Just as it had a few nights before when Jacoby called, every part of that day rushed back to me, a wave of sensory response that was all encompassing. Instantly I could feel sweat begin to ooze from my pores, my body thinking it was back in the oppressive heat of that damn jungle.
“And Jacoby was there,” she said.
“Saved my life,” I whispered. “Would have bled out if not for him.”
For a moment neither side said anything, Skye simply staring at me, her eyes blazing in a way that hinted I was about to discover much more to this story than I had ever realized.
“What if I told you you weren’t the only one?” she asked. “What if you knew that during the period Jacoby was in the army there were a ton of similar situations, almost all involving non-hostile injuries.”
All saliva evaporated from my mouth as I sat and stared at her, waiting for her to continue. In my neck I could feel a single muscle bulge, the only reactive sign to the news she had clearly waited to heft on me, hoping it to be a bombshell.
“And that of those injured, you aren’t the first person to have come looking for me?”
It took a moment for the enormity of what she was saying to set in, for my mind to work past the initial surprise, to brush past the natural reaction of blowing off what she was telling me. For so long I had labored under the delusion that what had happened was the result of some rogue rebels, that Jacoby had saved me, that I really did owe him.
That was the sole reason I had left the ranch to begin with. There was red in my ledger that I wanted cleared.
Turning my head to the side so Skye couldn’t see the fire flashing in my eyes, couldn’t see the set of my jaw, I stared down at the bare metal bench beside me. Keeping my mouth clenched tight, I drew in long breaths through my nose, feeling my nostrils bulge with each one.
“Drop weapons,” I whispered, placing my chin up tight against my shoulder, saying the words just loud enough for Rae to hear me. “Son of a bitch was turning us into drop weapons, even way back then.”
A single click came back as the only response, Rae pushing a button to let me know that she heard, understood, and agreed with what I’d said.
“What?” Skye asked beside me, her raised voice pulling my attention back toward her.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I pulled in one more long, deep breath, using it to tamp down the vitriol within before turning to look at her. “How many we talking?”
“That I know of?” Skye asked, not bothering to follow up on her previous question. “Seven. How many were there total? No way of knowing.”
Seven, meaning me and a half dozen others. Men that had signed up to serve, been trained to the highest level, and had almost had their lives taken by a man put in place to see to their well-being.
“Why?” I asked, feigning ignorance, wanting to hear what else she might know on the matter. “What possible reason would he have for doing something like that?”
“Best guess, based on what’s been happening since?” Skye said. “He was collecting favors. He had his sights set on something from an early age and wanted to have plenty of people around he could call on if he needed them.”
The response was exactly, word for word, the definition of how I would have described it.
Common practice while in the field is whenever a soldier comes across a dead enemy combatant, they will nab whatever spare weaponry they have on them. A pistol, a grenade, even a knife if need be, anything that looks imposing and could be used as an instrument of death.
From there they keep the weapons stowed away in case they later inadvertently open fire on a friendly or even a civilian. In the case of accidental death, they can then just throw down one of the spare weapons and claim they shot in self-defense.
A drop weapon, otherwise known as an instant alibi.
In effect, that was exactly what Jacoby was doing to men like me, harboring favors, creating human drop weapons he could later send out on any random errand that would arise.
That way he could keep his hands clean, and always have an instant alibi.
Reaching into my back pocket, I slid the knife and the phone out and laid them on the bench beside me. Skye stiffened slightly at the sight of them, not relaxing until she saw I had done so only so I could lean back on the seat behind me, elbows propped to either side.
“None of us ever really liked him,” I said, my gaze resting on the bare field before us. “Most of the docs that came through had a little bit of that God complex thing, but usually they were alright.
“When you’re sweating your ass off just like everybody else, kind of levels the field, you know?”
There was no response from Skye. I didn’t expect one, didn’t wait for her to do so, her gaze still fixed on the blade beside me.
“But him? That’s about the only thing I did remember. He was a pretty boy, always doing extra push-ups and stuff, walking around with his shirt off.
“After it happened, that was the biggest thing I hated. Not that I got hurt, but that it was him that found me.”
There was so much more I could say, realizing I was speaking as much to Rae over the phone as Skye beside me, but I didn’t. I stopped, shaking away the memories and leaning forward, the bonding moment over between us.
It was time to focus.
“So you have evidence that he was out collecting favors while he was in the shit,” I said, “and he wants it all to go away?”
“Ha!” Skye replied, the response a quick, harsh reaction, as if what I’d just said was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “No. Not even close. The favors thing I was just sharing with you to get past some of the initial distrust.”
The comment brought on a smirk, despite the seriousness of the conversation.
