by Jack Carr
The staff of the clinic could not have treated Reece any better, or gone any further to put him at ease. The recent publicity of SEALs and their daring missions had given the public a glimpse into what guys like Reece had been doing for decades. People went out of their way to be helpful when they found out what Reece did for a living and, while he appreciated all of it, he found the attention somewhat uncomfortable. He didn’t feel that the American public owed him anything in return for his service. He felt lucky to have had a job that he loved for so many years, working among some of the finest soldiers in the world.
The clinic was an architectural marvel: concrete and glass with wood accents that made it appear warm and natural. Designed and purpose built as a world-class spine and neurosurgery clinic, it clearly catered to those with concierge medical service plans. There was no waiting and no other patients in the building as far as Reece could tell. It was quite simply the best care that money could buy.
After filling out some paperwork and answering a battery of questions asked by one of the nurses, he was taken into a room where they performed a CT scan with a device attached to his head. He was then led to an examination room where, after less than ten minutes of waiting, a balding man in his late sixties entered the room.
“Commander Reece, I am Dr. German, thank you for coming.”
Despite the name, the man’s accent and heritage were clearly Latin American.
Reece stood to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for seeing me, sir, I really appreciate it. Your staff has been wonderful.”
“It is nothing, Commander. Let me tell you what we are going to do today,” he continued, getting down to business. “We are going to take a biopsy of the mass in your brain to see what it is. The procedure we will use is called a stereotactic biopsy. We have the exact location of the intracranial lesion from the CT scan. We actually use coordinates, probably similar to the way you do when navigating. The computer gives us a map and tells us where to enter the skull. We will set up what’s called the stereotactic frame on your head, which will guide the needle to the right spot. We are going to shave a very small portion of your scalp and give you a local; you will be awake for the entire procedure.”
Reece’s eyes widened even though he had been briefed and had researched the procedure ahead of time.
“I know this probably sounds scary, Commander, but it is very routine. You have faced far worse in your career, I am sure. I will make a very small incision, and we will use a drill to enter the skull. Again, I do not want you to be concerned, but I want you to know what we are up to back there when we are working. We will insert the needle into your cranium at that point and take a few samples from different areas of the lesion so that they can be analyzed by the lab. Then I will sew you up, and you can rest here for as long as you’d like. When you feel up to it, you can go home. There is no need to stay overnight so long as everything goes as planned, and I am here to see that everything goes as planned. Do you have any questions for me, Commander?”
“Yes, sir, well, you see a bunch of these, I assume?”
“Yes, Commander, every day.”
“Does this one look bad? From the scan, I mean.”
“I am just the mechanic, Commander Reece. My job is to go in and grab some tissue. I wouldn’t know a good spot from a bad one. Any other questions?”
“Ah, yes, one more. How long would I have to live if this biopsy comes back as cancerous?”
“That is hard to say, Commander. There are too many factors to weigh and consider. If that is the case we will ensure you have the best in the field evaluate the results and discuss options and outlook. I know that is not a very concrete answer and for that I apologize. Let us not concern ourselves with that now. Let’s first find out what we are dealing with. Then we will plan the way ahead. Sound good?”
“Yes, sir. Let’s do it.”
“Again, try not to worry. I promise we’ll put everything back where it belongs. My staff will get you ready, and I will see you shortly.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“You are most welcome. Thank you for your service to this country.”
Reece asked his questions not because he was worried about dying, but because he was worried he might die before he could figure out why his troop and family had been killed and before he could deal with those responsible.
The procedure wasn’t really painful. It was an odd feeling knowing that someone was cutting a hole in your brain; hearing the drill was the most unnerving part. Reece rested at the clinic for a couple of hours under observation of the medical staff before being discharged.
They sent him home with a couple of prescriptions that he filled on his way back to Coronado. It felt strange to be driving after just having his skull drilled open, but there really wasn’t anyone to call for a ride. He took the prescriptions as directed and climbed gently into bed, spending the rest of the afternoon and evening sleeping intermittently and thinking about his next move.
CHAPTER 25
Naval Amphibious Base
Coronado, California
ADMIRAL PILSNER STOOD in the front yard of his taxpayer-funded home on Naval Amphibious Base Coronado overlooking San Diego Bay. The waterfront house on Rendova Circle was huge, even by flag-level standards, and blocked the views and bay access of the lower-ranking captains and one or two commanders lucky enough to have filled an empty housing slot.
On-base housing was often filled with the type of officers who thought living in proximity to their bosses might help them with advancement. This created an environment fraught with envy and jealousy for their wives, some of whom wielded their husbands’ ranks with a toxic disregard for basic decencies, with no official rules and for which few spouses were prepared. No one placed as much emphasis on their husband’s rank as Mrs. Admiral Pilsner. She ran the “wives club” in much the same way her husband ran WARCOM, making her even less popular with the SEAL wives than her husband was among his men.
