by James Phelan
“Well, now someone’s after you all, because your team saw something in that house that’s worth killing for.”
“We saw something that we don’t even know we saw?”
“You might remember.”
“If someone saw something important, they’d have said. Hell, it’d be in someone’s autobiography by now.”
“They’ll keep coming for you. Safe as you think you are out here. That’s gone now, and whoever is doing this has the reach to hit eight guys in a twenty-four-hour window.”
“When was this?”
“We should go.”
Murphy said, his voice hard, “When did my eight teammates get hit?”
“A week ago.”
“Nothing since?”
“The Navy hit the panic button as they started putting the names together. NCIS scooped up the rest of the guys from all over the world and are holding them at secure sites.”
“Secure sites?”
“Yeah. I don’t know where. It’s being handled out of the San Diego NCIS. They’re all under guard. Their locations safe, compartmentalized. It’s like witness protection.”
“Do you know the names?”
“Names?”
“Of those eight guys from my team.”
“No.”
“Damn.” Murphy looked around in the darkness. “Really? This is real?”
Walker nodded.
Murphy said, “What do I do?”
“You join the line of protection.”
Murphy nodded. “My family?”
“Navy will protect them too.”
Murphy paused, then nodded again.
“But before we get to that,” Walker said. “We’ve got two things to do.”
“What’s that?”
“We have to save someone out here, and then we have to save a whole bunch of people in St. Louis.”
70
Murphy listened to a minute’s run-down of how Walker had found him, then said, “They have a hostage out here?”
“Yep.” Walker said. “The third guy out here, Menzil? He’ll be headed back, to the fourth guy, and their hostage.”
“He’ll get lost,” Murphy said, then stopped Walker from starting to backtrack. He said, “Who’s the hostage?”
“Your cousin,” Walker said to him. “Squeaker—Susan. She’s out there.”
“She’s a hostage?”
Walker nodded.
“Shit. I thought she must have stayed back.”
“What?” It was Walker’s turn to be confused.
“Dylan radioed me. Told me you two were coming.”
Walker paused, thinking of the woman and what had become of her if those guys were to be believed. “She radioed you?”
“What, you think this is the dark ages? I’ve got an antenna, up one of these trees,” Murphy said, pointing up, “set just lower than a lightning rod I got in another.”
“You knew we were coming.”
“Since last night.”
“And you went on a hunt? Leaving your family?”
“My eldest daughter could shoot you from a half-mile away,” Murphy said. He looked at the corn. “Besides, Dylan vouched for you. So, where’s Squeaker?”
“Back out there, on the track we came in on. And there’s a clock.”
“How long?”
Walker checked his watch—iridescent in the night.
“An hour thirty remaining,” he said. “After that the guy has instructions to kill her and head here, following our track.”
“Shit.” Murphy looked again toward the corn. “She’s a good kid.”
“The best,” Walker said. “Look, the third guy here, Menzil, he’s got night-vision. He’d have seen what you did to his two best guys and he’ll be running.”
“He won’t be far. A few hundred yards. Probably headed the wrong way. I can catch him.”
“Right. Well, you’ve got to choose: you can either track him down now or save your cousin.”
“Shit. Yeah. I know.”
“Hell, we can probably get to her and then double back here and track him before he gets any place out of this forest, right?”
“That’s possible.”
“He’s not like the other four, he’s civilian.”
“I noticed that.”
Walker pointed to the house. “Your family—they’re out of here now? They’re safe?”
“Yes. Soon as I figured you were heading my way, I doubled back and got them out.”
“Good. Let’s get Squeaker.” Walker set off. “And along the way we figure out what you know. Somewhere in that squid brain of yours is something that you’ve seen that’s worth killing for, and it’s going to save lives, and we’re going to rattle it out.”
“You think?” Murphy said, moving ahead of him on the track, the SEAL silent as he ran.
“It’s got to be that. Think about it. This isn’t just a reprisal for taking out bin Laden.”
