by C. M. Palov
‘I don’t know about the two of you, but I’ve got work to do,’ Finn said brusquely. ‘So, what do you say we get this interrogation over and done with?’
‘Fine,’ Warrant Officer Stackhouse replied. ‘As we already stated, last night two Delta troopers stationed at Fort Bragg were found murdered.’
His spine instantly straightened. ‘You didn’t tell me that the victims were Delta troopers.’
‘In fact, the two murdered troopers, Corporal Lamar Dixon and Corporal John Kelleher, were former comrades of yours.’
Finn felt like he’d just been sucker-punched, his gut cramping painfully. The two men had not just been comrades, they’d been friends.
Dixie and Johnny K. Dead. Both of them. Christ.
Finn looked the Warrant Officer straight in the eye. ‘And you actually think that I drove down to Fort Bragg yesterday when I got off duty and killed Dixie and Johnny K?’
Openly smirking, Warrant Officer Stackhouse opened a leather portfolio that he’d carried in with him. From it he removed two 8 x 10 crime scene photos, placing them on top of the desk. ‘These should jar your memory.’
Finn carefully examined the photos. What he saw sickened him. Other than the fact that one photo was of a black man and the other a Caucasian, the photos were nearly identical: The two men were naked and secured to O-bolts screwed into the floor, a strap of duct tape over their mouths, both bodies covered in blood. Someone didn’t just murder Dixie and Johnny K; someone butchered them.
‘Both of the victims were ritualistically tortured,’ Stackhouse continued. ‘Oh, and did I mention … the killer used your Bowie knife to commit the murders.’
Finn slapped the photos on to the desk. ‘That’s flat-out impossible.’
The Warrant Officer opened his portfolio and removed a third photo. Gleefully smiling, he dangled the glossy photo to-and-fro in front of Finn’s face. ‘Look familiar?’
Clearly annoyed with her partner’s antics, Agent Tonelli snatched the photo from him and handed it to Finn. ‘The knife hilt is made of fossilized ivory and etched in scrimshaw. Nowadays scrimshaw is a little practised art, but two hundred years ago, Boston whalers used scrimshaw to –’
‘I know what scrimshaw is,’ Finn interrupted, staring at the photo in complete disbelief.
‘As you can see, the Gaelic phrase Fé Mhóid Bheith Saor is etched into the ivory,’ she continued. Reaching across his desk, she pointed out the detail with her finger. ‘We looked it up on the Internet: It means “Sworn to be free”. Beneath the inscription are the initials FJM.’
‘And don’t deny that it’s your knife,’ Stackhouse cautioned. ‘We’ve got proof to the contrary.’
‘Look, I don’t know how this happened, but –’ Finn stopped in mid-sentence. The knife in the photo, the same Bowie knife that was used to kill Dixie and Johnny K, was the same Bowie knife he had used four months ago to take out a Syrian combatant on that fubar mission to retrieve the gold medallion. Had it not been for that damned pendant, his trigger finger would still be attached to his right hand.
But he’d left that knife in Al-Qanawat, embedded in the Syrian’s chest.
How did it end up at Fort Bragg?
‘You were about to say something, Sergeant?’
Finn shook his head. Simply put, there was nothing to say. Somehow, someone had managed to take out the last two members of his old Delta squad. Three months ago, Deuce, Lou-Lou and PJ had had their helo blown out of the Iraqi sky by a couple of insurgents.
That meant he was the only member of the Delta squad still drawing breath.
Reaching across the desk, Agent Elizabeth Tonelli took the photo from him. ‘Losing your trigger finger, that had to have been a bitter pill to swallow. Moreover, it must have made you incredibly angry. Angry men have a propensity for violence. Combine that with your specialized training and … well, you get my drift.’
Loud and clear. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. The ever-popular default motive for murder.
Agent Tonelli’s sidekick slipped on a pair of reading glasses and re-opened his leather portfolio. Wearing a studious expression, the Warrant Officer examined a sheet of paper. Several seconds passed before he peered over the top of his metal frames. ‘We did a little background check on you, Sergeant. Hope you don’t mind.’