They had met on Admiral Pilsner’s first deployment to the Philippines. He had never had much luck with women back home. His status as a SEAL officer got him many first dates but his inflated sense of self ensured that things rarely progressed further. When Lieutenant Junior Grade Pilsner met a friendly local Filipino girl who gave him the time of day, he decided she was “the one.” For her part, the future Mrs. Pilsner saw the American officer as her family’s meal ticket, steady income in a poor nation with few opportunities, and she wasn’t about to let this catch get away. Within a few months, Larissa Catacutan became Larissa Pilsner and was eventually granted U.S. citizenship.
Assimilation was not a problem for the new bride; she took charge of her husband’s bank account and became adept at maxing out his credit cards. Though it caused the admiral great financial stress, he felt compelled to provide her with a steady stream of new black Mercedeses, her car of choice. Mrs. Pilsner loved nothing more than to park it in the flag officer reserved parking at the base commissary or PX, flaunting her jewelry and, by extension, her status to the primarily Filipino grocery baggers. The couple had never had children, not because they couldn’t, but because they were both too selfish to give what is required in parenthood.
Today, even the admiral needed a break from her incessant talking, nagging, and gossiping. As she Skyped away with a relative back in the Philippines, Admiral Pilsner took his leave and made his way out to the front yard to make a call on a cell phone he used for only one contact.
His first call went to a full voice mail box, which Admiral Pilsner knew was kept full by design. His second call to the same contact went to his assistant.
“Capstone Capital. Steve Horn’s office. This is Kelsie.”
“It’s Gerald Pilsner for Steve Horn.”
“One moment please. Let me see if he is available.”
Two minutes later Horn picked up the line.
“Gerald, how’s the nose?”
How the hell did he know about that?
“It’s fine, Ste
ve. It was all part of my plan to build support for the story that Commander Reece is unstable and capable of anything,” he lied.
“Well done, Admiral. We appreciate your sacrifice. How did Tedesco take the news in your office?”
“He didn’t look great. I think he’s having trouble with this. We always knew he would be the weak one. He’s great as a fundraiser but gets wobbly in the knees when things get tough.”
“We needed him for the Hartley connection. Keep him cool until this blows over. What’s the latest on your man Reece?”
“This is an unsecure line, Horn.”
“You worried about them monitoring your calls? You’re king of the SEALs, for God sakes!”
“They monitor everyone’s calls, Horn, everyone’s.”
“Okay, let’s just say that a plan is in motion, Admiral. Our problem will be solved in a week. Our friend who is in town from Virginia is setting it up now. Wish I could tell you more—need to know and all that. And don’t worry, the drama with his wife and daughter play right into it. All loose ends tied up so we can finish the new set of trials. The drug is fixed, Gerald. It works and it’s going to make us a lot of money. You might finally be able to afford to keep that wife of yours.”
The line went dead before the admiral could respond.
CHAPTER 26
San Diego, California
KNOWING WHERE HOLDER WORKED was a huge advantage. At some point he would stop by his office, and it would be easy to trail him from there. The hard part was not getting spotted; Reece’s Cruiser wasn’t exactly a “gray man” car. There was a huge subculture of Land Cruiser aficionados built around the iconic vehicles and more often than one would expect he would be stopped in a parking lot by an admiring fan to talk shop, something that had annoyed Lauren no end. Reece needed another vehicle.
Though it was sitting right there in the driveway where she had last parked it, he couldn’t bring himself to use Lauren’s old char-gold Jeep Grand Cherokee. She had loved that old car, and though Reece had often offered to upgrade her to something newer, she had shrugged it off. Her Jeep worked just fine. They would upgrade when more children entered the picture, she had said, and Reece knew better than to surprise her with a minivan. Lauren was not about to be a minivan mom, of that he was sure, regardless of how practical the things might be.
Leaving the car parked in front of their home somehow created the illusion that Lauren was still there with him, and at any moment would appear with a Lululemon bag over her shoulder while leading Lucy toward the Jeep for tumbling class, giggling together like coconspirators in a joke known only to themselves. Her car would stay where it was.
Reece knew that he was a likely target for whoever was behind this conspiracy and that he should be hiding out somewhere, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave. Being in the house kept him connected to Lauren and Lucy, something that was more important to him than the threat of death. Besides, as far as he was concerned, he was already dead.
He spent the weekend getting the house back in order, planning for the next phase of his operation, and working out to keep his head straight. He went through the stack of condolence cards and letters and did his best to respond to all of the texts and emails from friends around the world who’d heard about Lauren and Lucy.
Late Sunday evening Reece took a long run. He wanted to ensure everything in his skull was still where it was supposed to be after the biopsy and he had something he needed to pick up on base. Running had always helped him clear his head and keep him focused. After a quick warm-up he moved off at a brisk clip, weaving his way past the golf course and across the main drag to the public beach, where he headed south. He passed the Shores Condominiums, seventeen stories of the worst architecture the 1970s could produce, and which was now a permanent fixture on the coastal skyline and marked the southern end of Coronado’s private property. Reece paused to flash his military ID at a bored sentry situated in a small makeshift guardhouse on the beach before continuing his run past WARCOM, BUD/S, and the SEAL Teams, sprinting up and over a berm and onto the SEAL obstacle course.
