Riley made a face and shook his head. Parker blanched at the thought. They both looked at Schag.
"Yeah," he said. There was no way he would make Yolanda do it. "Let's take a look."
Travis placed the N-95 back over his nose and mouth, and pulled opened the bag's long zipper. Within an instant, the miasma of burnt flesh assaulted the agents. Despite the respirators, the coroner's techs turned away from the stench.
Schag pulled a set of nitrile gloves from his pocket and put them on before spreading the sides of the body bag. He pulled a small LED flashlight from another pocket and flicked it on to examine the bag's contents. With the clothing burned away, only charred skin remained. The wrecked face was unrecognizable. He reached in and pulled on the corpse's left arm, ignoring the churning in his stomach when some of the burnt tissue sloughed off into his hand. Taking a better grip, he pulled the arm up and studied its hand.
It was there. On the third finger, instead of a wedding band, was a large signet ring. Schag rubbed soot off the ring until he saw letters encircling the gemstone. First were the letters "U.S.," then the word "Navy." Schag tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He rubbed more, and the final word became clear: SEALs.
Schag respectfully replaced the arm and nodded. "That's his Navy SEALs ring," he said, choking. "That's Bill Butcher."
Then he turned away and retched into the snow.
CHAPTER 11
WEDNESDAY
Gideon Security International Training Compound
San Diego County, California
1530 Hours
AIDAN BLACK SAT IN THE dark of the late Cavendish's office, absently swirling a tumbler of Stoli on ice. The blood-stained carpet was gone and the splatter on the wall cleaned, but the stain on Gideon's reputation—and his—remained. He took a deep gulp of the vodka, making a face as he let it drain down his throat. He didn't usually drink, but the events of the preceding two days were threatening to make him take up the vice.
True, Butcher was dead and Gideon had its revenge. But at what cost? Five more of his operators were dead. It was supposed to be a covert op—find him, trap him, kill him, then extricate without leaving clues that it was a Gideon job. With his operators killed, however, it was only a matter of time before the police put the pieces together and called on Black for an explanation. With his psy-ops background, he had one ready for them. It was an unauthorized operation, he told the detectives, undertaken by a few of Cavendish's pissed off co-workers to seek revenge for his murder. Always careful to protect himself, Black had made sure the only person who knew he had ordered the hit was the team leader himself. And he was dead.
Taking another swig, Black thought about the further damage the operation had done to Gideon's reputation. Having one of his top men murdered inside a guarded Gideon compound was bad enough; having an entire tactical team killed by the last crazed act of just one man was something else. With a sigh, Black drained his glass and refilled it.
Black's cell phone rang in the holster on his belt. He pulled it out, looked at the caller ID, and took another long drink of vodka before thumbing the answer icon.
"Aidan Black."
"Well?" boomed the voice on the other end. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" Black asked, knowing full well what the caller meant.
"Don't fuck with me, Aidan," the man said. "What they're saying on TV. That Butcher's dead."
"Yes, he's dead." Black took another drink. "Along with five more of my men."
"I heard there was a fire and the body was burned beyond recognition. How do they know it's him?"
"My source said one of the NCIS agents did a visual ID on the body," Black said, noting the caller didn't mention the deaths of his own men. "He found a Navy SEAL ring that Butcher wore."
"Good," breathed the caller, as if letting go of a breath he'd been holding.
"You do realize there were other problems, don't you?" Black asked.
"Problems?" the other man said. "Like what?"
Black rolled his eyes and fought to hold his temper.
"Five of my men were killed in that cabin along with Butcher," he said. "That's eight Gideon operators altogether taken out by one lone madman. How's that going to play in the press?"
"Not important," the caller said sharply.
"It might be important if it impacts some of our government contracts," Black insisted. "Plus, the little matter of the police coming by, asking questions about those men killed in the cabin with Butcher."
"You don't worry about those contracts," the man said. "My people will make sure they're secure. They always have, even after your people left that girl for dead in the cargo container."
