The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2)

by Chris Fritschi

  “Sorry about your truck,” said Tate with a lopsided grin. “You want to tell me what cartel you’re working for?”

  The lieutenant remained silent, his gaze burned holes though Tate.

  The sound of a distant helicopter reminded him of the ticking clock he was working against. There were other things hungry for his time and he wasn’t getting anywhere with this drug enforcer.

  “The good news is,” said Tate, “we’re not going to kill you. A courtesy you ball-sacks didn’t give us. The bad news is you get to explain to your boss how we kicked your ass, blew up your truck and, oh yeah, and we took your pretty .50 caliber, too. Those are hard to come by, so thank you,” he said, patting the prisoner on the shoulder.

  Tate paused at the door. “Any other time, I’d shoot you all for impersonating soldiers, but you caught me on a good day. Take my advice. Ditch the fatigues. You’re not impressing anyone.”

  Nobody in the room made a sound or looked his way. Tate walked out without another word.

  * * *

  The civilians squinted against the thrashing dust and grit blown up by the helicopters rotors. They carried what few personal items they were allowed and escorted to the waiting helicopter just outside of town, where Tate was talking to the crew chief.

  “The relocation camp is too far outside our operational area.” said the crew chief. “We’ll have to relay the civvies to another chopper that has a RE-CAM in their OA. Any of them need medical?”

  “No,” said Tate, understanding the meaning behind the crew chief’s question. “We checked them out. No one’s going to turn Vix on you.”

  The crew chief nodded his approval. “Appreciate that. hat were you guys doing so far south? I thought all the search and clear work was up north?”

  “Just a routine patrol,” said Tate, matter-of-fact.

  The crew chief took in the mangled troop truck and the smoldering ruins in the town. “Whatever you say,” he grinned.

  * * *

  “It’s the message that’s important,” said San Roman. “This time the general can’t deny how valuable I am. I have Tate. The general’s got a lot, but he doesn’t have anyone inside the American army.”

  “Do you think this will persuade him to make you part of his operation?” asked Dante.

  “If he thinks the Americans are a threat to his operation,” said San Roman, “he’ll crawl on his knees to get the information I know.”

  “You have been trying to get into his organization for a long time,” agreed Dante. “This could get the position you’re looking for.”

  “That’s the plan,” said San Roman. “It’s got to be high up the ladder. I need to be close to the heart of his operation. Sooner or later the old man will get distracted, forget about me, or drop his guard and BANG.” He whipped out his big pistol and jerked it, mimicking the recoil. “The general’s dead and I’m running everything.”

  “It’s risky, don’t you think?” asked Dante. “By warning the general, Tate could walk into a death trap.”

  “The site I picked is remote,” said San Roman. “He will send most of his men to bigger, more important sites. He wouldn’t even know this place got hit if I didn’t tell him.”

  “And if Tate dies,” said Dante, “you lose your source of information. You’re no longer valuable to Rojas.”

  “So they kill Tate,” said San Roman. “You can recruit me another soldier.”

  The dynamics of Dante’s future just shifted to a potentially dangerous path. Recruiting was an optimistic word for blackmailing, and finding something to leverage a soldier in Tate’s position was as rare as a Jewish Pope. If Tate was killed in this raid, San Roman would be looking at Dante to produce another informant. If he couldn’t deliver, San Roman might have one of his childish but deadly tantrums.

  Dante made a mental note to review his emergency exit strategy from San Roman’s reach if he smelled smoke on the wind, because the all-consuming fire of San Roman’s rage would be right behind it.

  * * *

  The flight back to base seemed to Tate to take forever. The tension between the squad was heavy in the air.

  He couldn’t wait to get away and have a drink. It wouldn’t change anything, but just to get away.

  That’s what you’re good at. Running away.

  Tate didn’t know where his inner demon had sprouted from, but he hated it. It was a vigilante that knew his every thought.

  The Blackhawk was a foot off the pad when Tate hopped out, earning him a sharp look from the crew chief.

  Wesson watched in mute surprise as he walked off without a word.

  “Rosse, can you get Monkhouse over to the infirmary?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said.

  “Stop treating me like a baby,” protested Monkhouse. “I’m fine.”

  “You know you’re bleeding from your ears, right?” said Rosse. It was a slight exaggeration; the overpressure from the gasoline explosion had caused Monkhouse to briefly bleed from his ears.

  Monkhouse’s eyes went wide and he reached up to feel the dried blood on his ear. “I need a doctor,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Rosse. “You’re on death’s door.”

  “I want everyone’s after-action report by this time tomorrow,” said Wesson. “You too, Monkhouse.”

  She quickly grabbed her combat pack and weapon, leaving the helicopter pad before Kaiden had gotten out of the Blackhawk. She told herself if she saw Kaiden’s all-knowing smile one more time today, she’d knock it off her face.

  * * *

  Walking into his quarters, Tate saw the message waiting light blinking on his sat-phone, and knew Colonel Hewitt would have caught wind he had called in for civilian transport, effectively blowing any chance of running this op under the colonel’s radar.

  Tate involuntarily clenched his jaw, which he instantly regretted. His mouth and lips were caked with dirt and grit.