As it was always a good test to ensure he was in top shape, Reece loved hitting the obstacle course. In BUD/S, they would line the class up according to their previous times to keep things running smoothly. Reece was never the fastest in the class but he was always in the top three. In a group of hungry alpha males, that was a world-class time. After BUD/S, Reece and his teammates would run the course in body armor to ensure they could move effectively in the gear they would wear downrange. The workouts were a good test of physical strength, stamina, endurance, and agility while at the same time bonding Reece’s SEALs together as they pushed through it as a Team. This evening it was all his and he attacked it with everything he had: parallel bars, tires, low wall, high rope wall, cargo net, balance logs, rope transfers, the dirty name, the weaver, Burma bridge, slide for life, rope swing, monkey bars, incline wall, spider wall, vaults, and a final sprint to the end. Thankfully, everything in his head seemed to still be in place. Though breathing heavily, he felt good. He felt ready.
Reece jogged back toward the Team and scanned the parking lot until he found it. Donny Mitchell’s Nissan Sentra, its original green faded almost gray, was still in the Team Seven parking lot where he’d left it just before their deployment. He had been one of the single guys on the Team who’d been KIA, so no one had figured out the logistics of getting the car to his next of kin. When guys left their cars in the parking lot long-term, their keys were left in the troop space in case the cars had to be moved in an emergency due to flooding or facility maintenance.
The car cranked over easily, and Reece’s ears were shocked at the immediate blast of hip-hop music blaring from the speakers. He quickly found the button to turn the radio off and reached down to move the seat back; Donny had been quite a bit shorter than Reece. Quarter tank of gas. Reece would have to remember to fill up before he started to surveil Josh Holder in the morning. Putting the car in drive, Reece drove out the front gate and headed for home.
• • •
The DCIS office was just off I-5 in a busy area near a hospital. The office building’s parking lot was adjacent to a Chili’s restaurant, which made staking the place out without being suspicious a piece of cake. Reece didn’t know what kind of car Holder drove, but he knew where he worked and what he looked like, which was a good start. He parked Donny’s Nissan in the shade of a large palm tree in the corner of the lot, rolled the windows down, moved to the passenger seat to attract less attention, and set in for a long day. He figured that the DCIS guys probably used the Chili’s like a cafeteria out of mere convenience, and around lunchtime he wasn’t shocked to see a trio of guys who looked the part walk out of the office building and across the parking lot to grab a bite at the popular chain.
As Reece waited hours for Holder to show, he ran through everything he knew about the events of the past few weeks. Why did these people want him and his troop dead so badly? It had to be related to the tumors. Why else would they want the entire detachment wiped out and then kill the doctor in Bagram who had discovered them? They had to be connected. But what could cause tumors like that? He considered the communications gear they were using; maybe it created some type of harmful radiation? That didn’t make sense, though, because virtually every unit in Naval Special Warfare used the same comms gear. Most Army and Marine Corps units used similar equipment as well. If it had something to do with the radios, the problem would go far beyond Reece’s element.
His train of thought was broken by a black Cadillac Escalade pulling into the office parking lot. A man climbed out of the SUV wearing a dark gray suit with a white shirt and no tie. Even with sunglasses shielding part of his face, Reece recognized Special Agent Josh Holder. Holder scanned the parking lot as he closed the door, his head on a swivel as he walked toward the office building. This guy wasn’t walking around with his head in the clouds or staring at his phone. Holder was a wolf.
Reece looked
down at his Resco UDT dive watch and took note of the time: 11:24 a.m. He couldn’t risk taking a photo of Holder but snapped a few of his car after he entered the building to capture the license plate and details for future planning. Reece was using an old Nikon D90 he and Lauren had purchased in hopes of taking better-quality baby photos when Lucy was born. It did the job but he wished he had some assistance from his friends down at Special Reconnaissance Team One. That Team specialized in this kind of work and had an assortment of tracking devices that would have been extremely useful to the current problem set, but with what Reece had planned, he didn’t want to bring any other active-duty guys into the fold. He was on his own.
He assumed that Holder would be in the office for at least a few hours, so this was his chance to take a quick break and rid himself of some coffee. Surveillance was not Reece’s forte. He had some rudimentary training but it was not something he considered his main skill set, which is why he now found himself desperately needing to use the restroom after just having sighted his prey. He thought of urinating in Donny’s car but that just didn’t seem right, so he swiftly walked across the parking lot to use the Chili’s bathroom.
The restaurant was starting to fill with the prelunch crowd so Reece attracted no attention as he skirted the hostesses and went down the hall to hit the head at the other end of the building. He washed his hands and was walking quickly back to assume his surveillance duties when he passed a young hostess carrying a stack of menus. He stepped aside to let her pass as four men in suits turned the corner behind her. He grabbed a menu from the bin mounted to the wall and quickly looked down to obscure his face. The first man clearly saw him but didn’t take notice. The second and third men trailed along behind the hostess and never looked up, clearly more interested in her tight black jeans than their surroundings. The last man looked him up and down but couldn’t see his face. That man was Josh Holder.
