“Agent York!” Cook yells. “What the hell is so goddamn important on your goddamn computer? Have you listened to a goddamn word I’ve said?”
“Sir, I—”
A phone rings. York feels warm and ashamed, like a high school student caught cheating on a test. Everyone looks around the room to see which one of them has interrupted the major, until he curses, reaches into his shorts, pulls out his phone.
He glances at the screen.
“Colonel Phillips,” Cook says. “Good. Let’s see what he’s found out about our Rangers and the CIA.”
The major brings his phone up and says, “Cook, here. Sir, could I—oh.”
Then, amazingly and frighteningly, his red face drains of all color, becoming pasty white.
Something is wrong, York thinks.
Cook says, “But, sir—”
No.
Something is very seriously wrong.
Chapter 41
MY LEFT LEG feels like the femur inside is a piece of old wood blazing with white-hot heat, and I do my very best to ignore the pain when I say, “I’m sorry, sir, could you say that again?”
Even though the caller ID said PHILLIPS CID QUANTICO, it’s not our commanding officer speaking to me.
It’s his deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Broderick, and he says, “Colonel Phillips is in the hospital. We’re not sure how long he’s going to be there, or when—or if—he’s getting out.”
“Can I ask what’s wrong, sir?”
“No,” Broderick says. “I’ve been placed in command. Major, how long before you can wrap it up and report back to Quantico?”
I find for a moment that I’ve lost my voice.
The pain is rippling up and down my leg, like an inferno that just goes on and on.
My crew are all staring at me in their shorts and T-shirts, sitting in this warm and pungent motel room in rural Georgia.
“Colonel, I’m sorry…come back to Quantico?” I ask.
“That’s right,” he says. “I’m shutting you down. All of you. Pack your bags, pay your bills, and get back to Quantico. When you get here, you’re going to write up a summary on how you dicked everything up down there, and then it’s over.”
“Sir, we’re right in the middle of—”
“Major, you’re in the middle of one of the biggest domestic Army screwups since we spied on demonstrators back in the sixties. Since your alleged investigation has started, you’ve pissed off the locals, gone places where you shouldn’t have gone, insulted elected officials, and—oh, yeah—you went down there with four Army Rangers in custody. Now one’s dead because your idiot doctor pushed him to kill himself.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing, and I say, “Colonel, that is way out of line, sir, and—”
Broderick says, “You don’t get it, do you? Not only is this investigation over, you and your unit are over. Paperwork is being drawn up right now to disband it. Your lawyer is going back to JAG to defend enlisted men stealing MREs, the doc is going to be investigated for malpractice, and your two other CID investigators are also going to face disciplinary hearings. As for you, Major, I think a quiet request to retire will be looked upon favorably.”
I clench my hands, a fist on my cane, a fist holding my phone. “Our job isn’t completed, sir. There’s a lot to be done.”
“And it’s going to be done as it should have been, by the book, by the locals,” Broderick says. “Those Rangers committed their crimes off post. Face it, Jeremiah, your unit was an experiment. And most experiments fail. I expect to hear about your travel plans by noon today.”
He disconnects the call.
I slowly lower my hand.
Expectant faces look up at me, their boss, their major, their leader, waiting for me to say something, waiting for me to make it all right.
What I’ve heard from Colonel Broderick is ricocheting around in my mind, but I need to get us out of this room.
“Outside,” I sharply say. “Now.”
I open the door and limp out into the darkness.
The air is thick, hot, and warm. It’s like I can’t remember ever being cool.
I stop at the front end of our battered Ford, and my crew gather around. Their faces and attitudes are barely visible in the parking lot lights. Fortunately for us, it seems like the ravens from the news media are finally sleeping.
“Face in,” I say. “Huddle up.”
I see Connie has her laptop firmly under her arm, and I feel a shot of anger but let it slide for now.
“That was Lieutenant Colonel Broderick,” I say. “Colonel Phillips is in the hospital. Broderick has taken over. He called to say he’s shutting us down. Period. End of discussion…and probably the end of our respective careers.”
Almost as one, my four team members seem to take a small step back, as if in shock.
I say, “I’ve been told to submit my retirement papers, and all of you are facing disciplinary hearings and probable punishment or reduction in rank. None of your futures look bright, I’m sorry to say.”
Sanchez says, “This is bullshit. Major.”
Pierce says, “High-quality bullshit, sir.”
“Whatever it is, Broderick wants our travel arrangements made by noon today. There won’t be a debriefing or hearing on what we’ve found. I’m to write a report in Quantico, which will be buried, and the rest of you are to go home. Now, we have some things to discuss.”
York puts her laptop on the hood of one of the Fords. “Sir, if I may—”
I lose it. “For God’s sake, York, put that damn thing away!”
Even in the dim light, I can see anger flare across her face. “No, sir, I won’t do that. Not on your life. Look at this, and look at it now, Major.”
“Agent York, you’re about to—”
“Damn it, Jeremiah, listen to me!”
My anger is sliding right up there, but a rational part of me knows something is driving my ex–Virginia state trooper, and I keep my mouth shut.
