by Zack Klika
She set to work with a jab routine, one of the first things she had learned during her training to become military police, and switched it up a few minutes in, pummeling the bag with kicks that would snap a thick neck.
Being six feet tall meant she was seen as a challenge by most of the male soldiers in her training class at AIT. She always took the challengers on with a smile. The first few held back. Their mistake. There were a few times she had the wind knocked out of her or caught a black eye. Not often, though. She ate well and treated her body like it was on lease and needed to be turned in the way she had received it. She was destined for a life of public service and she knew it. Just another reason she had to get out of the Army. Justice was rarely seen in her line of work, especially for battered women. She couldn’t stand it.
She finished the workout with a kick that she’d feel later. But Jennifer was still there, right on the edge of her mind. Lee would have to be okay. There was no turning back from the operation. But who did Jennifer have on her side?
*
Conn strolled into the empty room at the police station at 8 a.m. on the dot, two hours early for the briefing she and Johnson were leading. A bare fold-out table and fold-out chairs were placed in the center of the room. The room’s white walls gave off a medical vibe. The dry-erase board at the back of the room was empty, its blank canvas giving Conn a jolt of energy. This was all hers for the next twenty-four hours.
She set to work by outlining the Clarksville Speedway’s layout, marking X’s where the police officers would be stationed around its oval dirt track, and pinning some photos of Buck, Danny, and Lee to a separate board. Below Buck’s photo, she pinned a few photos of two men’s bruised and battered naked bodies.
The men had been found in different parts of Clarksville. Both of them beaten to death. Johnson was the detective on both cases, just before Conn had become his partner. Johnson couldn’t link any suspects to them. An ex-girlfriend had told him one of the deceased was always bragging about how well he did at the fights against the most elite in the world. Not that well, Conn thought when she first saw the photos of the dead men. She knew Neil’s mention of underground fights had something to do with Johnson’s desire to bring Buck in. Conn was more concerned with getting illegal weapons off the streets.
Johnson and the two officers loaned out to them arrived just on time. Phillips and Duncan weren’t much to look at, but they would get the job done.
Phillips had rounded in his later years, and his attitude was shit. He only had two years left until retirement and made sure everyone knew it.
Duncan was newer than Conn. He came from a National Guard background, so he caught quite a bit of shit from the other officers. He was constantly asked what it was like in the Nasty Girls, something former active-duty soldiers liked to call National Guard soldiers. Duncan held up well, though. He had a relaxed way about himself. That only upset senior police officers more. Conn amused herself with the knowledge he probably knew that.
The three men took seats around the table. Conn turned to the group, took a deep breath, and dived in. She pointed to the photo of Buck.
“This is Buck Miller,” she said, “and we’ve recently started looking into a streak of violence that may be connected to him. We had someone that was willing to talk, but he disappeared a few days after initial contact was made. And that was a few months ago. Up until that source, we thought Buck was just some hillbilly dealing small amounts of weed at the speedway he owns. But now we think he’s dealing more than just drugs. And we’ve found someone else who’s willing to talk to us.”
Phillips shot Johnson a disbelieving look. Conn saw it, but moved on. Phillips didn’t need to know that Lee had no knowledge of Buck before working for her and Johnson, or that he was practically blackmailed into helping.
“Who’s the source?” Duncan asked.
Conn pointed to a photo of Lee.
“This man. Lee Parsons. He’s Buck’s newest drug dealer.”
Duncan nodded. Conn pointed to the photo of Danny.
“This is Danny Smith, Buck’s right-hand man. He’s got a record that involves some charges for minor drug offenses and aggravated assault.”
Conn stepped away from the dry-erase board, closer to the group.
“These aren’t your typical redneck trash. They’re efficient. Smart even. If they’ve been able to do some of the things we think they have, and get away with it, then there’s no telling what we’ll find.”
“What do you think Buck’s dealing?” Duncan asked.
“We believe he’s holding illegal fights in the warehouse next to his speedway and, during those fights, unloading different kinds of weapons and munitions. We’re not positive what kind, though,” she said, pausing for effect. “We’re not even sure how big these deals are, but our initial source told us that he saw Buck selling around twenty fully automatic assault rifles and six large crates of ammo that looked close to six feet long apiece.”
“How the hell would he know if they were fully automatic?” Phillips asked.
“He saw Buck unload a thirty-round clip into a deer carcass in under five seconds at one of the fights,” she said.
Phillips crossed his arms and scoffed.
“How’d he gets his hands on that much brass?” Duncan asked.
“I checked out the local gun shops and sporting goods stores, and none of them have had any ammunition sold or stolen in quantities that large,” Conn said.
“If he’s as big as you think he is, shouldn’t he be on the ATF or FBI’s radar then?” Phillips asked.
Johnson stepped in and said, “We ran a search with both agencies and they had no idea who Buck Miller or Danny Smith even were. We even checked with CID on base to see if they’ve had any recent reports of stolen ammo or weapons. Nothing there either. None of the agencies think we have enough evidence to pursue this, so they opted out of sending us any field agents to assist.”