“I don’t know anything. Hell, this could be about anything.”
“It’s in there, somewhere—at the back of your brain; you just don’t know it yet.”
They headed the way that Walker had just come, and he picked up Duncan’s HK416 as they passed the corpse.
“What about the other SEALs—in protection?” Murphy asked.
“What about them?”
“Ask them. Maybe one of the other guys knows exactly what this is about. You said yourself they’re in protection, have been for up to a week. Ask them.”
“We’re working on that.”
“Working on it?”
“Navy is putting your team’s safety front and center. We’re getting stonewalled in regards to questioning them.”
“Who? Who’s getting stonewalled?”
“My guys.”
“Who are they?”
“Good people.”
Murphy let the comment pass as he moved. After a few minutes he said, “I heard what you did, with the guy out on the pass—I heard the scream. How’d you do it?”
“It was a tight section of the mountain pass,” Walker said. “I gave him a little bump.”
Again, Murphy let it go. Walker ran next to the guy who was a few years younger and a hell of a lot fitter, wondering with every step about Squeaker, and Murphy’s family, and St. Louis, and what could possibly be coming.
71
As they approached the original campsite, Walker checked his watch and his heart skipped a beat; it was two minutes past the deadline. If this fourth guy, Steve, was punctual, then Squeaker would be dead by now. And after all that she had been through and done to help save her cousin and his family . . . to miss by two minutes . . .
Murphy stopped. The smell of the campfire was thick in the air. The two men edged forward, off the path, around the western side. In the glow of the fire a figure sat.
Squeaker. She was still. Unmoving.
We’re too late.
An image flashed through Walker’s mind: Squeaker sitting there, hunched forward, a bullet hole neatly drilled through her forehead.
Then he saw movement. The fourth guy, Steve, coming back from around the big tree, zipping up his pants. He’d been taking a leak, in the same place as Walker had earlier, as though there was some primordial part of the brain that knew where best to do such things, even in the middle of a forest.
Walker caught Murphy’s arm and motioned him to shoot Steve in the kneecaps, then signaled with his hand like a sock puppet talking, and Murphy got it: they needed this guy alive, so he could talk.
Murphy gestured for Walker to curve around the clearing and held up one finger; they would strike a minute from now.
Walker headed off, continually glancing from Steve to his footing so that he would move quietly. He got to the three o’clock position, all the while counting down from sixty, then turned and signaled Murphy.
Murphy waved him forward.
Walker didn’t hesitate. He emerged from the thick scrub at the edge of the clearing just a
s Steve checked his watch and picked up his rifle.
Steve looked up and saw Walker—too late.
A twin PAT! PAT! sounded to Walker’s left.
Murphy fired as he emerged from the shrubbery, a ghostly apparition in his combat fatigues and camouflage face-paint.
Steve let out a whelp and collapsed as Walker rushed him, taking the rifle and the holstered side-arm and the sheathed knife. Steve’s right knee was now a ragged mess of flesh and bone splinters. It was different from the wounds Walker had seen on the battlefield, where hollow-point and expanding ammunition was banned. The devastation caused by the first silenced .45 Hydra-Shok round was irreparable. The other round had gone a little high, maybe because that was the second shot and by then the guy was already collapsing, and maybe because of a little muzzle climb.
“You right, Squeak?” Murphy asked, cutting her loose and helping her to her feet.
Walker could see that she was only just now registering what had happened and who had done it. Her eyes went from the fallen guy who’d held her captive to Walker, then to the painted face before her, and finally she recognized those eyes that reflected the firelight.
Walker turned his attention to Steve, who was now breathing hard and fast, in deep shock, his body responding to the flood of pain by releasing huge amounts of chemical compensation.
“Who sent you?” Walker asked.
No answer.
“They’re all dead,” Walker said to him. “Your buddies. Gone.”
No answer, but the reaction was there, a slight twitch in the eyes, the final realization in the lizard part of the guy’s brain that said: if you didn’t know your life was over already, you know it now.
