Chapter 32
SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ pulls his Ford sedan into the front yard of Wendy Gabriel’s home and sees the Volkswagen is still there. Good. He gets out of the car and starts up to the old, sagging house, which looks exactly the same as it did yesterday.
But he slows as he approaches the porch.
It looks the same, but it sure doesn’t sound the same.
No noise is coming from inside the structure.
No dog barking.
No dog?
Sanchez steps onto the porch, knocks on the door.
“Ma’am?” he calls out. “Are you home?”
Quiet.
Two more heavy knocks, and he stops, listening.
Nothing.
What now?
In another time and place he would contact the locals for assistance, explain what’s going on and how he needs to reinterview a vital witness.
But here and now?
Sanchez has a flicker of suspicion that just won’t go away. From his nearly being run down last night to Agent York and Major Cook being trailed to the sharp looks he and the others get from the civilians, he knows the locals are not his allies. They are up to something.
He looks at the door and its lock. Typical pin tumbler. He goes back to the trunk of the Ford, rummages through his go bag, filled with all sorts of technical goodies, chooses a small zippered black case, and carries it to the front porch.
Sanchez looks again at the lock, then removes from the case two tools: a small tension wrench and an even smaller tool called a short hook. He gets to work, and in less than fifteen seconds, he unlocks the door.
He pushes it open. Puts the lock-picking tools in his coat pocket. Takes out his SIG Sauer.
“Mrs. Gabriel? Are you here?”
No reply.
He steps in and says, “Toby! Toby Baby!”
No sound of paws thumping on the rug or nails rattling on the linoleum floor. Sanchez steps farther in, takes a breath.
With the door and windows closed to the outside heat, the stench inside nearly knocks him back.
The smell…rotten fruit, greasy food, piles of bagged trash decaying in the far corner.
He moves slowly through the crowded living room, clearing the place as best he can without any backup, and as he walks, he’s able to separate some of the stench.
He doesn’t smell something he’s expecting: the smell of a bloated, decaying, and putrefying body.
A narrow staircase is packed on both sides with piles of books and magazines. He takes his time, but upstairs he does what he can. There’s a bathroom that is so filthy and jammed with towels and soap bottles that he doesn’t even bother to enter.
The bedroom has a narrow path to the bed and a bureau that has just a few papers on top—what a surprise—and that’s it.
When he gets out of the house, back onto the porch, he takes a deep, cleansing breath.
The house was locked, the car is still here, and there’s no sign of violence or a struggle.
But Wendy Gabriel is gone.
Sanchez holsters his pistol, walks back to the car.
Check that.
The witness is gone.
Chapter 33
SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK is with Major Jeremiah Cook in the small and nearly empty office of Captain Rory O’Connell, the officer in charge of the Fourth Battalion’s paperwork, family issues, and supply matters during any overseas deployments.
O’Connell’s in his early thirties, trim, with black hair streaked with gray, narrow black eyebrows, and tired yet alert brown eyes. He has on an Army combat uniform, and the cinder-block walls of his office enclose a desk with a phone, a computer terminal, and piles of papers and file folders stacked on either end.
O’Connell’s voice is quiet and whispery, and only when he starts talking does Connie note the scar tissue around the base of his throat. “Let’s make this as quick as we can, all right? In a half hour I’ve got a Ranger wife coming in, scared to death her husband’s truck is going to be repossessed, and thirty minutes later, I need to check in on a sick ten-year-old girl who’s afraid Daddy’s never coming home. And then I need to find out where in hell the battalion XO has gotten himself. He’s due to leave here in twelve hours, and I have a shitload of paperwork for Major Moore to sign before he heads out. What a goddamn mess. I was hoping the deployment would stay on schedule, but it was moved up, which meant I got picked to initially take care of things while they’re gone.”
Cook looks at her and gives her the slightest of nods.
She has the lead.
“Captain, with the battalion deployed, any soldiers we could possibly interview about the four arrested Rangers are now overseas. We’re hoping you can help us fill in the blanks.”
O’Connell shifts in his seat as a bout of pain slides across his face. Connie sees him now as someone who has wounds like Cook, struggling to get through every day.
O’Connell says, “I’ll try, but I was in Bravo Company. They’re in Alpha.”
Connie says, “We know they’re called the Ninja Squad. True?”
O’Connell sighs. “Yeah. Over in the ’stan they were known for being able to target and hit Taliban sites—sometimes little farmhouses—without being detected. Hard and fast at night, got the job done, never injured on their part. I was even in their operating area for a few months during my last deployment, where I saw their work firsthand. Very impressive. Thing is, they believed their own headlines. Which can lead to trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” York asks.
“They think they’re invincible. That’s fine, but other Rangers, they get infected. If the Ninja Squad can slide through without getting hurt, well, why not us?”
York’s not sure how to reply to that, but the major moves his cane for a moment and says, “The Humvee I was in got nailed by a roadside bomb. You?”
The slightest of nods, one warrior acknowledging another. York feels both admiration and jealousy.
