Jack and Joe: Hunt for Jack Reacher Series (The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series Book 6)

by Diane Capri

  The most likely answer is usually the right one, though. Unless we could come up with a more likely expert marksman who had roamed freely around Fort Bird, the Boss would default to Reacher. And he’d probably be right.

  At this point, we had a lot of questions and not many answers. We had seven bodies. A sniper. A bullet with Reacher’s name on it. Finlay and Cooper still at war with each other for reasons neither would explain. And nobody was talking.

  Which meant it was time to squeeze the most likely squawker.

  CHAPTER 29

  The unrelenting noise inside The Lucky Bar was still the best place for conversation. I moved my chair closer to Gaspar and leaned in toward his ear. “Do you have brothers?”

  He nodded and held up one index finger. “Paulo.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Younger by three years. You?”

  I nodded and held up three fingers. “Older. Sisters?”

  “Consuelo, Connie. Younger by five years. You?”

  “One. Younger. Are you all protective of each other?”

  “Very. You?”

  I nodded, stood and waved him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  He followed me outside. The noise was still loud enough to cover conversation for another twenty yards, almost all the way to where he’d parked the Crown Vic. “Where are we going?”

  “Fort Bird. We need some answers, don’t you think?”

  “Tony Clifton is in a tough position here. You wouldn’t turn on your brothers, would you, Helga?”

  I said nothing. Because it wouldn’t be easy to overlook the high level corruption and murder that was going on here, even if one of my brothers was responsible and even if bringing him to justice would break my mother’s heart.

  Gaspar assumed the driving duties as usual. He took the county road this time because he hadn’t driven the route that would have been Reacher’s only choice back then and because we were in no hurry. About five miles down the road, he asked, “What did the Boss have to say?”

  I shrugged. “The usual nothing. He figures the sniper is military trained. He’s got satellite photos of the guy. He doesn’t think it was Reacher, but he can’t tell. Probably because the guy’s covered from head to toe and as well camouflaged as the Army’s woodland ACUs can make him.”

  Gaspar’s eyebrows raised and he glanced toward me. “He told you that?”

  “Not in so many words. He asked me if I’d seen Reacher. I took that to mean that he hadn’t. And he was disappointed.”

  “Any clue what we’re doing here yet?”

  “Just guesses.”

  “Care to enlighten me?”

  “I really wish I could. What do you think is going on?” I asked, more to let him talk than because I expected any flashes of brilliance. If he’d known anything brilliant, he’d have told me already.

  Gaspar started with Fort Bird, where everything seemed to have started long ago, too. “Major Tony Clifton is using you. We can agree on that much, I assume.”

  I nodded. “For what, though?”

  Gaspar ticked off the list. “He knows his brother is being investigated for corruption. He knew Summer was doing the investigating. He knows about the Reacher connections between them all.”

  I nodded. “Is Tony sending me after his brother because he’s trying to sink Matthew Clifton or save him?”

  Gaspar’s eyebrows shot up. “Why would Tony Clifton think you could do either one?”

  “What if he suspected that our Reacher file assignment is a ruse? The assignment does sound lame.” Because the only explanation we had to offer was a lie. Lies were always lame.

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Maybe he thought I was really meeting with Summer about the corruption case against his brother.”

  Gaspar said, “That’s a reasonable assumption. The FBI was involved in a parallel investigation to Summer’s investigation into Matthew Clifton.”

  “Yes, and that one resulted in a prison sentence for General Clifton’s classmate. Thomas O’Connor confirmed that.”

  “Stands to reason that Matthew Clifton is next.”

  “Okay. But either way, Tony Clifton had to have been relieved when Summer didn’t show up for your meeting, right? Because Summer’s prying and prodding and looking under rocks had been postponed a little while.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “So why did he send you directly to Joe Reacher’s ex-wife, Lesley Browning? When he did that, he had to know you’d end up right in the thick of Summer’s investigation because of her husband’s involvement. Why would Tony want you to pick up where Summer dropped off?”