“So this operation is moving forward based off the information from a weak lead that’s dead now?” Phillips asked, a grin plastered on his face.
“Leads are how any investigation begins. You should know that by now,” Conn said, and Phillips stopped grinning. “It’s entirely possible the fights aren’t even happening tonight. If we had more concrete evidence, we’d be able to get a warrant and request a SWAT team. But right now your only concern is surveillance. If Lee sees anything go down, we can call in backup and take Buck and Danny in then.”
Duncan nodded and said, “Sounds good to me.”
Phillips just nodded.
“If there aren’t any more questions,” Conn said and Johnson gave her a nod, “then you’re dismissed. Everyone be back here at six tonight.”
Chapter 10
Riley was, in effect, on loan to the Fort Campbell Daily, so she had certain freedoms other soldiers on base did not. One of them was that she didn’t have to meet with her unit for morning physical training. As long as she could pass her physical fitness test, no one would give her a hard time. So she slept in a bit. She had left her apartment’s windows open the night before to let in the cool air. It always helped her sleep better and had proven to do so again.
Her alarm clock was on the ground and read 9:15 when she finally woke up in her California King–size bed that took up a large majority of her studio apartment. When she opened her eyes again, the clock read 11:20. An onset of laziness had plagued her last few months on base. She chalked it up to one of the effects of almost being done with her military contract. She still couldn’t decide if she wanted to get out or reenlist.
The barracks were her home for her first two and a half years at Fort Campbell, but once she got promoted to sergeant, it was time to move out and free up a spot for a lower-ranking soldier. She had little interest in her accommodations as long as the shower stayed hot for longer than a few minutes and no dogs could be heard barking in the area. The second apartment she looked at earned her business.
She had a first-floor
unit that had recently been updated with composite-wood floors and a marble countertop in the small kitchen. The cabinets were still stuck in the past. And there was no backyard. But it did have a stacked washer-and-dryer unit in it. The living allowance she received from the Army for off-base housing was just shy of $1,000. The studio costs her $600 a month, and that included utilities. Decorations were kept to a minimum. She loved the place.
She dropped a medium-roast pod in her coffee machine, which whirred and hummed to life, its only reason for being to feed a caffeine addiction. A quick shower was all she had time for since she was running behind schedule. The plan had been to catch Colonel Wright during PT, around 6:30 in the morning. The base buzzed with life during that time. Close to five thousand soldiers worked out from 6:00 a.m. to 7:30 a.m., Monday through Friday, without fail. The price they paid for being stationed at one of the most prestigious military bases in the world.
Riley would have to try and catch him before lunch instead. She gave Tim a call, letting him know she would be in later. He told her no problem and hung up. The office ran perfectly fine without her. She grabbed an apple from her lonely fruit basket, poured her coffee into an old coffee cup, and hit the road.
Scattered puffy white clouds lingered over the dense woods and twisty road Riley traveled down. The 22nd Special Forces Group building was tucked away deep in the back forty. Riley knew exactly where it was, having written an article on the grueling training its soldiers went through to earn the right to wear the green beret. All the more reason to be impressed by someone like Jennifer, Riley thought.
After fifteen minutes of snaking down the back roads, going deeper and deeper into the back forty, she pulled into the parking lot of a two-story red brick building. Two rows of large tinted windows wrapped around the entire building. Her palms were sticky from sweat and felt like they had to be peeled off the steering wheel. That only happened when she was nervous. And she knew exactly why she felt nervous. Chain of command was being broken every which way but the right way. You didn’t just walk in and ask to speak with a colonel. Things didn’t work that way. Maybe they did if you had an emergency, but she didn’t have an emergency. She was snooping around on the Army’s dime.
The face of the building was almost hidden amongst the tall northern red oak trees that surrounded it. An aerial view of the building would show treetops and nothing else. To the left of the building’s entrance, there was a circular unit insignia. It displayed a dark blue background with a bone-white centaur holding a sword in the center, pointing it to the stars above. Below the insignia, in an Old English font, were the words “Death Stalkers.” She threw back a few pills, then headed for the building.
As Riley walked up to the building, she adjusted her pressed uniform top. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She looked like one of the soldiers in the pamphlets that recruiters pass out to high schoolers when they try to sell them the dream of Army life. It was all bullshit, though. There was good and bad that came with being enlisted—she just wished the recruiters were more forthright about the bad.
The door hissed behind her as it shut against rubber sills. An old building like this needed all the insulation help it could get. The building might have looked worn on the outside, but the inside was clean, cold, and seemed to be adequately funded. That a Special Forces building had money didn’t surprise Riley. She knew a lot of the funding for the military went to special units like this. A large framed photo of the president hung on the wall directly to her right. On her left, an American flag folded into a triangle was secured in a glass frame that was level with the president’s photo.
A narrow path of about ten feet ran from the entrance to the CQ desk. It was a polished white that showed the reflection of the fluorescent lights above. Everything was bright in military buildings. Every building was freezing too. It had something to do with staying awake, she imagined.