Ah, shit. Here it comes. The McGuire family laundry. Dirty sheets flapping in a gusty headwind.
‘Seems that your brother Mychal has made quite a name for himself as a top lieutenant in Boston’s Irish mob. According to our dossier, he spent six years in the Federal penitentiary in Lewisburg on an arms trafficking charge.’ One side of the Warrant Officer’s mouth twisted in a nasty sneer. ‘Bet you couldn’t be prouder.’
Finn made no comment. Every security clearance he’d ever been issued had been held up while the Department of Defense verified that Finn no longer had contact with his brother Mickey. Or any other member of the McGuire clan for that matter.
‘Finnegan and Mychal McGuire. Blood brothers. No. Wait.’ The bastard made a big to-do of glancing back at the dossier. ‘Twin brothers. Meaning that the two of you were cut from the very same bolt.’
‘Let’s get something straight – I’m not my brother’s keeper,’ Finn grated between clenched teeth. As he spoke, he noticed the pop-up box that had suddenly appeared on his computer monitor, alerting him to an incoming email. While the sender’s name, FJ-58, meant nothing to him, the subject line caught his eye, the words ‘UNJUSTLY ACCUSED’ all in caps.
Casually moving his right hand to the mouse, he clicked on the email icon. As he read the missive, he schooled his features into a blank expression.
What price freedom? Unless you wish to ponder the answer from the inside of a military prison, you will immediately leave the building and proceed to the reception at the French Embassy in Washington. Wait by the courtyard doors. You will receive further instructions. If you fail to arrive by 5.00 p.m., irrefutable DNA evidence linking you to the murders in question will be provided to the proper authorities. If you speak of this matter to anyone, they will be targeted for execution.
Finn clicked the delete button, the email instantly disappearing from the computer screen. Leave the building? Were they insane? He was on the verge of being arrested for murder. Not to mention the ‘building’ in question was the freaking Pentagon.
He stared at the blank computer screen. He didn’t know anyone who worked at the French Embassy. Hell, he’d never even been to the French Embassy. But he suspected that someone at the embassy had ordered the hits on Dixie and Johnny K. That same somebody planted his Bowie knife at the murder scene. And they also knew when he’d be questioned by CID. Which meant that the enemy had eyes and ears inside the US military command.
And wasn’t that a scary thought?
‘Sergeant McGuire,’ a voice suddenly boomed from the telephone intercom system. ‘You were supposed to get me a copy of those updates ASAP. Where the hell are they?’
Finn knew the voice all too well. It was his commanding officer, Colonel Benjamin Duckworth, a spit-and-polish career officer who ran the Satellite Analysis Group, SAG, like it was his own private fiefdom.
Hitting the mute button, he glanced apologetically at the two CID agents. ‘Sorry about that. I was supposed to get these satellite photos to the Colonel ten minutes ago. There’s a commander in Kandahar who’s currently on standby. He’s waiting to get this intel downloaded before he sends out his security detail,’ Finn told them, purposefully playing the ‘patriot’ card. ‘Colonel Duckworth’s office is just down the hall. It won’t take but a second for me to deliver the file.’
The Warrant Officer’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at the innocuous manila folder that Finn now held in his right hand. ‘Can’t you have someone else deliver the file?’
‘Actually, I can’t,’ Finn lied. ‘There’s no one in the office with a high enough security clearance to open this file, let alone carry it down the hall to the Colonel.’
‘
All right,’ the other man groused irritably. ‘But make it snappy.’
Oh, I intend to.
3
Manila folder in hand, Finn walked down the corridor to the Colonel’s office.
A quick glance over his shoulder proved what he already knew – the two CID agents were watching his every move.
‘What took so long?’ Colonel Duckworth bellowed as Finn stepped into his office. ‘And who are those two suits?’
Finn knew that Duckworth didn’t want the file so much as he wanted to know who had trespassed, unauthorized, into his domain.
‘They’re a couple of CID agents,’ he replied. ‘An incident happened down at Fort Bragg and they’re checking on some background information.’ He held the manila folder aloft as he strode over to the door on the other side of the Colonel’s office. ‘I need to make a quick copy for my files.’
