Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“That was a damn stupid thing to do,” the guard said.

“You’re going to kill us anyway, aren’t you? I had to try something.”

“Shut up and get back to your seat. There’s not going to be any killing here.”

Inch by inch, Junie moved ahead, purposely keeping her gaze down.

“Thank you, Butch,” Jillian said. “Thank you for not hurting her.”

Butch glanced behind him at Jillian. The distraction had lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

Junie’s moves were quick and deadly accurate. She grasped the saucepan handle, cried out Butch’s name, and as he turned back, splashed the boiling water into his face from just a few inches away.

Before the guard had even hit the carpeted floor, screaming and pawing at his eyes, Junie was pounding him again and again with the saucepan-powerful strikes that sounded like rifle shots. It took just two blows for him to become limp, but Junie landed half a dozen more, each more forceful than the last. At some point, Jillian thought she heard bone crack.

She stared wide-eyed at the woman.

“I grew up in a dog-eat-dog neighborhood,” Junie said, breathless. She reached down first to check Butch’s carotid pulse, then removed his pistol, and finally fished inside his pocket for the handcuff key. “Sometimes just making it to the corner grocery store was a serious adventure. He’s still got a pulse. But I don’t think waking up is in his near future.”

“Just remind me never to ask you for any coffee,” Jillian said.

Koller exited the highway, pulled to a stop on an unlit, deserted street, and cut the engine. He had been using only one hand to steer. The other he rested on the dead man’s lap, pointing the gun he held there at Nick.

“Move this guy into the truck bed back there,” Koller said, motioning Nick out of the Ford with the gun barrel. “He stinks. And don’t get any ideas. I’ve left instructions with my people that if we don’t show in thirty minutes, to start scalding the ladies with hot oil. You understand me?”

Nick nodded and slipped out of the passenger door and onto the grassy roadside. He was desperate to get to Jillian and Junie, and believed that as long as he did what Koller asked of him, that would happen soon enough. There was nothing he could do to help the old man now, except to add that guilt to the guilt he was already dealing with. He felt terrible about indirectly being the cause of his death, but he forced himself to remember that it was Koller who killed him-Koller and fate.

Cold, hurting, and tired, Nick struggled to lift the body, relying essentially on his one good arm. Then he laid the old man down gently on the truck’s muddy bed and covered him. One more score to settle with Koller when the time came.

“What will you do with the body?” Nick asked, as soon as they were traveling again.

“My clients have the means to dispose of bodies. I just provide them.”

“You don’t feel a thing for that man’s life, do you, Koller?”

The killer smiled. “Think of me like an animal put on earth to hunt for food,” he replied. “I’ve been put on this earth to use my considerable skills to kill people. That’s just what I do.”

“Somebody might report the truck stolen. Aren’t you afraid of getting stopped by the police?”

“Do I strike you as a man who’s afraid of anything?”

Nick did not answer.

“We have plenty of time to get where we’re going without speeding,” Koller added.

“You really think of everything, don’t you.”

“You think of a lot yourself, Doc. I’m curious. Why didn’t you bring the DVD with you up to Siliski’s office?”

“Saul tipped me off,” Nick said, gritting his teeth against another wave of pain, this one centered in his belly. “He used his dead brother’s name instead of Umberto’s.”

“So you knew exactly what he was doing,” Koller said with a laugh.

“I picked up on it, yes.”

“Well, I did, too. That’s why I made him suffer before I killed him. I don’t like people messing with me or thinking they’re smarter than me.”

Even with the truck’s heat on high, Nick could not stop shivering. The bullet wound was throbbing more intensely now, perhaps irritated from his efforts moving the body. Chatting with Koller disgusted him, but it seemed like the only thing keeping him conscious at the moment. He was afraid that if he closed his eyes for anything longer than a blink, he might never open them again.

“Don’t worry. I won’t do to you and the women what I did to your pal Mollender,” Koller said, breaking a brief silence. “After all, a deal’s a deal.”

Nick dug his index finger into the bullet hole in his arm, and discovered that the intense pain caused by the maneuver made him feel more alert and even more determined. From now on, he decided, he would repeat the action again and again for as long as he could stand it. Until this was over between him and Koller, he wanted to feel the hurt. He wanted to feel the hatred.

By the time the killer eased the pickup to a stop in a wide, grassy field, Nick doubted he had the strength even to stand.

How can I help anyone if I can’t even walk?

Once again, he dug his finger deeply into his wound.

With his gun drawn, Koller crossed in front of the truck and dragged Nick out, letting him drop to his knees on the ground. They were at a farm of some sort, reached by a road that had no traffic. Outside lighting was minimal, but Nick could see a number of barns, none with any windows, and another pickup truck. Koller hoisted him up by what remained of his shirt, and dragged him to the closest door. A man wearing a shoulder holster was standing guard.

“This the doc?”

“Yeah. Open up the door. You might not want to stick around in there for what’s going to happen.”

“I signed on to die for my country or to help someone else die for theirs. Whatever’s going to happen I can handle.”

They spoke as though Nick were not present, which in his current state was not that far from the truth. Nick again pressed his finger into the bullet hole, and was a bit dismayed that the pain he generated seemed less. Still, his alertness was enhanced. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he began casting about for anything he could use as a weapon, while at the same time testing his limbs.

The barn door slid open on a track and Koller pushed Nick inside. Nick’s heart sank at the sight of the Helping Hands RV parked in the center of the space. The interior of the barn was poorly lit, partly because the bulb hanging over the van, one of three dangling on cords from the rafters, was out. Then he realized that the RV, itself, although the passenger door was open, was dark.

Could the women be in there?

Once inside the barn, Koller hesitated, then stopped.

“Where’s the other guard?”

“Butch?” the guard called out. “Butch, where in the hell are you?”

“Does he know what he’s doing?”

“He’s the best, sir. The very best.”

“Call him again.”

“Butch. Hey, buddy.”

Nick was awake now. Wide awake. Something was going wrong.

Koller was tense.

“Shit,” the killer muttered, scanning the barn, which was stacked with cartons, crates, and any number of places to hide. Violently, he pushed Nick down so he was leaning against the rear tire of the bus. Then he turned to the guard. “Gun out. Watch the door and stay here with him. If he opens his mouth, if he says one fucking word, shoot him in the balls. Don’t kill him.”

Nick was fully with it now.

Pistol ready, Koller cautiously approached the open RV door. Then he dropped down to one knee and peered inside.