  In what had become a ritual he’d repeated over the years, too many times to count, Tate dumped his combat pack by the door. It landed with a thud and a puff of dust.

  He leaned his rifle against the wall and went into the bathroom, striping off his shirt along the way. He splashed his face until the water circling the drain was clean, then swished cool water around his mouth, long-past caring what he saw come out of it.

  Deciding on a balance between wanting to get the conversation over with and being mentally prepared to tell the colonel only what he was sure of, Tate picked up the sat-phone and punched in the code to put it in encryption mode.

  The colonel picked up on the first ring.

  “I’m listening,” he growled.

  Tate spent the next twenty minutes carefully laying out the sequence of events leading up to the ambush at the village. Trusting his instincts, he omitted his intel source was a cartel boss he had become indebted to, or that the Suicide King was a Colombian general and old pal of the DEA.

  “My intel is sketchy, at best,” he admitted, “and there’s a lot of blanks to fill in. Someone out there is purposely poisoning coke.”

  The colonel was quiet for a long time before he replied.

  Through the static, Tate heard a pained sigh.

  “What’s your feel on this?” asked Hewett. “Are we looking at small time occurrences?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” said Tate. He meant it. Until San Roman told him the full story, he had no idea how this puzzle fit together. “Even so, the risk of having an overdose in a military base…” He trailed off, letting the colonel connect the dots.

  “Damn,” said Hewett, signaling he understood. “We might as well Para drop Vix right in our living room.”

  Tate was wrestling with something else and he wasn’t sure how the colonel would react, or if he should even tell him. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth as he picked at a long scrape he just noticed on his forearm.

  Before thinking better of it, the wound began seeping blood. He grumbled under his breath as he snatched up
a dirty sock and pressed it on the wound.

  “What did you say?” asked Hewett.

  “Sorry,” said Tate. “Nothing. Uh, Colonel, I almost lost a man today.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “Yes sir, thanks for asking. I don’t think I can keep them in the dark about what we’re doing.”

  “Are you suggesting telling them about The Ring?” asked Hewett. “You’re risking both our lives if any of them can’t keep a secret. Hell, they could give us away without even knowing they’re saying something they shouldn’t.”

  “I know, sir,” said Tate.

  “I hope you do, Sergeant Major,” grunted Hewett. “I understand. Their going on operations blind to full potential of danger. That’s a hard thing to shoulder as their leader, but weigh that against what happens if one of your people runs their mouth to a hooker, talks in their sleep, or has one too many at the bar. Next thing you know, you wake up strapped to a chair, spending the next two weeks hoping death takes you before having to endure another day of excruciating torture.”

  “And if we’re taken out,” said Tate, “who’s left to stop The Ring?”

  “I think you’re seeing the bigger picture,” said Hewett. “I may have additional resources to help you stop this drug issue,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The connection broke and Tate shut off the sat-phone. Bringing up telling the team about The Ring was something of a gamble. His alliance with the colonel was a tricky one; he didn’t know how much he could trust the colonel.

  Was he playing both sides, only interested in saving his own skin? Would he betray Tate to The Ring to save himself, or was he as committed to bringing down The Ring as he said? Or, were his full loyalties with The Ring and he was manipulating Tate like a puppet on a string?

  Tate purposely brought up telling the team everything to see Hewett’s reaction, and he got one. Hewett sounded genuinely worried he and Tate could be found-out. If he was a true-blue member of The Ring, Tate reasoned, Hewett wouldn’t have been concerned about being exposed. The colonel might have simply ordered Tate to drop it; end of conversation. It was a guessing game, sure, but Tate felt he’d come away more convinced the colonel could be trusted.

  Trusted. That word rattled around in his head as he thought about the uneasy silence on the ride back from today’s operation. He could see the wheels turning behind their poker faces as they suddenly were looking at their own teammates with new eyes, re-evaluating who could be trusted, how far the other person was willing to go for the good of all, or whether that person was capable of cold-blooded brutality.Tate’s gaze came back into focus. The room was dim and it was dark outside.

  How long have I been sitting here? He glanced at his watch. 16:40 hours.

  He snapped on the table lamp, feeling stiffness from his arm all the way across his back.

  “Not old. Just rusty,” he groaned, as he loosened the tightness across his shoulders. He picked up his phone and called Wesson.

  She picked up after the third ring. “Yeah, Wesson,” she mumbled.

  “Sorry I woke you,” he said.

  “It’s okay, Top,” he said, sounding artificially alert. “What’s up?”

  “Have the team assemble in the ready room,” he said. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

  “Uh,” she stumbled, caught between asking why or just doing it. “Copy that. Oh, wait, uh, do we gear up?”

  “My bad,” said Tate. “No. This is a bull session.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Thirty minutes.”

  “And Sergeant?” he added. “I want an MP outside the door.”

  “Top?” said Wesson, sounding fully awake now. “What’s going on?”

  “Thirty minutes,” he said, and hung up.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TRANSPARENCY

  Tate walked into the ready room after making sure everyone was present. He’d called Kaiden, telling her what was going on and giving her the option to sleep in, or show up.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she said.