When the Colonel nodded his consent, Finn opened the door and stepped into the administration bay. He’d cut a break. Not a big one, but enough to get him out of the SAG office suite before the two agents caught on to the ruse.
Quickly passing the copy machines, collators and a line of cubicles, he figured he had sixty, maybe seventy-five seconds before the alarm was sounded.
Exiting the admin bay, he hung a right and briskly strode down the hall towards an office wing currently under renovation, the area shrouded in clear plastic sheets. He wedged past a fifteen-foot stretch of linked trolleys piled high with office furniture and cardboard boxes.
Free and clear of the ‘moving van’, he threw open a door that led to a newly painted stairwell, ‘WET PAINT’ signs still tacked to the railing. A few seconds later, he emerged in the basement of the E-ring, the outermost ring of the Pentagon.
And that’s when he took off at a fast trot, the manila folder still grasped in his hand. To the casual bystander, he looked like a man running late for a meeting.
As he charged past the Pentagon printing office, Finn tuned out the near-deafening roar of the printing presses that churned out documents, reports and manuals 24/7. At the end of the long hall, he sidestepped a forklift loaded with boxes of printed binders before entering another stairwell. Taking the steps three at a time, he climbed one flight, emerging on the first floor of the River Entrance wing of the Pentagon.
Five storeys high with five concentric rings and ten radial corridors, the Pentagon was a maze. A fact he intended to use to his advantage. Given that his Dodge Ram truck was parked in the South Lot, using that exit was not an option. He figured that’d be the first place they’d look for him. The second place would be the subway and bus exit. That’s why he intended to take the road less travelled and leave the building via the River Entrance. All of the bigwigs – the Secretary of Defense, the Joint Chiefs – had their offices located in that wing of the Pentagon. Not only was it the farthest removed from the SAG office, he figured it was the last place CID would look for him.
Slowing his pace, he caught sight of a burly staff sergeant leaving his rabbit warren. Finn quickly sized him up. Six foot four. Two hundred and twenty pounds of ripped muscle . A perfect match. Finn stepped into his empty office, lifting the sergeant’s uniform jacket and beret from the hook on the back of the door. As he continued down the corridor, he donned the green service jacket and stuffed the beret under his arm. CID would be searching for a coatless NonCom. Wearing a jacket wouldn’t save him, but it might buy him a few seconds.
As he approached the security checkpoint located at the River Entrance, he glanced at his Pathfinder watch. 1615. If he didn’t show up at the French Embassy in the next forty-five minutes, he would never find out who killed Dixie and Johnny K.
Suddenly catching sight of his military photo emblazoned on the guard station computer screen, Finn jammed the beret on his head. He then piggybacked on to a group of uniformed military personnel, shouldering his way into the middle of the pack.
Ten seconds later, Finn exited the Pentagon. Removing a pair of sunglasses from the jacket’s breast pocket, he slipped them on.
The easy part was done. Now he had to get to the French Embassy.
He scanned the small parking lot on the other side of the covered concourse. Given that it was broad daylight, hotwiring a parked car was out of the question.
As he continued to search the lot, a Toyota Camry pulled up to the kerb. A man in a rumpled khaki suit emerged from the passenger door. Slamming the car door shut, the suit scurried up the steps towards the entrance. Finn glanced through the windscreen. Scrawny build. Stick-straight black hair. Almond-shaped eyes and freckled cheeks. The woman behind the wheel was a civilian contractor who worked in one of the cubicles down the hall from SAG.
What was her name?
Kathy? Karen?
Hell, her name didn’t matter.
Needing an escape vehicle, Finn opened the passenger door and climbed inside the Toyota.
4
Barely stifling a scream, Kate Bauer recoiled from the large, unsmiling soldier who’d unceremoniously got into her Camry.
‘I need your help,’ the man announced abruptly, the request as unexpected as his sudden appearance.
Kate sat mute, her tongue tied in the proverbial knot.