Black closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, remembering that fiasco. That was Cavendish's fault. Couldn't keep his prick in his pants. A lot of good it'll do him now.
"Yes, your people helped a great deal with that," Black conceded.
"Along with the gun-running and drug-smuggling accusations," the caller added. "What did you tell the police about your five dead men?"
"Rogue operation," Black said. "Some of Cavendish's friends out for revenge."
"You think they bought that?" the caller asked. "What if they start hauling your people in for questioning?"
"They can give them lie detector tests as far as I'm concerned. The only person who knew I gave the order is dead."
Black heard a satisfied grunt on the other end. "Good." A pause and then, "What about the other matter?"
"Better luck there," Black said. "My PI came through faster than I thought he could. He managed to hack into the good doctor's personal email account and found some interesting exchanges."
"Like what?"
Black told him.
"Good. That's very good," the caller said with a tone that was the closest to a laugh that Black had ever heard from him. "But can he prove it?"
"He went out this morning and got a signed affidavit from the other person," Black said, "and delivered it to Dr. Clarke's commanding officer this afternoon."
"Excellent," the caller said. "What about this other man, this—what his name? This NCIS agent?"
"What about him?"
"I didn't like the way he looked at me," the man said. "He gave me a distinct impression he didn't know his place."
Black lowered the phone and took another long drink of vodka, letting it drip down the back of his throat while his shook his head in dismay.
"Well?" the voice boomed.
"Linus Schag," Black said. "Spelled S-C-H-A-G. He's a special agent with NCIS."
"I know that, you idiot," the caller said testily. "What's he got to do with this whole mess? Why did Butcher write his name on your wall in . . . you know?
"He and Butcher were old friends," Black said, watching the ice turn sluggishly in his glass as he rocked it back and forth. "They went through training together. As to why Butcher wanted him here, I don't know."
"I didn't like his looks."
I'm certain he didn't care for yours either. God knows, I don't.
"He's known for being insubordinate," Black said. "He was involved in some a covert operation several months back that resulted in the court martial of a Navy officer. The convening board considered Schag a hostile witness and exiled him to the weapons base at China Lake."
"They should have kept him there," the caller said. "Do you think he knows anything? Did Butcher tell him anything?
"No," Black said. "There's no evidence Schag met with Butcher during his rampage, and NCIS examined Butcher's email records and found no email exchanged between Schag and Butcher for the last several months."
The caller grunted. "Not good enough. He's a loose end and he needs to be contained. There's too much riding on this."
Aidan Black sat up straight and slammed his glass onto the desk.
"You can't expect me to take out an NCIS agent now," he said. "Not with the cops knocking on my door about the cabin fiasco. No way."
"Calm down, Aidan," the man said. "I only said cont
ain him. Keep an eye on him, a close one. Make sure he doesn't know anything. If he doesn't, fine. If he does—well, we'll do what we have to."
Do what we have to? Black thought. Since when do we take chances?
"Did you hear me, Aidan?"
"Yes, sir," Black said. "I'll put some men on him and I'll make sure my source keeps tabs on him, too."
"Fine, fine. You do that," the caller said. "And don't let me down again, Aidan. The top dog never gets bitten, remember that."
Then the line went dead.
☼
The man who called Aidan Black clicked off his mobile phone and sat back in his chair, his head cocked to the left as usual, and his lips pulled down in a frown. Despite the stern appearance, he felt satisfied for the first time in months. In fact, he almost felt giddy with pleasure. Butcher had been the proverbial thorn in his side for too long. First, there was the attempted joint investigation in Iraq. The man got that squashed easily enough. However, unlike the agents from the other agencies, Butcher kept at it even when he returned to the U.S. When the agent's appeals to restart the investigation began gaining traction among the NCIS leadership, the man had to pull in some heavy artillery to get it stopped—the kind of artillery that only resides in the seat of government power. No one in government wants to be noticed by the White House or by Congress, and when it does happen, everyone goes to ground. Butcher's evidence for a new investigation became radioactive, untouchable. Butcher himself became as welcomed as the Ancient Mariner with the albatross around his neck.
