Chapter 2
BABYSITTING A DOCTOR
Kaden
M y name is Kaden Lange.
Twelve years in the Army. Four of those doing things that don't appear on any resume.
Now I work for myself. I own Eagle Security Protection. I’m a private contractor.
I am a part of a group of self-employed retired military intelligence officers known as Alpha Security. We often work in tandem with government and or law enforcement as back, sometimes doing things that they cannot do.
Among Alpha Security we share talents and skill when needed.
Tonight's job was supposed to be simple.
Watch Raymond Chu.
Chu was a federal informant and the FBI asked for my assistance.
My first night as another pair of eyes on him.
Big picture he had spent eighteen months embedded inside Victor Crane's operation.
As an informant he was careful and smart.
Ultimately, he documented work that cost him everything he had and then some.
Several weeks before he had been a patient at the hospital in the ICU after a questionable automobile accident.
He was going back to the hospital for what was supposed to be a follow up appointment, and he had chosen the St. Catherine's Hospital parking structure as a meet location for a contact.
Two birds, one stone. The parking garage was a smart choice because it’s busy but not too busy. It’s anonymous with multiple exits.
Unfortunately, if someone else knows about it, it’s not smart enough.
I was on level two getting ready to turn the corner when I heard the shot and immediately ran into the witness.
Eighteen months of Chu's life gone in seconds.
I'm still registering the shot and what it means when a woman comes flying around the corner at full sprint and hits me like blocker on a football field.
My hand catches her arm before she reaches the pavement.
Then I look at her.
I assess people fast. It's what I do.
I quickly assess threat levels, physical condition and emotional state in the blink of an eye.
I also need to quickly determine if a subject has a potential for irrational behavior under stress.
I run through all of it in under three seconds.
She’s not the typical victim or witness.
She’s holding her left shoulder and is she's favoring it without knowing she is.
Her ID badge is still clipped to her scrubs.
All of that is tactical information.
The rest is not.
Her dark auburn hair coming loose from whatever she had it pinned with.
Her green eyes are wide, frightened and sharp, all at once, already processing what she’s seen through the fear.
She’s fit and strong, beautiful and on the young side for a doctor.
Her mouth is compressed into a line that tells me she's pulling herself together through sheer will.
She's scared.
She is also, clearly, not someone who stays scared for long.
She’s used to being in control.
The combination is notable.
I file it under subject details.
She describes the second man.
Her unprompted detail and description is concise and accurate matching what we know of the criminal Victor Crane's known profile.
She's a good witness.
She is also, I realize as she finishes, looking at me the way she probably looks at patients she hasn't diagnosed yet.
Like I'm a riddle she intends to figure out.
I listened as Torres lays it out fast for the witness.
I already know I failed Chu.
I'm not going to fail the witness.
I look across the ramp at her.
She’s standing where I left her listening to Torres, and I can see she is ready to object and work her way out of this protection business.
Her arms are crossed, hands tucked under her elbows.
She’s hiding the shaking.
I noticed it the moment I let go of her arm: the careful concealment of vulnerability.
The decision made in real time. I will not let this show.
Most people in her situation sit down on the ground and stop functioning.
She's on her feet arguing with a federal officer.
I shift into position beside them both.
"That is a parameter, not an answer. There is a meaningful distinction,” Dr. Brock is saying.
Torres's expression doesn't change.
She handles stress through intellectual engagement. Will argue as a coping mechanism. Will be right roughly half the time and will know it.
I add that note to the pile.
The pile is getting unwieldy for someone I met only a few minutes ago.
"Six, maybe eight weeks until trial," Torres says.
Dr. Brock is quiet but that’s not the same as in agreement and she walks off a few feet away in what appears to be taking a moment to process how the last hour has changed her life completely.
I look at Torres.
"You do have people for this," I offer as way of letting her change her mind about the protection detail.
"I want you."
I don't ask why. I already know.
I was here and I know Crane's methods.
I also have a history of knowing what he does when he's cornered and the walls are closing.
And I owe Chu a debt I can't pay any other way.
This is the closest I'm going to get.
I give the witness a moment to process as I walk to the edge of the garage to call the man in charge at Alpha Security.
