Dark Heart (DARC Ops Book 3) (4 page)

He kept sniffing on the phone. He was definitely sick.

“Are you sick?”

“Nah, Man. No, I’m good.”

“Are you feeling good? Healthy?”

“What do you mean?” He started to sound a little agitated. “I just wanted to call, you know, about, you know . . .”

“Kyle . . .”

“What?”

“Are you sick?” This time Jasper said it more seriously, and with intentions. He’d put a certain stress on the word “sick.”

Sick.

They both knew what he meant.

“Dude . . .” And now that Kyle had caught on, and he clearly wasn’t happy about it. “Dude,” he said again, agitated now. “I fucking call you up . . .”

“I’m just worried about you, Bro.” Jasper could feel it happening, the start of their slide down that all-too-familiar slope, the steepening slope that usually ended in a big pit of lava.

“Well, so?” said Kyle. “I’m fuckin’ worried about you too.
Bro
.”

“I know you are,” said Jasper, trying to soften up his delivery. “And thanks. I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously, Kyle.” Jasper heard his brother take a deep breath. He wanted to say something more, something . . .

Kyle started muttering again. “Uh, yeah, alright. I uh . . . I gotta go.”

And that was it. The call ended with just as much mystery as it began.

S
he walked
in with a smile and with light and airy steps into the windowless den that was Conference Room D. It felt like a morgue, with its stale air and harsh lighting, along with the scrupulous eyes of those seated at the long oak conference table. If the room had any windows, if she could have just seen outside, then she would have perhaps felt less like she’d walked into the end of the world. Life would still be moving, going on outside. There would be a passenger jet streaking across the sky, gaining altitude from the nearby airport. There would be traffic below—maddening traffic, but life-affirming nonetheless.

But there were no windows, or escape hatches, nor was there anything life-affirming about Dr. Wahl and his ghoulish expression.

“Hi, Fiona,” he said with a sort of manufactured warmth. “Please have a seat.”

His head was shiningly bald, but still with two—perhaps three—long wispy strands of hair combed across. He seemed to savor them, clutching on to them as if they were relics in some important anthropological display, the last vestiges of youth. Of course he had other things to show for his lost youth. Mainly, a varying set of expensive luxury cars parked in a personalized, prime parking space right by the elevator doors. On nice days he’d roar in on an oversized Harley Davidson. And although it might have been a Harley in name, it certainly wasn’t in spirit. It was more of a sofa on wheels than something a Hell’s Angels member would be caught dead with.

“Fiona? I’m Deb Turvey.”

A hand came reaching over to shake hers. An unfamiliar hand and face. Even the name: Deb Turvey. Was she supposed to know a Deb Turvey?

“Hi,” Fiona said, midway through a quick and sloppy handshake.

“And you know Wendy of course,” said Dr. Wahl, motioning to Fiona’s supervisor across the table to round out the introductions.

“Of course,” said Fiona, staring at Wendy, trying to read her expression, her silence. She looked icy and distant. Not even concerned, just shut off completely.

“And you know why you’re here,” said Dr. Wahl.

“No. I actually don’t.”

Wendy’s chair scraped along the ground as she moved in her seat. “I didn’t have a chance to explain it to her.”

“That’s not a problem,” said the doctor as he pointed to one of the many empty chairs surrounding the table. “Please, Fiona, take a seat.”

Fiona found a chair that was sufficiently close to the three others, just close enough but not too close.

“Okay,” said the doctor. “Okay, great.”

“So, can you tell me what this is about?” Fiona said, trying not to cross her arms. She had nothing to be defensive or nervous about. She did nothing wrong. Aside from a little spilled blood today. And then there was that little bit of spilled coffee in the break room. Were they going to ask her about that too?

“It’s about last week,” said Dr. Wahl. “Last Thursday. An anomaly had been brought to our attention.”

“A what?”

“Deb?” he said. “Maybe you can explain it for us?”

“And who’s Deb again?” Fiona cut in. “Sorry. I just didn’t catch—”

“Deb’s from HR,” said Dr. Wahl.

“So is there a problem?” asked Fiona. “Did I do something?”