  With final orders for the MP, Tate entered the ready room. The customary chatter was absent as each team member silently watched him with a mixture of emotions. Some appeared puzzled, while others were disapproving, bordering on scowls.

  Tate walked around to the desk in the front of the room and sat against it. He knew what he was going to say, yet still paused as if he might change his mind. He knew it was too late for that. Nobody spoke. He had their full attention. He braced himself as he pulled the cork on the genie’s bottle.

  “I’ve lied to all of you about what our missions really are,” he said. “I have my reasons, but after we nearly got wiped out today I recognize that was a mistake.” He paused, gauging the room before he went on.

  “I know some of you have something to get off your chest. Speak your mind. What’s said in this room is for us only.”

  Tate stopped. The room was quiet and the background static of bottled up emotions intensified a couple of notches, but nobody spoke. “Nothing you say will be used against…”

  “Where do you get off lying to us, you two-faced son of a bitch?” broke in Rosse.

  The room erupted in a clash of people shouting to be heard over each other. Voices condemning Rosse and others supporting.

  Wesson was flushed red, growling a warning to Monkhouse who made a show of now being able to hear her, which only egged her on more.

  “Everyone shut up,” said Tate. “I said you can speak your mind without penalty and that’s what we’re going to do.” He waited for the room to settle down. “Rosse, that’s a fair question,” he said. “I will answer it before we’re done here.”

  “You better,” grumbled Rosse.

  Someone snapped an objection at Rosse’s tone.

  “Hey,” said Rosse. “He just said we can clear the air. This is me clearing the air.”

  “Who else has something to say?” asked Tate.

  “I gotta say, Top,” said Monkhouse, “I don’t know if there’s anything you can say that’ll make me trust you again.”

  Tate pressed his lips together, nodding his head in understanding. He saw Kaiden make a pained face at the stinging accusation.

  “Who else?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” said Wesson, “that Top had his reasons…”

  Tate waved off the rest of Wesson’s words. “No, Sergeant,” he said. “Don’t do that. I appreciate your loyalty, but I’m not worthy of it. I’ve got tonight to find out if I can earn enough of that back before our next step.”

  “Top?” Fulton nearly squeaked. “If things were different, back at that village today, would you have killed those people?”

  “I know that possibility rattled you, Fulton,” said Tate, “but I won’t answer that. I don’t deal in hypotheticals.”

  “Um, okay,” said Fulton, drawing out his answer to solidify his thoughts. “You never talked about it, but the way you know stuff about tactics and shooting, you know, like that, we figure you used to be in the regular army, fighting and stuff. Have you ever killed a defenseless person?”

  “I’ve never killed a prisoner,” said Tate, “but you need to understand the difference between defenseless and harmless.”

  Fulton’s gaze momentarily wandered as he thought over Tate’s words then snapped back to clarity. “Oh, okay,” he said. “I get it.”

  “Ota?” said Tate. “What about you?”

  Ota looked at the people around him and smiled, uncomfortable with all the attention. “I’m here because of my own decisions,” he said. “How can I blame someone else for my actions?”

  “He lied to us,” barked Rosse.

  “That was his decision,” said Ota. “It was my decision to believe him, or not. If I was going to be mad at someone, it would have to be me.”

  “What is wrong with you?” said Rosse.

  Ota only smiled. Unruffled, he turned his attention back to Tate.

  “All right,” said Rosse to Tate. “No
w you know most of us think you’re an asshole. Now you gonna answer my question?”

  “Almost,” said Tate. “But first, each of you have a choice to make. Leave, right now, without any consequence. You’ll be reassigned to another unit, off base, and the book is closed on your involvement here. But if you stay, make no mistake, what you learn here you take to the grave without telling another human being. The only people you can ever talk to will be the ones in this room. Not your shrink, not your priest, not another soul. If the wrong people even suspect you know something, it could mean a gun to the head of everyone here, including yourself.”

  Fulton’s hand crept up. Tate could see it quiver from across the room.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “You’re scaring the hell out of me, Top,” said Fulton. “What if I talk in my sleep. I don’t know if I do. I never slept with anyone… so how, uh...” He stumbled to a stop, flushing red as Rosse chuckled under his breath.

  “Have you ever broken a promise to keep a secret?” said Tate.

  “A promise?” said Fulton thoughtfully. “My dad taught the only thing a man’s got in this life is his word.”

  Tate inwardly grimaced at the unintentional stab. “There’s your answer.”

  “All right, Top,” said Rosse. “You got us all shaking in our boots over this dangerous secret. Ya gonna tell us, or what?”

  “Whoa, not so fast,” said Monkhouse. “I haven’t made up my mind if I want to know. You’re not giving us much to go on. You have to give us some idea what’s worth putting our lives on the line.”

  Sighing heavily, Tate dropped his gaze to the floor, mentally shuffling what he could divulge without saying too much. “All right,” he said. “The country’s at risk. Our mission is to run deep, covert missions to end that risk.”

  He caught Fulton’s expression, reading his thoughts.

  “Yes,” said Tate, “the bad guys will try to kill us, and if we want to save our country we might have to kill them. Fulton, you understand I’m not saying murder?”