“I don’t think either one of us would be alive right now without a healthy amount of distrust.” I paused there, glancing over to her, before adding, “So what is it you have that he wants?”
She matched the glance before raising her eyebrows, conceding my first point.
“Turns out, his time in the military wasn’t his only brush with Southeast Asia. Since becoming chair of the Armed Forces Committee, he’s continued doing a ton of business in Burma, most of it way, way off the books.”
Again, I had to force myself not to react in any way. A great deal of my time in Delta had been in that region, a decent piece in Burma itself. The number of things I had witnessed in the name of the government was both expansive and repugnant.
If she had evidence of such things going down on the government’s watch, it was no wonder they wanted her found immediately.
I didn’t bother asking about specifics. Likely, it would only set off a conversation that would be much longer than I wanted to get into at the moment.
“And were you on the Cyber Terrorist Watch List before or after coming across this information?”
“Before,” Skye said, “but it was all connected. I made a mistake accessing a satellite feed once, and the NSA spotted me.”
“But you were looking into this?”
“I was,” she replied, “but they didn’t know it at the time.”
“Hmm,” I said, continuing to process the information. What she was saying all made sense, though I could tell there was more to it.
Just like with me, her being here had a personal bent to it, a reason she had crossed paths with Jacoby.
“Why the interest?” I asked. “What were you trying to find by digging around in the region?”
Pulling in a deep breath, Skye rotated to look at me square. She raised both hands and brushed her hair back from her face, letting me see her full visage.
My initial assessment from the surveillance photos was correct, there was an undeniable amount of Asian influence in her features. Something had been hidden in them, though, the oversized glasses keeping her eyes from view, their round shape betraying something I hadn’t noticed before.
“My mother was Burmese,” she said quietly.
�
��Was,” I said, picking up on the words chosen.
“Yes,” she said. “She was killed by U.S. forces working illicitly in the region.”
At that she glanced away a moment as a shadow passed over her face. “The families of my friends that were killed this morning, also.”
To that I could say nothing, no amount of offered apologies being enough to seem like anything more than pandering. Instead, I remained silent.
“So I started snooping around,” Skye said, turning back to face me. “And the more I discovered what was going on, the madder I became.”
“Which is how you got to be a thorn in Meyers Jacoby’s side,” I finished, already sensing where this was going.
A wry smile tugged at her features, a single eyebrow rising slightly before falling back into place.
“Oh no, I was on his radar long before that,” she said. “My mother was Burmese, but my father was American.”
Realization, dawning, warning lights, everything that a mind could possibly experience simultaneously, mine managed to do, all erupting like fireworks.
“Yeah,” Skye said, nodding slightly, the smile growing a bit more pronounced as she saw the response on my features. “Not only did Captain Jacoby have a thing for collecting favors, he also liked the native women, and that’s why he’s been tracking me, using guys like you to bring me in.
“Hard to run a wholesome campaign based on all-American values when you’ve got an illegitimate child of war out there somewhere.”
My mouth hanging open, I simply sat and stared, unable to respond.
“Up until this morning when his men snatched my gear, I don’t think he had any idea I even knew about the stuff going on in Burma.”
Chapter Thirty
Celek had misspoken when he told Otis Dawson that Laredo Wynn was headed back their way. Putting it in such a manner denoted that he was making his way back to Chicago, that they could just sit tight and wait for him to arrive.
Never would Dawson have guessed that after leaving Iowa, Wynn would have already retreated all the way to Kansas before turning around and starting to return.
Based on the file Dawson had been given about Wynn, there was no mention of anything special being in Kansas. It wasn’t a previous address or hometown, no known associates having been there.
Even at that, he had to assume the man was retreating to either regroup or stock up, both being proven correct, or at least probable, once they took a peek at his girlfriend’s location and found her to be in the exact same place.
When the report came in from Texas the previous night, they found her already gone, along with evidence that some weaponry and various other items were missing. Probably having left in a hurry, she hadn’t bothered to clean up in her wake, making it quite simple to determine what had happened.
How she had known they were coming to begin with was another question entirely, one he would look into in a few days, once all this was over.
The guys in Texas weren’t directly under his employee, but they were rock solid. The arrangement was one Dawson shared with a number of similar outfits around the country, each staying within their own particular geographic region.
While there were a number of rules that each had agreed to and fully abided by, none was more important than the notion of discretion. The penalty for opening one’s mouth was final and absolute, a boundary none of them wanted to so much as consider stepping over.
There was no chance of the leak coming from their side.
That left only one possible explanation.
In no way would Dawson burn a bridge with the potential next Vice President of the United States, but he couldn’t be putting up with information breeches either. Not in this particular line of work.
