Going from the military into the community college turned out to be like going from the frying pan into the fire. But Jazz had persevered. She'd thought that getting her RN would be her ticket, because nurses were so much in demand, and she could call the shots. Unfortunately, the eventual reality was no different from her experience in the military when it came to supervisors, forcing her to move from job to job with the vain hope that things would be better at different institutions. But they never were. Now, it didn't matter.
When the elevator stopped on the upper parking level, Jazz got off, pushed out of the glassed elevator lobby, and walked over to her second-favorite possession, a brand-spanking-new, shiny, black-as-onyx H2 Hummer. She ran her fingers appreciatively along the vehicle's side, catching a view of her reflection in the windows. Except for the windshield, all the glass was tinted to the extent that it appeared to be black mirrors. Before she opened the door, she stepped back and took in the vehicle's boxy outline and its squat, threatening stance, both of which made it look like a weapon system ready to do battle on the streets of New York City.
Jazz climbed in, tossed her gymbag onto the passenger seat, and took her Blackberry out of her coat but left it in her lap. She started the engine. The low growl issuing from the tailpipes added to the car's allure. She couldn't help but smile. Getting into the car gave her a thrill like a line of coke, only better. It also reminded her how rewarding the day had been when Mr. Bob had approached her. She still didn't know his full name, which was stupid. He'd told her it was a matter of security, which she questioned at the time, but now she felt it didn't matter. At that first meeting, she'd seen him come at her out of the corner of her eye and thought it was just going to be another typical male come-on, but it wasn't. He got her attention immediately by calling her "Doc JR," which was the nickname the jarheads in her first marine squadron had given her. She'd not heard the name for several years, so she was surprised and guessed that Mr. Bob had been a marine himself. He had been waiting for her to come out of the hospital in New Jersey, where she was working on the evening three-to-eleven shift. He said he had a business proposition for her and asked if she was interested in earning extra money-a lot of extra money.
Sensing that her ship had finally come in, Jazz accepted his invitation to join him in his H2 Hummer, which was a spitting image of her own. Before she got in the vehicle, she made sure that there wasn't anybody else inside. She also made sure that she had her hand around the Glock nestled in her pocket. Back then, the pistol didn't have the silencer, so it was easy to draw. If Mr. Bob did any- thing untoward, she would have shot him where she'd meant to shoot the marine officer. She didn't believe in threatening. If the gun came out, it would be used.
But she hadn't needed to be worried. Mr. Bob was all business. They ended up at a small, smoky bar in downtown Newark, where Mr. Bob commiserated with her about her experience in the military and even apologized about her treatment and unwarranted discharge. He said that it was precisely because of her exemplary service that she was being recruited for an important mission, for which she would be compensated accordingly. Mr. Bob went on to say that they-Jazz had yet to know who "they" were-recognized her unique qualifications to provide the service they required. He then had asked if she was interested.
Jazz laughed as she put her Hummer in reverse and backed out of the parking slot. When she thought back, it was crazy for him to be asking if she was interested before she knew exactly what she would be doing, and she told him so at the time. From then on, he stopped beating around the bush. He told her they needed people like Jazz to help eliminate doctor incompetence, which he said was rampant although hard to ferret out because of a conspiracy of silence on the part of the medical profession. That was when Jazz was convinced that she was well suited to help. She was an expert on recognizing incompetence, since there had been a wellspring of it in every institution she'd been associated with. Mr. Bob said that her job would be to communicate to him by e-mail all episodes of adverse outcomes, particularly related to anesthesia, obstetrics, and neurosurgery, but he emphasized that they weren't choosy. They wanted everything she found. For her efforts, she would be paid two hundred dollars per case, with an added bonus of a thousand dollars for each that resulted in a malpractice suit and an extra five hundred if the judgment was for the plaintiff.
So that had been the beginning. Following Mr. Bob's recommendation, she switched from evenings to nights, which was easy, because the graveyard shift was the least popular. The benefit was that during the wee hours of the morning, there was less oversight, which made roaming the floors, checking the charts, and generally catching the gossip much easier than during the day or even during the evening. Mr. Bob had had other helpful recommendations as well, which he explained came from the fund of experience they'd had over several decades. He said that Jazz was joining an extensive, elite underground.
Jazz had flourished from the start. The clandestine nature of the operation was an added benefit; it even made going to work fun. The money was wired into an offshore account that had been set up for her by whoever "they" were. It grew rapidly, and it grew tax-free. The only problem was that in order to use the money, she had to go down to the Caribbean, a necessity that she found was hardly an imposition.
But then, after four years and several moves to different hospitals, the last being to St. Francis in Queens, things got even better. Mr. Bob reappeared to say that as a consequence of her outstanding work, she'd been commissioned along with a very select group to be raised in rank within the underground task force. She was now going to participate in an even more important mission, for which her compensation would be greatly increased. At the same time, so would the level of secrecy. It was a highly classified operation code-named "Operation Winnow."
Jazz remembered that he laughed after telling her the name. He said he had nothing to do with its selection, since it reminded him of "minnow." But his laughter quickly died off, and he again emphasized the secrecy. He said, "There are to be no ripples on the surface." He had asked if Jazz understood. Of course she understood.
Mr. Bob had gone on to explain that the circumstance would be the opposite of the setup with the "adverse outcomes," which she was to continue as well. With Operation Winnow, she would receive a patient's name by e-mail. Then, following a carefully devised protocol, which she had to follow to the letter, she would sanction the patient.
There had been a pause at that point. At first, Jazz didn't get his drift. She was confused by the word "sanction" until it finally dawned on her. When it did, it gave her a shiver of anticipation.
"This protocol has been masterminded by professionals, and it is completely foolproof," Mr. Bob had said. "There is no way it can be discovered, but you must follow it exactly as specified. Do you read me?"
"Of course I read you," Jazz had replied. What did he think she was, stupid?
"Are you interested in becoming part of the team?"
"That's affirmative," Jazz had said. "But you haven't told me the compensation."
"Five thousand a case."
Jazz could remember the smile that had appeared on her face. To think she would be paid five thousand dollars to do something challenging and fun was almost too good to be true. And it turned out to be better than she imagined. After the first five missions, which went off without a hitch, thanks to the protocol provided, Mr. Bob had appeared along with the Hummer.