Dr. Wahl strummed a finger against his mustache. “Did you do something? Hmm.” More strumming. “Yes, you might have. Deb, could you?”

Deb Turvey cleared her throat. “First of all, this isn’t—”

“Wait,” Fiona interrupted again. “Shouldn’t I have the union here with me? Should I have a rep for this?”

“Well, fortunately,” said Deb. “Fortunately, and as I was trying to say . . . This isn’t an official disciplinary procedure.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re not getting written up. Okay?”

“Still, shouldn’t I—?”

“No,” said the doctor. “And we’re doing this for that very reason. So we can avoid all that. So we can avoid having, you know, the whole . . .”

“We want to avoid an official disciplinary action,” said Deb, jumping in to cover for the doctor, fumbling in place behind like a baseball outfielder. “We, uh, don’t think that needs to happen.”

“Okay,” said Fiona.

“Unless, of course, you’re really insistent on having representation from the union.” Deb cocked her head as if she’d said something supremely witty. Not a threat, of course.

“Well, no,” said Fiona. “No, I guess it’s okay.”

Dr. Wahl smiled. “We thought so.”

“Fiona, did you work 324D last Thursday?” asked Deb.

“I don’t know . . .”

“You don’t?”

“No. What’s the patient’s name?”

“Walter Hendricks,” said Deb.

“Oh, Wally.” Fiona pictured him immediately. A frail old man lying in bed, mouth agape. Eyes closed ninety percent of the time. “Wally Hendricks,” she said warmly.

“So you’re familiar?”

“Yes. Mostly catheter work. Right? Is that him, with the catheter?”

“Yes.”

“Right. I did the insertion, so, I don’t usually forget those ones.”

“Well,” said Deb. “You seemed to forget about this one.”

“No, I didn’t. I know Wally.”

“No.” Deb made a pained expression. “You forgot to go back and unclamp it after you took a sample.”

“Fiona,” said Dr. Wahl, straightening up in his seat. “You clamped the tube after getting a urine sample, walked it off to the lab, and then punched out and went home. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yeah,” she said hesitantly. Was it correct? Yeah, she thought it was. She remembered vividly that she had rushed out because her sister had another setback. “Yeah, it’s correct. So?”

“So you forgot to unclamp the guy.”

Jesus Christ . . .

“I bet you don’t remember that part, right?”

Of course not.

What the fuck?

“Poor Wally,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “Christ Almighty . . .”

Fiona felt the hot panic come on, surging in waves of shakiness. She tried to speak but it came out mostly as air, a crushing gasp. “I’m so . . .” Her throat felt swollen and shut. “I can’t . . . I can’t believe it.” She swallowed hard.

“Well,” said Dr. Wahl. “That’s what happened.” He was staring right into her, so strongly that she had to look away.

“So we just wanted to go over that with you,” said Deb.

Rather, they just wanted to rake her over the coals. A group effort, each of them grabbing a limb from across the wide conference table. Fiona could feel her body and whatever bit of ego she had left being torn apart.

“Fiona?” asked Deb. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just . . .” She just couldn’t believe it. And she was getting so sick of the mistakes. So fucking sick of it. “Was he okay? Wally?” She imaged the nice old man again, but this time he was drowning in his own urine. A big horrible vat of urine. What a horrible mess . . . “Was he . . . like . . .? Did it take long for someone to see the clamp?”

“They caught it in the morning,” said Dr. Wahl.

“Oh, God . . .”

“Yep.”

“I’m so sorry,” Fiona said quietly. She felt herself starting to sweat, her armpits warm and sticky. She probably smelled horribly. Stress sweat.

“His wife asked why he hadn’t urinated all night,” said the doctor with a sigh.

“God . . .”

“Yeah. It was a mess. Got about 900ccs out of the poor guy.”

Fiona’s head had bowed down lower and lower throughout the revelations, her chin practically attached to her chest now. She was looking down at her hands, each one holding the other. It seemed to stabilize her, to keep her whole body from shaking. She at least had control of her hands. The rest of it, like her standing with her seniors, and her reputation at the hospital, the rest of it was strewn to the wind. Probably damaged forever. Fiona, the constant fuckup.