“What’s happening in St. Louis this afternoon?” Walker asked him.
Nothing.
Walker leaned over and took a burning branch from the fire, a thick stump about a foot long with red-glowing embers at one end. He held it out in front of Steve’s face. “St. Louis. At 5:30. Tell me!”
Nothing. The guy was starting to shake and shiver, the color gone from his face.
Walker looked down. The shot that went high had torn out a chunk of the thigh and shredded an artery. He had seconds to live.
“Tell me!” Walker said, tossing the stick and hefting Steve up by the lapels. “What’s the attack? Why St. Louis? What’s the demonstration of? Where is it?”
Steve’s face relaxed as he died, his mouth slackening into a loose smile.
72
“I should go track that last guy,” Murphy said. “The non-soldier with the night-vision. Get him to talk.”
Walker looked up. The stars that blanketed the night sky were going out one by one. Already the sky was lightening with dawn. Some people claimed that it was darkest before dawn. It was so said in movies and novels and songs—and it was bullshit. It was always darkest in the halfway point between dusk and dawn, in the moment the sun was most hidden to the observer.
“That might take too long,” Walker said, checking through the dead guy’s pockets and backpack. “It’s been an hour and a half. And you need to double back all that way. The quickest you could find him might be three hours. The quickest. It might take all day.”
“Who was he?” Murphy asked, using the moment to check over his weapons and reload.
“I don’t know, but he was their leader. He was different from these guys,” he said, indicating the dead body of Steve.
“They were Army,” Murphy said.
“You sure?”
“Certain. The way they stood, the way the sniper reacted when he made me three paces out and stood to fight. The Modern Army Combatives method. They were US Army.”
Murphy crouched down to Steve’s body and used his knife to cut away at the guy’s sleeves, all the way from the wrist to the shoulder, revealing the arm. Nothing. He did the same with the left arm—and found a tattoo on the triceps: a shield with an eagle’s claw, talons extended.
“See?” Murphy said, pointing at it with the knife. “He was 502 Parachute Infantry. Judging by the length of his hair, he’s been out of the game for at least three months.”
“Minimum,” Walker agreed, nodding. “Maybe more. Maybe years.”
“I said at least,” Murphy said, standing and sheathing his knife.
Squeaker was sitting by the fire, a bottle of water in her hands, rocking gently back and forth.
“You’re sure your family is someplace safe?” Walker asked.
“They’re getting there,” Murphy said, unscrewing the silencer of the HK pistol. The silencer went in his pocket and the pistol was holstered in a new thigh holster taken from the dead guy, on the opposite thigh to his Colt .45. He checked his watch. “They’re walking a fire-trail that’ll lead them around to the back of Dylan’s house. Should be there any minute.”
“We should head there too,” Walker said. He held out a hand and helped Squeaker to her feet. “You okay?”
She smiled, said, “What took you so long?”
Walker allowed a smile, but he thought of Murphy’s family, of what they might find when they got to Dylan’s.
“I’ll lead,” Murphy said. “Keep up. Right, little cuz?”
“I’m faster than you,” Squeaker said.
Walker was relieved to see the fighting spirit still burning in her. She looked tired and worn out, but she’d be okay; nothing some rest and food and a hot shower wouldn’t fix.
“And while we go, Walker,” Murphy said, “tell me how it is that you knew of these fuckers coming after me.”
Murphy led at a light run. Squeaker followed, light on her feet. Walker kept thinking about what might be coming at five-thirty this afternoon.
•
Grant checked and rechecked his mental list for what would happen the day after tomorrow.
He had a car with two new sets of IDs and documents waiting in a car park here in San Diego. American sedan, ten years old, two previous owners, silver duco. About as average and inconspicuous as you could get. The boot held bags, two of them, packed for two people, the contents of which looked for all the world like a couple going on vacation, with maps and brochures on Mexico. They’d stick to the west coast, with the goal of winding their way down to Chile. There, a bank account waited with enough in it to last a lifetime. A good lifetime, in a place like that . . .