She taps a key on the laptop, and a familiar video pops up, the surveillance video stream from the convenience store.
“The store surveillance video,” she says. “It’s a fake.”
Chapter 42
SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK is feeling a lot of emotions right at this moment, but the one that secretly pleases her the most is knowing that all these strong and capable men—including Cook and especially Sanchez, who likes to whip out his LAPD background at every opportunity—are giving her 100 percent of their attention.
Pierce stares at the screen. “Fake? It looks pretty real to me, Connie.”
“The Rangers are real, the store owner is real, but this”—and she taps the lower right corner of the screen—“this time stamp, it’s fake. You see what it says? It says 7:40 p.m. Presumably about ten minutes before the killings started, twenty minutes before they were seen leaving The Summer House.”
They are all staring at the white numerals, and Sanchez says, “Sorry, I don’t see it.”
“That’s right,” York says, an edge of triumph in her voice. “Because you’re missing it.”
She moves her finger, taps the area that shows the television set hidden underneath the counter. She plays the video back and forth, back and forth, and on the screen within the screen, there are faint images of a man and two women arguing, and then one woman pushing the man into an in-ground swimming pool.
“That,” York says. “See that?”
Nobody says anything, and from the look in their eyes, they don’t have to.
“Anybody recognize the program?” she asks.
Again, silence.
York takes a deep breath. “It’s one of those reality television shows. This one is on Bravo. It follows a group of rich and spoiled housewives. This particular episode ends with a fight between two women, with one woman pushing the other’s husband into the pool. I went back online, checked the local television listings, and found out when it was aired in this area. Guys…the time stamp’s been playe
d with. The episode showing that fight scene was at 6:40 p.m. last Wednesday night, not at 7:40. The Rangers…maybe they were leaving to go visit that house, maybe even break the arms of the drug dealer. But the timing is off. And somebody did it on purpose.”
She waits.
She runs the video once again, and the four men lean in. She warms inside when Cook says, “My apologies. You did one hell of a good job.”
And he quickly changes the subject.
“Sanchez?”
“Sir,” he says.
“You got into that dog owner’s house with your usual bag of tricks, correct?”
“Yes, sir, I did. No excuse.”
“None needed,” Cook says. “Get back into that bag of tricks. I know what you carry, based on our last trip to Germany. Go on back to all of our rooms, especially room 11. Tell me if you locate any ears or eyes.”
“On it, sir,” he says, and he goes over to the other rental car, opens the trunk, moves things around for a minute or two, and then quickly walks back to the row of doors, holding in his right hand a small black box that has two stubby antennas.
Even in the heat, York feels frozen. Just a minute ago it seemed like everything was done, finished, she and the crew heading back to Quantico in humiliation and disgrace, her Army career crippled. Being called home, following orders, nothing else to do.
Now?
This pure mystery—of whether or not the four Army Rangers murdered a houseful of civilians last week—has now grown darker, more complex.
And more dangerous—no doubt about it.
Sanchez comes back, takes one more look at his device.
“Confirmed, Major,” he says. “We’ve got GSM listening devices in each room, and two in room 11, our workroom. No doubt about it. We’ve been spied on since we got here.”
Chapter 43
WHILE SANCHEZ WAS doing his work, I was already deciding what was going to happen next.
Again, my squad is looking at me, seeking answers, seeking direction.
I’m not going to disappoint them.
“Decision time,” I say. “Lieutenant Colonel Broderick has ordered us to shut down. He also told me he wanted to know about our travel plans by noon today. That’s in about six hours.”
I pause for a moment and continue. “You’re going to continue talking and discussing in all of the rooms like normal. You’re not going to set any traps or talk for twenty minutes about the weather. Nothing that will raise suspicions. But make sure you don’t reveal exact times or places where you might be going. And that includes the interior of the rentals. Those might be bugged as well. They just may have GPS surveillance trackers stuck to the undercarriages. Sanchez, check them out.”
Sanchez nods.
Huang says, “But…what’s the point? If we’re supposed to leave in six hours?”
I shake my head. “No, you didn’t hear me right, Lieutenant. I’m supposed to tell Colonel Broderick of our travel plans by noon. Not anything else.”
Again, a moment of silence. I say, “This is where it’s going to get interesting, gentlemen. And lady. You know what’s ahead for all of you. You can retire to your rooms and take the rest of the day off. That might be the right choice. Or you can keep on working this…this case, whatever the hell it is.”
Sanchez from the LAPD is the first. “I’m in, boss.”
“Me too,” comes Huang, the psychiatrist, followed by Pierce, the attorney, who says, “You can’t keep me away from this one.”
Connie nods. “We’ve just broken something here, with the listening devices and doctored surveillance tape, the CIA involvement. This lady’s not for turning.”
I’m surprised at how quickly overwhelmed I am, at seeing this diverse group of Army folks come together so easily, right after I chewed out their collective asses. I’m not sure if they know exactly the career black holes they’ve committed themselves to entering, but I’m so damn proud of them that I can’t talk for a moment.