  I shook my head. These questions had been giving me a stomachache since Summer no-showed on my first trip to Fort Bird. Gaspar was my secret weapon. He thought the way Reacher thought. It didn’t make me feel better to know that Gaspar had no answers, either.

  Gaspar tapped his thumb on the steering wheel, thinking. “Did the Boss tell you the particulars of the corruption claims against General Clifton?”

  I glared at him. Stupid question.

  “Then why not call your pal Finlay and ask? He’d be delighted to be on your good side. Call him on the Boss’s phone so he’s sure to hear whatever Finlay says, too. That’ll piss him off.”

  “Men are weird,” I said and he laughed. I pulled out the Boss’s phone and dialed Finlay’s private number. The one on the card he’d given me the first night we met. When he answered, I skipped the pleasantries. “Why is General Matthew Clifton being investigated by the Inspector General?”

  “Cooper does enjoy leaving you in the dark and watching you claw your way out, doesn’t he?” The smirk in his voice probably matched the one on his face.

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Rumor is that he’s a little too close to his friends. He’s confused. He thinks he’s a politician instead of a General.”

  “You’d think he’d know the difference. Generals are warriors. Politicians are a bunch of liars.” Cheeky, but I wasn’t kidding.

  Finlay, the consummate politician who reported to the most important politician in the world, laughed. “General Clifton has been granting defense contracts to his old West Point classmates on a no-bid basis. Cronyism is an illegal violation of policy. He knows it. He’s been warned. And a couple of months ago, the FBI completed an investigation into one of his classmates, a retired Colonel now working for a defense contractor, which resulted in a conviction and a two-year jail sentence for taking kickbacks that O’Connor told you about.”

  “O’Connor didn’t tell me that. All he said was ethics violations. Clifton is taking kickbacks?”

  “We don’t think so. But the jury’s still out on that.”

  “What’s his excuse? These guys always have a justification of some kind.”

  “He hasn’t said for the record. But privately, he thinks the Army’s being gutted by a bunch of politicians who want the military to save the world and do it on a puny budget that will get his soldiers killed.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” I said.

  “Priorities, Otto. We’re not made of money. We have budgets and we have to make hard choices sometimes.”

  “Oh, I see. Hiring another twelve staffers for a Senator is more important than keeping soldiers alive who are willing to put their boots on the ground. Sending a bunch of Secret Service dudes to a Brazil brothel is a wise use of money, too. Oh, all that wasted foreign aid food and drugs rotting in the sunshine in Africa? Perfect thing to do with the budget. Let’s print more money to do all of that. I get it, Finlay.”

  “I don’t think you do.” Now his tone was steel. “I’m doing you a favor here. You asked me. I’m telling you what you don’t know and apparently can’t find out.” He paused for an audible deep breath. “It’s not smart to bite the hand that feeds you, Otto. You’d do well to remember that.”

  What I heard next was nothing but dead air, but I imagined I could hear the Boss laughing his ass
off. Which did nothing to help my mood.

  I dropped the secure cell into my pocket. Fort Bird was four miles ahead, according to the GPS in the Crown Vic, so I made the report of the conversation succinct: “The Army is making an example of General Clifton and he doesn’t like it.”

  Gaspar rubbed his palm over his face and groaned. “God, I hate sanctimonious jerks. Why can’t people just do what they’re supposed to do for once?”

  “If they did, Chico, we’d be out of a job.”

  “I guess that means Finlay didn’t tell you who killed Summer, either.”

  “Crap. He pissed me off and I forgot to ask.”

  The Boss’s secure cell vibrated in my pocket and I almost ignored it. But this time, I fished it out and answered. “Otto.”

  “He’s not there. You’re wasting time.”

  He meant Tony Clifton. The Boss always knew where we were going and why. “Where is he, then?”

  “Fort Herald. Tickets waiting for you at the airport. Get out there while there’s still time.”