“Let’s just get this straight and out of the way,” said Deb. “You’re not on any drugs or substances or anything, right?”

“No. Of course not.”

“How about any kind of medications?”

“I just said no.”

“How about stress?”

“What about it?”

“Are you, um—”

“Yes,” said Fiona. “You’re making me feel
quite
stressed right now. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Stress can be worse than a drug addiction,” said Dr. Wahl, in his infinite fucking wisdom, with his hands resting on the table, fingers bridged together like some old sage. “It’s acceptable that some members of our staff experience some level of stress. We
are
working in a hospital. But a kind of long-term, uh, imbalance, can be distracting. Almost debilitating, and uh . . . well, deadly.”

“Are you saying I’m imbalanced?”

The doctor glanced at Deb, the human resources specialist, the people person.

“No,” Deb said, looking back and forth from the doctor to Fiona. “No, he’s not saying that. No one’s insinuating . . . I think what he’s trying to say is that, it’s encouraged for staff who are feeling stressed out to come forward and talk with us. We have resources for that . . . Time off, maybe. Counseling.”

“We want to give you a drug screening,” said Dr. Wahl. “Just to rule it out.”

Fiona knew it. She’d known the minute she’d walked in that this wasn’t a friendly chat.

“Would that be okay?” asked Deb softly. “Could you provide a urine sample?”

“Fine,” Fiona said. It would be clean, that much she knew. “But I’d like to speak to my rep first.”

“That’s fine,” said Deb. “Excellent.”

“Is that all you need?”

“There’s just one more matter.”

“Yes?”

Fiona had suspected that she needed union representation from the start. But it was growing more apparent with each question, with each quiet insinuation.

“Fiona,” said Dr. Wahl. “You wouldn’t have asked someone to cover for you, right?”

“What do you mean, ‘cover’?”

“To cover it up. We went back and looked at the records for Walter. The night nurse recorded 600cc output for urine. Which is an impossibly, unless she drained his catheter and then reapplied the clamp. Which, of course, makes absolutely zero sense.”

So what the hell was going on? She didn’t remember unclamping the tube, not specifically, but she’d done the procedure a thousand times—she practically performed it by rote by now. Had someone else screwed up and thought Fiona looked like an easy foil, or was she losing it worse than she thought?

“You’re right” said Fiona. “If they were covering up for me, then why wouldn’t they just undo the clamp and leave it off and not tell anyone? Why reapply it? Who cares about the
reading
.”

“So you’re saying that they just lied about the reading?” asked Dr. Wahl.

“I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything because I don’t know anything about this night nurse or what they did or didn’t do.” She looked over at Wendy, who had been silent the whole time. “Wendy,” she said, trying to break her out of her silent complacency. She needed
someone
on her side.

Wendy shrugged and shook her head.

Was that the best she could do to help her friend?

“Wendy, what’s going on?” Fiona asked, urging her with her eyes. Pleading.

“It’s just a drug test,” said Wendy in an utterly bored tone. “Just get on with it and we can all move on. Right?”

“That’s right,” said the doctor.

Fiona had no intentions of backing out of the drug test. But what about her dignity? Would a passed drug test ever repair that?

“So you’ll agree, then? To the test?” asked Dr. Wahl.

“It’s just something we have to do for insurance reasons,” said Deb. “Due diligence. We don’t
really
think you’re on drugs.”

The doctor smiled with a certain grimness, saying, “No, of course we don’t.”

“It’s just for insurance,” Deb said again, trying to smile along with the doctor. “So can we do this now?”

Dr. Wahl had already begun packing some of his papers, stuffing them into a large briefcase. The meeting, evidently, was about to wrap up. “Wendy?” he said without looking at the supervisor. “Would you mind?”

“Would I mind?” asked Wendy.

“Preparing a cup,” he said, closing his briefcase. “And, you know, meeting with her. You know . . .”

“Sure,” Wendy said curtly.

It gave Fiona a little hope, even just seeing the slightest iota of displeasure from Wendy. It was the least she could do, not jumping for joy and jumping up and fetching a cup for her to pee into. What a fucking miserable day.