“Mortar rounds at our FOB,” he says. “I was caught outside with our local interpreter. Killed him, injured me. Which is why I’m out of here in a few months. My body…just can’t take it anymore. But those Ninjas. Ninjas over there, Ninjas back here.”
Cook says, “I think I know what you mean.”
No, she’s not going to let that one slide, the two men ignoring her. York says, “Sorry, I don’t know what either of you means. Please explain, Captain. What do you mean, ‘Ninjas back here’?”
“Well, it’s the way Rangers think when they’re deployed,” he says. “There’s an intensity and pure raw thrill of being under fire, returning fire, trying to kill someone who’s trying to kill you. It’s a kind of…a high. And having experienced that high, of having everything on the line, of being exposed and seeing death around you, coming back to the post and dealing with what’s called chickenshit—polishing your dress boots, having all the forms filled out and checked off, keeping your uniforms properly ironed—it can push combat soldiers over the edge.”
Connie says, “Ninjas here, then?”
He nods. “They look for action, they crave action. Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s squad, they looked to raise hell here. Either on post or off. Sometimes it made for long nights and weekends for the MPs and local law enforcement within about a thirty-mile radius. But because the locals love the military, no charges were officially filed against them.”
Cook says, “What did these Ninjas do stateside?”
O’Connell shakes his head. “Assaults, drunk driving, breaking and entering private quarters while drunk, vandalism, petty theft. Stunts and pranks against other companies in the battalion. It got to the point where other Rangers here in the Fourth Battalion got a real hard-on against them, thinking those four could break the rules and mostly get away with it.”
York says, “That includes their battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Marcello, am I right?”
“Quite right,” O’Connell says. A helicopter roars overhead
, causing some of the desk files to vibrate. “A number of years back a previous battalion commander here had his career ruined because another Ranger squad raised hell like Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s Ninjas. Marcello vowed it would never happen to him.”
York thinks, Hold on. This is something.
The odd evidence, the weird occurrences, the outstanding questions…what Marcello told her and Cook earlier, and now what this officer has just confirmed.
Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his squad were heartily disliked by their fellow Rangers. Sliding through. Never really punished. Never really disciplined.
Until now.
A frame job? Could this be a frame job?
Cook says, “Sorry to interrupt, Captain O’Connell, but something’s caught my attention.”
Yes, York thinks. The major sees what I see.
But Cook has another question.
“Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s squad, they were last deployed to Afghanistan two months ago. From what I’m able to puzzle out from their soldier record briefs, they were supposed to be in their area of operations for six months, not two.”
The helicopter sound fades away. O’Connell is staring hard at her boss.
“But I can’t see anything else about their deployment,” he goes on. “Their area of operations. Any missions they went on. Any after-action reports. Why is that?”
O’Connell shrugs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
York waits. There’s some sort of new tension between O’Connell and her boss.
Cook says, “Captain O’Connell, I think you do know.”
O’Connell’s eyes flash. “You think shit.”
“Some days, yes,” Cook says, his voice calm but hard. “This is a small base. The Rangers are a tight unit. If something odd happened to them while deployed, you’d know. Not all of the details. But you’d know.”
York waits, wondering what O’Connell will do. His face is firm, his eyes set, and she can feel the anger coming off him, like vapor rising from a hot sidewalk after a rainstorm.
“I’ve got nothing to say,” O’Connell says.
“That’s not going to be an option for you, Captain,” Cook says. “We’re CID. You’re going to answer my questions completely and truthfully or we’ll leave and come back. And come back again. And maybe you’ll miss your deadline of being discharged in a few months because hearings have to be held.”
O’Connell looks like he’s about to come across the desk and grab Cook’s cane and beat him with it, but he waits some more. York thinks the Ranger is struggling.
He says, “A couple of the guys in my company got screwed up because they thought they were Ninjas, too. One’s blind. The other’s in a wheelchair for life. That wasn’t good.”
Cook says, “That’s understandable.”
“You can see I don’t particularly like them,” O’Connell says. “But I’m not about to snitch on them.”
“Whatever you say to us will be confidential, Captain O’Connell,” her boss says. “Nothing in print, nothing official.”
O’Connell looks at her, as if for reassurance. York remains silent, not wanting to shatter this mood.
Sorry, Captain, she thinks. No sympathy from me.
The Ranger captain says, “I believe the reason you don’t see any paperwork from their last deployment is that they weren’t under the command of Fourth Battalion. They were temporarily detached elsewhere.”
York says, “The Afghan National Army?”
With disgust, O’Connell says, “As if. No, our friends up in Langley. Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his squad are so good, the Company borrowed them.”
The air seems heavy and threatening. Now, York thinks, now everything has changed in this investigation. What have she and the major stumbled across? The CIA?
Cook says, “All right. The Company. But why were they sent home so early?”
O’Connell rotates slightly in his chair, back and forth, like he’s hoping the longer he waits to reply, the quicker Connie and her boss will leave.
Connie thinks, To coin a phrase, Captain, “As if.”
“There was an incident,” O’Connell finally says. “Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his squad were sent straight home.”