If I take this job, I won’t be available for anything that pops up for the group.
Marcus picks up on the second ring.
"I heard," he says before I open my mouth.
Of course he did.
I give him the summary. He gives me the expected response.
He reminds me that I had promised to go on leave.
I don't respond to that. It's true.
So, I remind him that even when I go on leave, I call about nothing.
I review case files I have no business reviewing, threat assessments nobody asked for just looking for a reason to jump back in.
I’m not good at leave.
I have a place outside the city that is quiet and secure and functional.
Whether I like it there is something I haven't had the chance to determine; maybe now is the time.
Marcus and I go way back.
Fallujah, 2019 to be exact.
We all have a history, but Marcus knows a decision I made in four seconds that got three men home and left one behind.
Marcus was there and he knows it still haunts me.
He's never said the name out loud to me.
He knows I prefer it that way.
He also knows I’ve repaid that debt many times over but continue the same pattern of saving everyone I can.
We disconnect.
I look back across the lot.
I see the witness and she's standing with her arms crossed and her chin up, an expression I already recognize.
The tactical retreat of someone who has chosen to comply without conceding the point.
She catches me watching.
I don’t look away.
She holds my gaze with an expression that says: I see you, and I will have questions about this later.
I look away first.
I cross over to stand beside her, arms still crossed, chin still up.
I decide it’s time for a truce.
We need to work together after all.
"Kaden Lange,” I say while holding out my hand in greeting. “Eagle Security Protection. I'll be keeping you safe until trial."
She takes my hand as she stares at me.
"That's the first complete sentences you've said to me."
"You're right."
"Eagle Security." She tilts her head. "That sounds like something someone made up."
"It's a registered private security contractor with federal clearance."
"That sounds like something someone made up to sound less made up."
I look at her. She looks back, completely serious.
I’m gathering the sarcasm is her way of being disagreeable when they realize they can’t fight any other way.
After a few minutes of quiet, she seems to relax.
"Were you military?" she asks.
"Yes, I’m retired."
"How long?"
"Long enough."
"That's not?—"
"Were you always a doctor, or did you consider other careers?"
She blinks. "That's not relevant."
"Neither is how long I was in."
She almost smiles; I see the pull at the corner of her mouth, controlled quickly. Controlled, but not eliminated.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who tries to suppress smiles.
"Were you already here tonight? Watching someone?"
"Yes."
"The man who died?"
"Yes, or at least I was on my way to watch him."
"And you didn't—" She stops. Reads my face. Finds what's there.
"I'm sorry," she says.
Simply. Genuinely. No qualification, no softening. I'm sorry.
Like she knows what it’s like to be responsible for someone’s life and blow it.
I don't know what to do with that, so I do what I always do.
"We need to move," I say as I encourage her to walk with me to my truck.
She has questions.
Many of them. I expected that.
What I didn't expect was the quality.
Most people in her situation ask: Am I going to be okay? How dangerous is this? Can I call my family?
She asks about the legal framework for witness protection as it applies to medical professionals with active patient loads.
She asks about her hospital privileges and licensing.
And what will happen with her post-op patient who needs chart updates by morning.
I have no answers to any of her questions.
I respond with, "Torres is handling all of that."
She responds quickly, "Torres is a federal agent, not a hospitalist. She cannot update the charts of a patient recovering from a laparoscopic cholecystectomy in bay seven.”
“No, but she will explain to administration, and they’ll have someone qualified to step in to do all of those things."
"Someone who knows each patient. Someone who knows he has a documented allergy to?—"
"Dr. Brock."
"What?"
"You know I can’t control those things,” I open the door for her, “Get in the truck, please."
She gets in the truck.
I walk around to the driver's side, sit down, start the engine.
"For the record," she says, "I wasn't finished."
"I know."
"I have three more questions about jurisdictional overlap and who’s decision it is to keep me away from work and whether or not I am compelled to comply."
"I know."
"And at least two about who I can call if I have a complaint about this, in the context of?—"
"I know."
"You're going to let me ask them eventually."
"I know.”
She's quiet for about forty-five seconds.
Which I will later understand is a record.
Then she asks about who she can call with complaints anyway.
I answer as best I can.