I cough. “All right. A few more items on the to-do list. Connie, you go back to that convenience store, and you grill that owner, you grill him hard, about what happened to that tape. Who was behind it, and why. Sanchez, I know that house belongs to a hoarder, but like I said before, I want you to go in and find something to lead you to where she is. All right? Find something. Then I want you and York to get back to that funeral home. See if the family of Stuart Pike has called to make arrangements. I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but I want you to grab that body for a future autopsy by someone who doesn’t run a funeral home. I want to know more about when his wrists were broken, and how. It seems like the Rangers did it on purpose. Let’s make sure.”
About ten minutes ago this group was low-key, dispirited, unsure of what to do next. I’m happy to see fire in their respective eyes.
“That’s not all,” I say. “Lieutenant Huang, you’re going back to the jail. I want another conversation with the three surviving Rangers.”
Quietly my doctor says, “I don’t know if they’re going to want to talk to me.”
“Then find out,” I say. “Do your job. For all you know, one of those Rangers might be shook up by Tyler’s suicide. And I want Captain Pierce to go along as well. Again, see if you can find out why they’re insisting on no representation. What in hell is driving them?”
“Sir,” Pierce says.
“Finally,” I say, “Sanchez and York, I want you to go back to The Summer House. Supposedly there are listening devices in there, ones that recorded the dynamic entry, the shooting, and those last words, about not screwing around with a Ranger’s family. All of that was fed to us. I want some evidence that the house was really bugged. Got it?”
More nods around the half circle of my brave folks.
“Sir?” Huang asks.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to call Colonel Broderick at noon, then?”
I smile. “I’m afraid not.”
My crew looks puzzled.
I go on. “By noon I plan to be on my way to Afghanistan.”
Chapter 44
SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK is shocked by what she’s just heard and says, “Major…Afghanistan?”
“That’s right,” he says. “The Rangers being over there, their deployment being cut short, them being accused of committing the same crime in Afghanistan as they supposedly committed here in Georgia last week…that’s where it all began. It needs to be looked into. And that’s why I’m going.”
“But…” York stops what she’s about to say, knowing it’s going to sound foolish out here in this dark parking lot, with the other investigators around her.
“Go on,” Cook says. “What were you going to say?”
“Sir…you’ve always said you would never, ever go back to Afghanistan.”
The major just nods. “I have said that, haven’t I? Good memory. Things change, don’t they? All right, any other questions? Concerns? Connie, you’re going to drive me off to Hunter Army Airfield in fifteen minutes. I’m going to try to grab a flight from there.”
She says, “Yes, sir. Good luck.”
“It’s up to the Army and my convincing skills. Not sure if luck is going to be a factor. But Agent York…and everyone else, pay attention.”
His confident words just flow right out and nearly shake her to the core.
“While I’m in transit, I’m going to be in and out of contact for a couple of days,” he says. “In my absence, Agent York is in command. Questions?”
And damn him, there is a question, from Sanchez!
He steps forward, tattooed biceps prominent and bold, and he says, “Sir, if I may, no disrespect to Agent York, but I have more street experience and—”
“Shut it,” Cook says. “Anything else?”
Silence, so quiet York can hear the flying bugs bounce against the closest streetlight.
“Get to work,” he says, and he limps back to his room.
Sanchez catches her eye, and she wonders if he’s going
to apologize, but he turns and goes back to his room.
Just over an hour later, York pulls the rental Ford into the parking lot of the Fourth Ranger Battalion headquarters building. Dawn broke just a few minutes ago, but the base is already busy with vehicle and pedestrian traffic.
Here the parking lot is nearly empty. The battalion is now overseas, Iraq or Afghanistan, checking their gear, loading weapons, ready to move out and act on their training to be the tip of the proverbial spear.
York says, “Are you sure, Major?”
“No choice,” he says, dressed casually, in khaki slacks and a short leather jacket, his metal cane at his side. “It started in Afghanistan. We need to find out what and how it started.”
“No, I meant—”
“You mean, why did I put you in command?” he asks. “Don’t insult me, and don’t insult yourself. Anything else?”
“Sat phone?”
“In my bag,” he says. “I’ll be out of touch here and there for the next day or two. It’s going to be yours. You heard what I said back at the motel. Follow through hard…but be flexible. Whatever new leads you develop, they’re yours. But work quickly…you probably have twenty-four hours before Quantico comes down and crushes you.”
“Nice thoughts,” York says.
“You seem pretty calm, considering your career will probably be over by the end of this week.”
York knows those words should freeze her with fear, but instead she feels almost exhilarated, knowing she is on a knife edge. She thinks maybe this is what the Rangers over in that building felt like, going into combat. Everything exposed, everything on the line.
“The only thing I’m concerned about is that we’re all out here, alone,” she says. “No support from the locals and definitely no support from Quantico. It feels like we’re the Light Brigade, charging out all alone with cannon fire roaring at us.”
Cook passes his room key over and says, “Go through the trash in my room.”
“What?”
He says, “There’s a piece of paper, a note. From a local newspaper reporter. Peggy something or other. She wants an interview. Talk to her. She’ll be your local intelligence agency. Find out if she has anything to offer. When I get a chance to call, I will.”
The Summer House Page 16