  “Only if you tell me who killed Eunice Summer.”

  His silence was total, but he didn’t hang up. It wasn’t the first time I’d been insubordinate. And it wouldn’t be the last, the way this assignment was going. But I wasn’t planning to walk into an ambush without at least one solid answer to something important that I wanted to know.

  Finally, he said, “I’ll send you the satellite images. You tell me.”

  Once again, I was holding a phone full of nothing but dead air.

  Gaspar laughed out loud and I threw the phone at him. He ducked. The phone hit the window and bounced onto his lap. “Come on, Sunshine. You know we’re going to Fort Herald either way.”

  “He knows who killed Summer. They both do.”

  “Of course they do. But that’s not the point, is it?”

  I hated it when he was right. “Don’t you ever get tired of being used, Chico?”

  He shrugged and handed me the phone. “I’ve got four going on five kids and twenty years to go. Hello. I follow orders. What’s your excuse?”

  His comment triggered a synapse in my brain or something like a lightning flash. I sat up straighter in the seat and turned to face Gaspar. “Remember I told you to concentrate on how they killed Summer?”

  He scowled. “I’m not senile.”

  “Think about it.” I gave him a hand. “The sniper knows Summer’s on her way to Fort Bird. He knows why she’s coming to Fort Bird. He knows the route she’s taking. He knows approximately when she’ll pass mile marker #224. He’s in place and set up. He’s had time to adjust for all variables. He’s as ready as he’s going to get. The conditions aren’t perfect, but they never are.”

  Gaspar nodded. “With you so far.”

  “The shot’s not impossible, obviously, because he made it.”

  “But he could easily have missed. The traffic cams were out so he couldn’t see her coming. He was a long distance from the kill zone and she was traveling eighty miles an hour.” He glanced my way. “Why didn’t he miss?”

  I waited half a moment to be sure he was paying attention. “He didn’t miss because he knew precisely when to shoot.”

  Gaspar scowled again. “How the hell could he have known that?”

  “He knew because Summer told him.”

  He looked as shocked as if a yeti had jumped out of nowhere and landed in the Crown Vic on the seat between us. “What?”

  “Summer called me from the car on the way to Fort Bird, remember? She told me she was driving and where. She told me what time she’d meet me. She was the only person who knew that information.” My guess about the rest wasn’t much of a stretch. “I’m betting Summer called him, too. Or maybe he called her. Either way, she told him where she was and when she’d be at mile marker #224. She was talking to him. At the precise moment, he shot and killed her.”

  “So he knew exactly when she’d be within his kill zone because she told him while it was happening.” Gaspar said nothing for a moment and then nodded. A grin broke out that lit up his face. “That’s brilliant.”

  I said, “When we check her cell phone data, we’ll confirm the call.”

  Gaspar nodded. “And identify the guy she talked to.”

  “Doubtful. He’s not dumb enough to have used a traceable phone. Finlay or the Boss can find the number, but that phone is long gone.” I shook my head. “The only way we might do it is through voice comparisons. There’s no question that the call was recorded by the Boss or Finlay or the phone company or someone. Everything is recorded these days. And both Finlay and the Boss were watching Summer. They would have been recording her, too.”

  “What about the truckers?” Gaspar asked after a bit. “Too convenient, it seems to me, that a couple of phantom deer dashed across the road in exactly that spot at exactly that time. Were they in place to slow Summer down, just in case he missed with the first shot and needed a second?”

  “Possible. But you heard Dr. Smith. She was already dead before she hit the tanker.”

  “The truckers didn’t manage to kill her, so their part in this mess gets ignored? No harm, no foul?” He glanced at me. “That’s not usually your style.”

  Definitely not even close to my style. “Jones said the truckers are decent men. So we’ll find out how decent they are when we bring them in for questioning.”

  “They might have meant to kill her. Or not.” Gaspar set the cruise control and stretched his right leg. “Could go either way.”