“What was the incident?”
One more pause from O’Connell.
“Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his squad hit a house,” he says. “It was the wrong house. No Al-Qaeda, no Taliban, no ISIS, no insurgents. A house full of civilians.”
Another helicopter comes overhead, and then the noise eases off.
O’Connell says, “And the Rangers slaughtered them all.”
Chapter 34
THE NEWS FROM Captain O’Connell hits me so hard that for a few blessed moments I can’t even feel the pain in my left leg.
“How do you know this?” I ask.
“Like you said,” he says, “I hear things. I hear rumors. But this rumor…so nasty I had to double-check, to verify. I made a call, to an Army intelligence officer I met when I was deployed to Afghanistan. Captain Amy Cornwall.”
“How did she know? Was she there?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” O’Connell says. “But she’s with Langley now, and she did a favor and confirmed it. The squad was in a village called Pendahar, in Khost province. Amy told me that after that house was wiped out, the CIA wanted to cover their big butt and so they sent the Rangers home. Things are so fragile over there, the story about a squad of Rangers committing a war crime would screw up the peace negotiations big-time…Yeah, that’s something the CIA would want to bury deep.”
A glance over at Connie. She looks as shocked as I feel.
York says, “Is there anything else you know about the killings over there?”
“No,” he says.
“Does Colonel Marcello know?” I ask.
“I can’t see how he doesn’t.”
I ask, “Were they facing disciplinary action? Was the incident investigated?”
O’Connell says, “To answer both of your questions, I don’t know. Look, whatever happened took place half a world away. I wasn’t there. Officially, the Army says the squad wasn’t under their control. They belonged to the CIA. And if you think the Company is going to come forward and reveal all without a busload of subpoenas, you’re crazy. Nothing is going to happen from Langley’s end.”
“And their fellow Rangers in Alpha Company and Fourth Battalion?” I ask. “Do you think they know what the men did in that village?”
O’Connell’s hand gently taps on his clean desk. “It’s certainly possible.”
Something comes to me. “Wait. A few minutes ago you said the rest of the battalion was going to be deployed when you had gone through your discharge. But their deployment date got moved ahead. Right?”
“Correct,” he says.
“But why? Why was the battalion ordered to deploy earlier than scheduled?”
“I don’t know.”
The pains in my leg decide to come back for their usual visit. “But don’t you think it’s an incredible coincidence…that these same Rangers are accused of killing a houseful of civilians in an Afghan village, and then of doing the same thing some weeks later in a Georgia town? And just when we arrive to conduct an investigation, any witnesses we could talk to are out of reach because the battalion’s deployment schedule is suddenly changed?”
“Yes,” O’Connell says. “One hell of a coincidence.”
“I don’t like coincidences,” I say.
“Me neither,” the captain says.
As we’re leaving Hunter, a white MP police cruiser with flashing blue lights comes up behind us, and I say, “Connie, do pull over. I don’t think this poor rental can take any more.”
She does just that, and the cruiser stops. The woman who steps out of the driver’s side is someone I recognize.
It’s Colonel Brenda Tringali, head of this base’s Third MP Group. She comes to my side of the car, I roll the window down, and she leans in, putting both
hands on the open window frame. One hand has a small bandage on it.
She says, “How’s your day going, Major?”
“Fine, ma’am,” I say. “Our investigation is continuing.”
Her skin is a light brown, and she has ink-black hair and sharp dark-brown eyes. “Good to know. I’d appreciate a briefing at some point as to how your work is progressing.”
“If I have something to share, ma’am, I’ll certainly consider that,” I say.
She has a slight smile, but there’s no warmth or humor in it. “That wasn’t really a request, Major Cook.”
I say, “Since you’re not in my chain of command, ma’am, that’s how I’m taking it.”
Her eyes lock onto mine and then she slaps the open window frame and steps away. “Speed limit on post is thirty miles an hour,” she says. “Is that clear?”
“Very,” I say, and she heads back to her cruiser. I tell Connie, “All right, let’s go.”
She eases our way out into traffic, and I say, “Speed it up, Agent York. I don’t want to be late to the county coroner’s.”
“With pleasure, Major,” she replies as we quickly get up to forty miles an hour.
Chapter 35
I’M ON THE PHONE with Colonel Phillips, our superior officer, as Connie speeds us west on Interstate 16, back to Sullivan County and Briggs Brothers Funeral Home. The engine of our Ford grinds here and there, and the battered front hood vibrates hard against its latch, threatening to break free.
“Colonel, I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t make that out.”
There’s a hiss of static, and his voice seems distant and quiet. He says, “…do what I can, but that’s one hell of a bit of news. Ranger squad accused of killing civilians overseas and then here…Damn, it’d be like if those My Lai soldiers came back from Vietnam in 1968 and shot up a 7-Eleven…”
He coughs and coughs.
“Colonel,” I say. “We’re going to need information about what happened in that Afghan village. What connection there might be between here and Hunter. There’s got to be something.”
More coughing. “…see what I can do.” The colonel disconnects the call.
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