After leaving the flea market, Dawson had led the two unit convoy in a south-southwest direction away from the city, moving diagonally across Illinois and on toward Missouri. The entire time he had his second-in-command Tim Roush riding shotgun, checking the position of their targets.
For the better part of four hours neither said much of anything. The sum total of their conversation centered on Roush updating Dawson, followed by him repeating the information into a handheld walky-talky to the SUV behind them.
Never more than ten yards in the rearview, such constant contact was not entirely necessary, though Dawson preferred it that way to the alternative. Running into construction or accident traffic was something they had experienced more than once, finding out time and again it was better to oversaturate with intel than to assume anything.
The majority of the time Dawson spent chewing on the situation, attempting to figure out the best way to handle things.
Obviously, with it being early afternoon, open hostility would be difficult. There would be plenty of people out anywhere near the interstate, a steady flow of cars refreshed every few minutes that would keep them from doing anything too brazen.
Only if the opposition opened fire were his men to do the same, and even then under the most extreme of circumstances, meant to allow for a clean getaway and nothing more.
Compounding the issue was the overhead cameras that many freeways had installed in the last couple of years. Designed to catch speeding and other minor offenses, they took digital images of every car and license plate passing by.
Should they become involved in anything, it would be easy for law enforcement to scroll back and dig through the tapes, picking out exactly who they were.
As secretive and careful as Dawson had been in designing his company, some things still had to be on the up and up.
Having plates that were registered and up-to-date on all his vehicles was just one of them.
Making things more complicated still was the fact that this was not the typical political flunky they were being sent after. It wouldn’t be like the kids in the van that morning, where they could walk up on them sleeping in the woods, make an example of them and slip away without a second glance.
Laredo Wynn was a decorated veteran, a graduate of the Delta program that got out of his own volition, could have easily stayed in another ten, and was in fact asked to do just that.
Even reading through a redacted version of his file, Dawson was impressed. The fact that Wynn was a vet didn’t do much for him, every man on his team being one as well.
The fact that he too was a Purple Heart recipient, though, was something that Dawson couldn’t help but respect. Wounded in the line of combat, and returning to the field for another tour anyway, took a different mettle entirely.
Because of that, this wouldn’t be quite so simple. Wynn would have heightened situational awareness, and he would be willing to fight if cornered.
Compounding the issue was Rae Sommers, Wynn’s partner and co-traveler. No slouch in her own right, she had spent almost a decade on a cultural competency team, for decades the closest Delta ever got to allowing women in their ranks.
Even though she wasn’t technically wearing the same insignia as the guys around her, it had to be assumed she was more than proficient with a weapon.
“Looks like they’re stopping,” Roush said from the passenger seat, pulling Dawson from his thoughts.
“Where?”
There was a moment’s pause, Roush checking the map on his screen, before saying, “Twelve miles outside of St. Louis, just beyond the major suburbs.”
The word suburbs ping-ponged through Dawson’s brain, adding to the concerns he’d been working through a moment before.
“Residential?”
“Can’t tell,” Roush said, shifting the device on his lap that resembled a small laptop so Dawson could see the screen. “On the map it looks to be a little further out than that, but I can’t be certain.”
The information made sense. Any stops Wynn made would be someplace out in the open, somewhere that he could easily survey his surroundings from. After the events in Iowa, he had to know he was being followed, would never put himself someplace without clear sight lines and easy points of egres
s.
“Anything there?” Dawson asked. He didn’t clarify what he meant by the question, knowing Roush would understand.
There would obviously be some homes and businesses in the area, the location too close to a major city for there not to be. What he was referring to was anything in Wynn’s file, any place that was known as a weapons cache or a government building that could be used for reinforcements.
Without answering the question, Roush moved the tracking images from the screen. He began digging through a series of windows, entering and extracting names and addresses in double time.
Rotating a hand to the top of the steering wheel, Dawson draped his wrist over it, alternating glances between the road and the device.
“All I can find here is a listing for a sports complex,” Roush said, letting the confusion show in his voice as he spoke. A moment later he pulled up a basic webpage, scrolling through it. “Some place called the Moose Buckalew Memorial Park. Jesus, what a name.”
One corner of Dawson’s mouth folded back into a smile before dropping back into place.
He’d known more than a few Moose’s in his day, all of them pretty good guys.
“Says they have an aquatic center, four ball diamonds, two playgrounds, and a full stadium for football, soccer, and lacrosse competitions.”
When he was done reading, he closed out the page and went back to the tracking screen, the image displaying that their query still had not moved.
“Ball fields,” Dawson muttered, thinking out loud. “Playgrounds. Stadium.”
He paused there, the last word resonating with him, his mind wrapping itself around the notion, before things clicked into place.
Once it did, he almost slapped himself for it having taken so long.
“They’re meeting someone.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic Page 46