It wasn’t until the uninvited passenger reached up and removed his sunglasses that she belatedly realized she knew the man, although not very well – she and Sergeant McGuire were no more than passing acquaintances. If that. According to the rumour mill, he’d spent ten years on the vaunted Delta Force as a highly trained commando. Everyone in the office bay, herself included, gave him a wide berth when they passed him in the hallway.
‘Sergeant McGuire, you scared the living daylights out of me,’ she said tersely, annoyance trumping fear.
Unperturbed, he glanced at the commando-style watch strapped to his left wrist. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that my Dodge Ram is a dead dog and I’ve been waiting forty minutes for the tow truck.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that you’re having vehicle problems. But that doesn’t explain why –’
‘I was kinda hoping you could give me a lift into town,’ he interjected, a beseeching look in his eyes. ‘I need to be at the French Embassy no later than five p.m. You are on your way home, aren’t you?’
‘Um, yes … I just dropped off my boss. We had an off-site briefing at Bolling Air Force Base.’ A private contractor, she worked for the Defense Department as a subject matter expert, her field of expertise cultural anthropology. She’d recently created an ethnic database that would be used by military personnel stationed abroad. While it didn’t involve interaction with Sergeant McGuire, they did work in the same office suite.
Deciding there was no reason not to give the sergeant a ride, particularly since she lived a mile or so from the French Embassy, Kate pulled the Camry into the narrow lane. With a quick glance in the side-view mirror, she merged into the fast-moving rush-hour traffic.
‘I appreciate the lift. Believe me, you pulled up in the nick of time.’
‘Happy to assist.’ She notched up the air conditioner, hoping to dispel the thick, muggy air. Washington in August was not for the weak-kneed. Even the towering oaks that lined either side of the G W Parkway had a limp noodle look about them.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her passenger rubbing a mutilated right hand over his jaw. With his dark-brown hair cut military short, blade of a nose, and thin, well-shaped lips, Sergeant McGuire’s Irish roots were clearly evident. Kate recalled the first time she had laid eyes on Sergeant McGuire. Grim. Intimidating. Scary-looking. Initial impressions that had not diminished in the passing weeks.
However, at the moment, he didn’t appear all that scary. Maybe it was woman’s intuition, but Kate sensed that something was deeply troubling him.
‘Are you all right, Sergeant?’
A glimmer of surprise flashed across his face.
‘I’m fine.’ He attempted, but didn’t quite muster, a light-hearted grin.
‘You
just seem … I don’t know –’ she shrugged, regretting that she’d asked the question in the first place – ‘a bit upset.’
‘Nope. Never felt better.’
‘My mistake. I apologize.’ Embarrassed, she made a big to-do of looking over her shoulder as she veered on to the Georgetown ramp.
Again, chalk it up to intuition, but not for one instant did she believe the sergeant’s disclaimer. She knew the face of sorrow. Had stared at it in the bathroom mirror every morning for the last two years. Even now, people still tiptoed around Sammy’s death, afraid of churning up the painful memories.
And it had been painful, as if someone had gutted her with a very sharp fillet knife.
The pain, however, came later. In the days immediately following her infant son’s death, she’d been too numb to feel anything, having gone through the funeral in an almost catatonic state. To this day, she still couldn’t recall a single detail from the ceremony. Only afterwards did she realize that the dazed fog had been a survival mechanism.
All too soon, that numbness gave way to an unbearable heartache.
At the time, she didn’t think she could contain, let alone exorcise, the pain. The best she could do was manage the grief – at least during the daylight hours – by binging on work. Gorging herself on an inhuman schedule. The constant white noise of office computers, printers, beepers and one-sided telephone conversations forced her to concentrate on the job at hand. The intense focus helped to keep the grief at bay.
In recent months, the pain had diminished somewhat. At least enough that she’d begun to think about resuming a ‘normal’ life. Whatever that meant.
Ten minutes into the mostly silent drive, Kate pulled up to the entrance of the French Embassy, tri-coloured flags waving jauntily in the humid breeze. A smartly dressed group walked past, the guard waving them through the open gate. Although Sergeant McGuire hadn’t volunteered any specifics, she assumed he’d been invited to an embassy party.