J
asper left
his room they’d assigned him on base just before sundown. It would be well into the night by the time he’d return. His plan was to pound the pavement, to run it out of himself. All the negativity. All the poison. The sadness of crushing Davey’s dreams, of listening to his brother’s already crushed life over the phone.

He’d planned to run about ten miles, get his heart pumping, break a sweat, let his mind go blissfully empty with the approach of his well-earned “runner’s high”—that rush of endorphins facilitating the switch from pain to pleasure.

But he hadn’t yet reached either. Despite running for an hour, he couldn’t shake the thoughts of his brother and his family, and whatever shape they were in in North Dakota. Kyle was older, but for the last ten years the roles seemed to have reversed. Perhaps another reason for the resentment he so clearly felt from his brother.

“Looking good, Soldier! Good form!”

The voice pulled him out of his thoughts. A familiar voice. But in an unfamiliar car. Someone was creeping by in an SUV. All black. The passenger, keeping exact pace with Jasper, reached his arm out of the widow and formed a salute. His face was covered in darkness.

Jasper kept running.

“Yo, Jasper. Don’t be scared. It’s me.”

“Who’s me?” called Jasper, breathless. Although he’d made a few enemies in his work, he felt pretty safe a thousand miles away and back on US soil. Especially on base, jogging along one of the many service roads within the expanse of Fort Bragg. It was home turf if there’d ever been any.

The arm pounded on the top of the car’s roof. “Come on, hop in.”

Jackson?

By now the car had pulled up right by Jasper’s feet. Someone had opened the rear passenger door. It was his old superior, the man who had trained him, Captain Dempsey. “I saw you back at the bar with that kid,” the captain said, sliding over to make room for Jasper. “That Davey kid. Figured I’d let you handle that on your own.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jasper said dryly as he sat next to him in the back.

The captain patted him on the shoulder. “Sounds like someone just got a good dose of reality.”

“Me or the kid?”

Captain Dempsey chuckled as Jackson reached around from the front to shake Jasper’s hand. “I hope you’re not too busy here,” he said with one of those devilish grins that Jasper knew meant trouble.

“I don’t know,” said Jasper, looking back at his former superior officer. “Am I?”

“We can handle the rest of the recruiting drills without you.”

Thank God.

At first, Jasper felt relieved. He hated recruiting. He hated being stuck in the position he’d just been in with Davey. He didn’t mind being that guy that everyone looked up to, sure. Being a role model came naturally. The problems came when he had to do that in an official capacity. When it became his job, a professional trainer. He’d been an obvious choice for the role when his old commander had contacted DARC Ops, but it wasn’t where his heart lay. He’d rather be fighting it out back in any number of foreign hell holes than teaching the Davys of the world.

Fort Bragg, in comparison to his life in Army Special Ops, and then with DARC, was like purgatory. An infinite boredom that threatened to dull his senses as well as his fighting spirit.

“Well?” said Captain Dempsey, his brows arched.

Jasper kept staring at the two men, and his relief quickly faded to apprehension. “Where are you sticking me?”

“I’m not sticking you anywhere,” said Jackson from the front seat.

“Yeah, sure,” said Jasper, snorting a laugh. “We’ll see.” He knew how this usually went. At first he’d present it like a prize, just a bit of fun. And then somewhere along the way, sure enough, it would turn into a nightmare.

He also knew that medics weren’t needed if it wasn’t already a nightmare.

“It’ll be different,” said Jackson. “You’re staying in the U.S. And you’ll be on your own this time. You call your own shots.”

He didn’t mind about staying in the U.S. It was the autonomy that he found attractive.

“And it’s critically important,” said Dempsey, who was apparently already in the loop. He pulled two cigars out from his jacket pocket and offered one to Jasper, who was still too sweaty and breathless to accept it. “They want someone with official connections, a military history.”

“It’s always critically important,” said Jasper, thinking of the nightmare again. Fuck it. That’s what he’d signed up for, right? A long list of nightmares?

“Yes, it’s always important,” said Jackson. “And that’s why I need you on this.”

“Son, just accept the compliment,” the captain said, chuckling as he fired up his cigar with a few big puffs of smoke.