  “We still need to know who the shooter is and why he did it. Something tells me Tony Clifton can help with that.” I stretched my neck again. “The Boss wouldn’t be sending us to Fort Herald again otherwise.”

  “Can’t argue with that logic, either.”

  Maybe not, but the scowl on his face told me precisely what he thought. He needed the paycheck, but he didn’t have to like what came next.

  CHAPTER 30

  This time, we arrived at the Fort Herald main gate with nothing but Gaspar’s veteran’s card paving the way, unless the Boss had worked his magic. There were several cars and trucks in front of us. When we reached the gate, the sentry said, “Headed to the shooting demonstrations?”

  Shooting demonstrations? Sure. Why not.

  Gaspar said, “Yep.”

  “You know where it is? Just follow those vehicles ahead of you. Can’t possibly miss the noise.”

  “Will do.”

  The sentry handed Gaspar a generic visitor pass and waved us through. Instead of following the crowd, we drove to General Matthew Clifton’s office building, as we had before. No one stopped us on the way.

  When we arrived and parked and went inside, Gaspar asked for General Clifton. “He’s at Range Foxtrot. Our newest graduating class is performing training demonstrations out there with the Marksmanship Unit.”

  “Is Major Anthony Clifton here?” I asked since it was Tony I wanted to question first.

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  Something about the setup felt wrong. “Are training demonstrations usually held here?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I thought the Army’s sniper training school was at Fort Benning, Georgia.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. But the U.S. Army Marksmanship Unit performs demonstrations and competes around the world, including in the Olympics.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Our new soldiers appreciate the opportunity to learn from the best. We invite certain civilians every year. After the demonstrations, there will be a train-the-trainer clinic. The General is likely to be out there pretty late.”

  We returned to the Crown Vic and I pulled up a map of Fort Herald. Range F was about two miles south. Gaspar pointed the Crown Vic in the right direction and drove the speed limit the whole way. No one tried to stop us.

  “Did you ever perform any kind of shooting demonstration for civilian visitors when you were in the Army?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t a member of the Marksmanship Unit. It’s an elite team. Stiff
competition.” He paused. “But the world has changed. It’s all about PR now. These days, the Unit probably has a Facebook page.”

  At the range, the parking lot was full. Presumably vehicles belonging to visitors observing the demonstrations. Family members and soldiers and a few officers, probably. The two types were easily distinguishable by their clothing. Anybody on active duty wore ACUs. The rest of us were dressed like civilians.

  Gaspar found an empty bit of grass at the far edge of the parking area and nosed the Crown Vic into the open space. We hopped out and rushed as quickly as we could to the visitor viewing area.

  The range was a large, rectangular open field. We parked on the south side and walked north toward the visitor viewing area, which was roped off to separate visitors from military personnel. If the setup had been a football field, we’d have parked in the end zone. The visitors would have been confined by the ropes behind the ten-yard line.

  There were about thirty soldiers with various weapons milling around the shooting areas inside the ropes. Targets were spaced out in the field at well-marked distances near the opposite end zone. Sidelines of demarcation were seven-foot hay bale stacks on either side of the open field where live rounds would be fired.

  Most spectators wore ear protection and a few didn’t, which was probably a violation of some regulation or another. Those of us without the bulky sound and shock-absorbing earphones were in danger of significant hearing damage, if not immediate and lasting deafness. There was probably a station to collect ear protection, but I didn’t see it. We’d have to make do with jamming our fingers in our ears.

  The entire process was carefully structured. Certain soldiers shot certain weapons in a certain order for a certain number of rounds like an elaborately choreographed ballet. My FBI training had included operations exactly like this, minus the visitors.

  The demonstrations moved smoothly and without fanfare. Soldiers lined up at the front of the range near the twenty-yard line, each holding the same weapon. Targets were lined up at the back of the range. When orders were shouted over the megaphone and repeated through loudspeakers, soldiers shot at the targets. After a few rounds, the line of soldiers changed and the weapons changed and the shooting recommenced.