There was work to do, and despite the crew’s security clearance, Col. Cromwell did not want to be overheard.

To ensure complete privacy, Malik Vespers stood next to the front hatch leading to the cockpit where the flight staff was. Cromwell sat at the rear of the aircraft staring into the wall mounted screen, earbuds in place. He watched the shadowy figures of the other callers, wondering why the rest of the men chose to be cloaked in supposed secrecy even though each member of the elite group knew the others. They’d been arguing for the better part of an hour, round and round the powerful figures went trying to insert their opinions.