He and Jackson wanted Jasper to accept more than a compliment. At the heart of it was the responsibility of someone’s life. But they didn’t say who yet. The information was painfully slow coming in, especially information about where the hell they were headed. First was Jasper’s quarters, for a quick shower and change of clothes. And then back on the road, leaving the safe confines of Fort Bragg, where Jackson offered a few more details about the man he’d be in charge of protecting.

“At this moment, he’s probably in the top five most powerful men in the world,” explained Jackson. All that really told Jasper was that he’d be a giant pain in the ass.

As the SUV sped down the freeway, Jackson finally explained further. He’d be in charge of overseeing the hospital stay of a high-profile foreign dignitary. They were driving to meet with an associate of this dignitary, Mr. Awadi.

“I have to warn you,” said Jackson. “They’re pretty paranoid right now.”

“When aren’t they?” Jasper scoffed.

“They have a reason. Prince Saif’s pacemaker has been on the fritz. They think someone is trying to compromise it.”

Jasper’s eyebrows rose at that. “On purpose?”

“A hacker,” Jackson said. “I’ve got Tansy and Carly working on that end of it. Your job is the prince, to monitor him while he’s in the hospital undergoing treatment. They want everything to go smoothly there.”

The lights outside of the car grew brighter as they approached downtown Raleigh. And even brighter still as they drove under the valet arch in front of a hotel’s main entrance.

“You remember the customs, right?” asked Jackson as the two men got out of the car.

“What, he’s gonna want a kiss on the cheek or something?”

They entered the muzak-filled main lobby of the hotel and Jasper immediately noticed the guards wearing dark suits stationed near the entrance and elevator.

“Those yours?” he asked Jasper, nodding his head toward the men.

“No,” he said. “That’s Awadi’s personal staff.”

Jasper watched as Jackson nodded to one of the men, receiving a nod of approval back like they knew they both belonged to some secret worldwide fraternity of security guards.

“Why don’t they just fill the hospital with these guys?” he asked as he pushed the elevator button.

“There might be some. Probably our men. But they’ll just get in the way there. We need someone like you with expert medical knowledge. And let’s be honest, these kinda guys, even guys like me, we’re more concerned with
causing
bodily harm, not fixing it.”

It was almost a wash for Jasper, his past experience of both leveling up the same. It was an odd contrast. How did the old saying go? 18Ds—one finger on the trigger and another on someone’s pulse. Somewhere he’d had to equate the two, to find the balance, to make the switch from doctor to killer. But since he’d done his fair share of harm, it was probably time to start leaning more heavily the other way. If he couldn’t be a country music star, he could always try retiring as a paramedic in a little sleepy New England village somewhere.

The elevator doors clanged shut, and they were on their way up to the top floor of the hotel. Jackson pulled out a key card when they came to a stop on floor twenty.

“Doors won’t open without this,” he said, sliding the card into a little slot below a digital screen.

“That’s some pretty fancy security,” Jasper joked as they stepped off the elevator. But their steps and laughter came to an abrupt halt.

Standing in their way were two huge guards with guns drawn. They looked down on them, gripping their guns a little tighter.

“Here’s your security,” murmured Jackson.

“Excuse me?” one of the guards said.

“This floor is closed,” said the other.

“We came up to see Mr. Awadi,” said Jackson.

“Names?”

“Just tell him it’s DARC Ops.”

Their faces suddenly softened. One of them said, “Jackson?”

They were evidently glad to meet Jackson, the fabled leader of DARC Ops, hero and celebrity to security outfits everywhere. One of the guards walked back to a room down the hall while the other, still beaming, shook hands with the men.

“How do you know it’s really me?” asked Jackson, grimacing.

“Easy. No one would dare impersonate you.”

After all the flattery and the almost infantile comradeship, Jasper and Jackson were shown into the penthouse suite, a lavish setup that looked more like someone’s full-time apartment than a hotel room. There were such useless extravagances as a gushing water fountain, a baby grand piano in the marble-laden foyer, and in the main room, a fully stocked bar that should have been useless for any self-respecting Saudi.