The soldier on duty was reading a magazine and held the rank of private first class. His name tag read “Benson.” Riley noticed he wasn’t wearing a combat patch. Soon enough. Riley waited for him to acknowledge her. That was part of his job anyway. She cleared her throat after a few seconds. He glanced up, saw the sergeant stripes, and set his magazine down. Not fast. Not slow. Just set it down. Riley figured a sergeant didn’t mean much to a soldier who was in the company of officers all day.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” he said.
“I was wondering which way Colonel Wright’s office is.”
A building like this probably had close to fifty offices. Colonel was a high rank, but it went much higher. Benson ran his finger down a sheet of paper taped to his desk, searching for the name Wright. His finger stopped about halfway down the sheet.
“He’s on the first floor, room 109. That’ll be down to your right, Sergeant.”
Riley smiled at him and said, “Thanks.”
Benson picked up his magazine as Riley walked off. Maybe he wouldn’t ring the colonel and tell him she was on her way down.
She stopped at room 109. The door was open, so she walked in. There were two desks in the room. No windows. Nothing at all really. The clock on the wall read ten past twelve. Lunchtime. That explained the lack of personnel handling business at the desks. The dark wood door in front of her had a bronze plaque on it that read “Col. Martin Wright.”
Shadows of footsteps crossed the thin strip of light visible at the base of the door. She knocked twice and waited. Almost a minute later, the door swung open. Colonel Wright looked like an English teacher, not a commander of trained killers. He had brown hair, cropped close to graying temples. His eyes were blue and his skin pale, making the blue in his irises pop even more. The only thing that seemed strange to her was the smile on his face. It was there when he opened the door and remained there when he saw Riley in front of him.
Riley snapped to the position of attention.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” he said.
“Hello, sir.”
He waved a hand at her. “At ease, relax. What can I do for you?”
“I’m with the Fort Campbell Daily and I’m writing a piece on Specialist Jennifer Carlson,” Riley said, watching to see if his smile faltered at the name. It didn’t. Not one bit. “It’s sort of a tribute to her and her achievements during the short time she was here. Do you have a few minutes to spare, sir?”
“Of course. Come on in.”
His office had a historic feel to it. A brass shine could be seen in almost every direction you looked. Riley sat in one of the new leather chairs across from Wright. Wright sat in a worn chair behind his long wood desk and clasped his hands in front of his chest as he leaned back. A bandage was wrapped around one of his hands, and it seemed as though he was on a raised platform looking down on her, but the floor was flat across the entire room. He probably had half a foot on her if she had to eyeball it.
A bookcase with four rows ran the length of the left wall. Military training manuals and old model war planes sat on the shelves. Neon page markers protruded from the tops of almost every book on the top shelf. The back wall had a large window that revealed a dense tree line. To her right, there was an old mahogany side table that had some military achievement awards and medals on it.
Colonel Wright cleared his throat.
“It’s a shame what happened to her,” he said. “She was an exceptional soldier.”
“Was she, sir?”
Play dumb, she thought.
“Oh yes. She was one of twenty female soldiers that requested a slot in the upcoming SFAS course, but she was the only one with a Pathfinder badge.”
“I didn’t know that was open to women now, sir.”
He looked puzzled by that. She knew she had slipped up.
“Then how did you know I met her?” he asked, his smile still present.
Riley smiled back. “So you knew her well then, sir?”
“No, no. I met her once, during the interviews we held for the few women we chose to move forward with. Sh
e was the only one who made it past the first round.”
“That’s pretty impressive, sir.”
“Oh yes. Extremely so,” he said, and rubbed his chin with his bandaged hand. “Not just anyone gets a slot at Selection. Her physical fitness and marksmanship scores were some of the highest I’ve seen in the past five years, even amongst the male soldiers.”
Riley looked at the bandage on his hand. And she could have sworn he was wearing a light blush around one of his eyes. It wasn’t bright enough in the office to tell, though.
“Do you know if she was training with anyone for the course, sir?”
“Not that I can think of.”
Riley nodded. So far Colonel Wright seemed to have been telling the truth. She waited for him to continue. There was always more if you let the quiet linger.
“I can’t say I was particularly thrilled at the idea of including a woman in the course. Nothing against women in the military. It has more to do with their place in combat roles.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
She knew what he meant. But it was always explained to her differently, whenever there was an explanation. Some men didn’t have one. They just said women didn’t belong in combat roles and that was that. A man like Colonel Wright probably thought women didn’t belong in special units like his because they were weaker than men and could make men soft with their presence alone. To Colonel Wright, Jennifer was probably just another female nobody trying to break into his old boys’ club. She still had a feeling hazing was part of why Jennifer died, but why would two men from her class go looking for information at her barracks if they killed her? The question had been gnawing away at her.
“Even the hardest man will soften with a woman around,” Colonel Wright said.
“I understand,” she said, her tone making it clear that that was all the explanation she needed. “Do you think she would have made it through the course, though, sir?”