Grant’s next movements were dependent on word from the field. Despite others looking into this, he had no worries. Not with the crew he had.
He considered the money in the bank account. How it had come. Along with the money he got for Menzil to facilitate all this. All of it, several million all told, came from the information that had led to a site in South Dakota, which he’d used to help a fellow NCIS agent crack a cold case. That had proved to be a mutually beneficial situation all round, in ways far beyond the financial. What they’d found hidden away there he’d divided up and partially on-sold to a group in Syria. Benefit of being a Federal Agent with tentacles that stretched internationally: all that he had access to, plus a list a mile long of cashed-up bad guys who wanted to buy it.
Now, he just needed things to settle and fall into place. And so far, so good.
But then along came some guy named Walker.
73
Dylan’s house was dark. The sun was rising. It had taken them two hours to get there, and they found Murphy’s family in the hay barn out the back, rugged up under a couple of heavy blankets.
Murphy hugged his wife, Jane. His two daughters were asleep on a stack of hay. His son was at Jane’s breast.
“You didn’t go inside?” Murphy asked.
Jane shook her head, Walker was relieved to see.
“There was no answer at the back,” Jane said, “and when I went around the side, I saw a police car parked out front. There’s a deputy sitting in it. I figured maybe they pulled Dylan in for questioning. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just stayed here, waiting for you.”
“I’ll check it out,” Walker said, and Murphy nodd
ed.
“I’ll come,” Squeaker said.
“No.” Walker put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay here with your family. I’ll see what’s what.”
Squeaker didn’t look pleased, but then the oldest of the kids stirred and made a grizzling sound, so she lay next to her on the hay under the blanket and soothed her back to sleep.
Walker asked Jane, “Do you have a cell phone?”
She passed one over. A basic thing, pre-paid, probably lived in a bottom drawer at their house and used when they went out to town. Walker punched in Somerville’s number. She answered on the third ring, her voice tired.
“It’s Walker,” he said. “I’ve got Murphy, and we’re headed to St. Louis.”
“St. Louis?” Somerville said.
Walker spent two minutes explaining what had gone down in the woods.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll let McCorkell know,” Somerville said, her voice animated. “I’ll get on the first flight to St. Louis and meet you there with FBI back-up.”
“Thanks.” Walker ended the call, handed the phone and the Berettas to Murphy, not wanting a shootout with a cop, and headed for Dylan’s back door. Murphy had listened the whole way as they’d hiked back here. He’d had questions, mostly about which of his team members had been killed—questions Walker couldn’t answer because he simply didn’t know. Murphy’s response was of disbelief. Eight guys? From DEVGRU? Murdered? Assassinated? By those four Army guys? No way. Not the guys from my unit.
They would work out the how and why soon, Walker hoped. Answers would be in St. Louis.
And another answer would be waiting for him on the other side of this door.
Walker tried the back door to Dylan’s house. It was unlocked. He crept inside, through the kitchen. They’d sat in there yesterday, with Dylan. And although there was nothing showing, he knew why that deputy was sitting in his car out front. Menzil wasn’t lying or bragging about Dylan. This was a crime scene. A murder scene. He could smell it. The blood. The body fluids. The funk of death that even on a cold night had emanated from a corpse and filled the air of the house.
He considered going out the back door, walking around the house and approaching the deputy and getting him to call for back-up. But Walker had to know, to see for himself. There was the slim possibility that it was not Dylan who had met her end in here, but he knew as he padded quietly up the hallway to the living room, following the smell, that it was her, for that was how Menzil and his men had tracked down Murphy’s location. They would have come here, asking about Murphy, and seen some kind of resilience, defiance, of a protector not giving away anything. Her friendship with the Murphys had been her death sentence. If she’d known nothing, they probably would have read as much and moved on to the next house they found. But they had come up against her, and sensed that she’d been stonewalling, and it would have escalated from there.