“Come in, come in,” said a smiling, elderly man in a white gown and thick sunglasses. He walked with a stiff hunch in his back, and his feet seemed to move in small, toddler-like increments. Little baby steps all the way out of the hallway and into the brilliantly lit living room.

“Don’t worry about that shit,” he told Jackson when the DARC Ops leader tried on his Saudi greeting. “We’re in America. Right?”

“That’s right,” said Jackson. “North Carolina.”

They must really have wanted Jasper involved in the case to fly out to meet him near the base.

“So what do they do in North Carolina?” he asked, his accent stumbling over the state’s name.

“I don’t know,” said Jackson. “We’re not from here, either.”

“Is this the guy?” the Saudi asked, looking hard at Jasper.

Jasper nodded before Jackson could say anything. Indeed, he was the guy. He’d been “the guy” many times in the past and for various reasons. It was a suitable, safe name.

“Call me Rick,” said Jasper. Rick had always been the guy’s name.

“Okay, Rick. Call me Mr. Awadi.”

Sure. Real original.

“So like I said, Mr. Awadi’s boss needs our help.”

“That’s right. He doesn’t trust anyone except for Mr. Jackson.”

“We bonded after I saved his ass from an assassination attempt.” Jackson said it as if it were just some minor little memoir, on par with fixing his flat tire or going fishing in Wisconsin. Jasper caught his eye, raising an eyebrow, but Jackson left it at that. No need to waste anyone’s time with further elaboration on how or from whom, of course. Just another day at DARC Ops.

“He’s a good man,” said Awadi, smiling.

“So, tell us about our boss,” said Jackson.

Awadi looked past them, around the room. “He’s not my boss. He’s the prince.” He kept looking for something.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jackson.

“I forgot to check something,” he said. And then he called out a name in Arabic. A young, extremely skinny man appeared a few seconds later. This time when he spoke, Jasper could pick up the words. Something about the room. An uncertainty. A definite displeasure.

He turned to Jackson and said, “Good thing you’re here.”

“Why?”

“Because Salmha is incompetent. I told him to check for bugs and he’s having trouble. Could you do me the pleasure?”

It seemed odd the way he said it. As if it was a test.

“You want me to check the room for bugs?” asked Jackson.

“Anything,” said Awadi. “Anything that can listen.”

“I wish you would’ve told me earlier. I could’ve brought—”

“Do what you can,” said Awadi. “Please.”

The young man returned with a briefcase, opening it up on the coffee table and then stepping back out of the limelight. He seemed happy to do so, to leave off the responsibility to the experts.

“This is your specialty,” said Awadi. “Is it not?”

Jackson barely looked at the contents of the briefcase before saying, “I can’t use this equipment.”

“No? Why not?”

Jackson took another look before shaking his head and closing the lid.

“Is there a problem?” asked Awadi.

“I can get better results with a phone,” said Jackson, fishing one out of his pocket. “Don’t you just hate that?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I hate being listened to. Do you understand me?”

“Forget bugs,” said Jackson. “Your phone is your bug.”

“My phone?”

“So the question is, can someone tap into it?” Jackson started working his phone. “What I can check right now is if there are any devices nearby that can grab your signal. That’s the easiest thing to check.”

He was looking for an IMSI catcher, a device that could capture your phone’s activity. Anyone could buy one for a few thousand dollars.

“Meta data,” said Jackson. “It’s like your fingerprints.”

“I know meta data,” said Awadi.

“You do?” Jackson had leaned over to show Jasper his screen, a framework map of the neighborhood showing all the devices. An IMSI catcher would show up as a red circle. There was none.

“Well, I know the metadata,” said Awadi. “But I dont know . . .”

“An IMSI catcher intercepts your phone’s metadata remotely,” said Jackson. “With that they can tell when you left your house, the license plate on the car you’re in, where you went, who you sat with.”

“Yes, I know all that,” said Awadi. “So is there one of those, uh . . .”

“IMSI catchers?”

“Did you find one?”

“No,” Jackson said, putting the phone away. “You’re clear.”

“You hear that, Salmha?” he called to his servant out of the room. “He said we’re clear.” He waited a minute, smiling. And then he called again, “You hear that, Salmha?” He started drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently. The whole situation was becoming awkward.