With Butcher's dismissal from NCIS, the man had thought the matter settled. But the damned son of a bitch kept at it, prying into every aspect of the man's business dealings, and prying too damned successfully. Things were too sensitive for that, too volatile. Something had to be done to quiet Butcher once and for all.
The man looked around at his surroundings. He was aboard a ship, his safe house afloat until the Butcher mess finished. Despite being an avid yachtsman, he hated this confinement aboard what he considered a tub. He had taken over the captain's cabin, the best quarters aboard ship, and yet to him it was worse than a roadside motel. Many years ago, after using up his college draft deferments during the Vietnam War, the man's father had suggested he avoid the conflict by becoming an officer in the Navy. His father had enough political connections to ensure his son would never set foot on the Asian mainland. Yet the man couldn't bear the idea of living aboard a ship with cramped quarters, sleeping in a threadbare bunk, and going months without comfort. He married instead. At the time, married men were exempt from the draft. When only married men with children were exempt, he demanded his wife have a child. After the draft ended, he left both the wife and the child.
With a grim smile, he tapped his fist on the desk twice and stood with earnest. He stepped across the cabin's small living room to a cabinet. Inside, he found glasses and an array of liquors. Thank god, this wasn't a U.S. flagged merchantmen, he thought. They were dry ships, like the U. S. Navy's. He took a glass and a bottle of bourbon, found ice in a small refrigerator, and poured a drink.
Butcher was dead, he thought with grim satisfaction. The next day, he would arrange to go ashore.
CHAPTER 12
WEDNESDAY
Naval Base Point Loma
San Diego, California
1900 Hours
LINUS SCHAG THREW OPEN THE curtains in his hotel room and stared hard and long at the ocean beyond. He took a long swig of his single-malt Scotch, taking great satisfaction in the burning sensation as it flowed down his throat. He took another long drink to feel the burn again, as if the fiery sensation could consume and purify the horrors and emotions of the previous three days. The sight of his friend's charred corpse was bad enough. Having to tell Yolanda Butcher the man she adored had killed himself and five other men in a fiery blast gut-punched him harder than seeing Bill's body.
She refused to believe it at first. That was natural enough. Shock and denial comprise the first stage of grief. Schag tried to convince her without mentioning the fact he had identified Butcher's burnt body, but she kept insisting Bill would never commit suicide.
"Lin, you know Bill and I are Catholic, right?" Schag nodded. "We're devoted Catholics. Bill would never kill himself—the Church says suicide is a sin. He knows he couldn't be buried in consecrated ground. Bill would go down fighting. He'd sacrifice himself for others, but he would never commit suicide."
Schag explained that the crime scene team had found Bill's body with his face destroyed by a gunshot wound, and a pistol in his hand.
"Then it was somebody else's body, Lin," she insisted. "Maybe the body was one of the men trying to kill him. I mean, you said there was a fire. How could you be sure it was him?"
Schag saw no other way but to tell her.
"I made a visual ID, Yolanda," he said. "I found his SEAL team ring on his wedding finger, where he always wore it."
Yolanda stared at him, not moving, not saying a word. She collapsed onto the sofa, buried her head in a pillow, and sobbed.
Staring into the gloom beyond his hotel window, Schag watched the elongated reflection of the oil tanker's anchor lights on the flat sea, looking so much like shimmering stalactites. Like Yolanda, he could not accept that Bill Butcher's life would end like this, without reason, without cause. He, too, always thought Bill would go down like a Roman gladiator, fighting to the finish. That, however, was the old Bill Butcher, the man he was before he was poisoned by the medication the Navy had given him. Schag was becoming increasingly convinced that Butcher's actions were due to this drug agueloquine. It was the only thing that made sense.
He finished his Scotch, considered pouring another, thought better of it, and slammed the empty glass down on the dresser.
Perhaps there was one way to make something good come of this. Maybe if Lieutenant Commander Clarke could get tissue samples, she could prove it was the drug and not Bill Butcher himself that caused all this havoc. For the sake of Yolanda and the kids, he told himself. And for Bill's, too.
Schag went to the closet and pulled out his sports jacket. He fumbled through the pockets for Clarke's business card but couldn't find it. Damn it, he thought. No telling where he dropped it. No matter. He'd drive over to Balboa Hospital in the morning and talk to her. First, however, he would need to pick up the appropriate paperwork at the base and go talk to Yolanda.
☼
He woke early and reached the NCIS offices before Riley or Parker arrived. After logging into a computer, Schag located the forms he needed and filled in the necessary information. He finished printing them out as Riley walked in. He folded the forms and slipped them into the inside pocket of his leather flight jacket.
"Aren't you the early bird today?" Riley commented, not noticing Schag's quick movement with the papers.
"I wanted to go see Yolanda," Schag said. "See how she's doing."
Riley nodded. "With Bill dead, she'll be able to go home today."
"Bill's not officially dead until the county M.E. confirms his identity," Schag said, referring the county's medical examiner.
"That shouldn't be long," Riley said. "They're doing the autopsy today."
"That doesn't mean they'll ID him today," Schag protested. "You heard the crime-scene tech. The gunshot destroyed most of his jaw and mandible. There may not be enough to do a dental comparison. And trying to resurrect fingerprints on a burnt corpse can take days, if it's possible at all."
Riley eyed him curiously. "What are you saying, Lin? That the crispy-critter wasn't Bill Butcher?'
Schag winced at Riley's description of his friend's corpse, but bit his tongue. He shook his head and said, "Not at all. I just think we need to proceed cautiously on this."
Riley snorted and grinned mockingly. "You know what I think?" he said. "I think you don't want to go back into exile at China Lake." Riley waved his hands, giving in. "All right, fine. We'll wait until Bill's identity is confirmed. But then . . ." Riley pointed his finger at Schag. "Th
en she goes and you go. Capisce?"
Schag nodded, back peddling out of the office.
"How long do you think you'll be, anyway?" Riley called after him.
"Don't know," Schag said, turning and opening the door. "I'm stopping by Balboa, too."
"You sick?" Riley asked.
"No, I want to talk to that doctor—Commander Clarke."
"What about? About that crazy theory of hers about the medication Butcher was given?" Riley's voice was getting louder as he spoke. "It's not our case, Schag. It's still not our case."
"I know. I know," Schag said, waving a hand. He closed the door and was gone.
CHAPTER 13
THURSDAY
Naval Medical Center San Diego
San Diego, California
0630 Hours
BALBOA PARK HAS BEEN HOME to Naval Medical Center San Diego since 1915, when a tent hospital was erected where the Natural History Museum sits today. Four years later, construction began on a permanent hospital atop Inspiration Point overlooking what was then the wide-open Florida Canyon. Like most of the early Navy buildings in the area—including NCIS regional headquarters—the hospital sported a Spanish Colonial Revival design, with pale-colored buildings topped with peaked, red-tile roofs. During World War II, Balboa Hospital—its common name—grew to accommodate the wounded returning from the Pacific Theater. During the Vietnam War, Balboa grew still more, becoming the largest military hospital in the world.
The old hospital was replaced in the 1980s with a sprawling modern facility built in the canyon it overlooked. All that remains of that original hospital is the administration building.
As Schag walked between its buildings, he saw the only thing that distinguished the modern Balboa Hospital from any civilian medical center was the large numbers of young men and women missing limbs. Some walked on prosthetic legs or rolled along in wheelchairs. Others carried their personal items with artificial arms or hands. Casualties of war, they all looked incredibly young to Schag, and old at the same time.
The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2) Page 9
