Adanna looks as angry as me, but her round eyes suddenly soften and blink in apparent recognition as they stare at me, then Murph, and then back at me, before narrowing.
“Hey, you guys made it,” she says, setting down her fork.
“What—what are you talking about?” I ask, as I take a seat directly across from her and Murph settles at the head of the table, in between us. I have to admit that for reasons that escape me, seeing such a pretty face at this moment is doing wonders for my ‘Grinchy’ state of mind. “Have we met?”
“You could say that,” she replies.
“Of course, we have,” Murph tells me as a smile broadens his face. “She’s a Christmas angel.”
I can’t fucking believe Murph is working her, but his comment somehow gives me pause, though I’m not sure why. However, I’ll be damned if the cheap line doesn’t result in the most angelic of smiles. And I kind of need that today.
But I suddenly hate myself for not having said something like that first, because the comment draws her attention toward him.
Let’s face it, I’ve never been good at pickup lines.
“You’re so cute,” she says. “But that’s not it.” Turning serious again and looking my way while using the fork as a pointing device and aiming it at my chest, she adds, “I carried you off that mountain.” The fork then shifts towards Murph. “The LT—rest in peace—carried you, the gunny hauled the big guy, and one of my squad guys tried to save the guy who was with you. But he bled out before we could get him help.”
I sit there completely stupefied. Commander Reid told me on that transport jet that the Marines had hauled us to the helos. But Chappy never made it, and there wasn’t anything left of Cope to bring back. And of course, I always thought that it was his words that played into my nightmare. But he never said anything about a woman with dark skin carrying me down the mountain, which can only mean that I was partly awake, enough for my senses to register what was happening and lock it in a corner of my mind that is tapped every night by my PTSD.
I sit there stunned, almost as if I’m having an out-of-body experience. My eyes remain locked with her very calm stare.
“I bet you guys suck at poker.”
The comment makes me blink, but I still can’t form any words, much less articulate them, and my compadre is apparently in the same boat.
At our continued synchronized and quite stupefied silence, she adds, “Easy there, guys. It was no big deal. Really.”
“I thought I was dreaming,” I finally say. “Every night since I regained consciousness I’ve dreamed about you.”
Adanna now looks at me in the same way as she was looking at Murph. “You two are just too damn sweet.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I heard you grunting under my weight while you hauled me to safety.”
She narrows her eyes a bit and gives me a smile. “You remember that?”
I slowly nod.
“Well, I know you would have done the same for me. No man—or woman—left behind, right?”
“Damn right,” is all I can think of saying, then add, “Still, I can’t begin to tell you how grateful we are… thank you, Marine. Really.”
“Yeah,” Murph adds trying to insert himself back into the conversation. “And fucking Oorah.”
“Oorah,” she replies and shoots him another smile while her amused gaze shifts between us, though I notice that it still remains more on Murph than on me.
“I’m Law,” I say. “And this here is—”
“Murph,” he says.
“Well, Law and Murph, I’m glad you’re back on your feet,” she adds, before reaching down with her fork to tap on the titanium tubing of one of Murph’s prosthetics to the rhythm of Jingle Bells. “With a little help from our taxpayers.”
I’m trying very hard to get over the shock that this beautiful girl hauled my unconscious ass for almost two miles through mountainous terrain to that LZ. I mean, we practice this shit in the teams, but I’m talking Navy SEAL super hombres. Most grunts or jarheads might go a mile hauling a buddy, but two? On that rocky land? And on top of that she’s almost half my weight?
Holy cow. I think I’m falling in love here, but apparently, Adanna seems to only have eyes for Murph as she smiles at him again when he suddenly takes the knife next to her plate and proceeds to tap one of her prosthetic legs to the same tune and say, “Think of the music we could make.”
She laughs, then says to him, “You’re adorable.”
And I’m running out of patience.
“I heard about the ambush,” I say, trying to bring them back to the reason we’re sitting here. “Very sorry to hear about your LT, gunny, and the others. Tough pill to swallow.”
She considers that for a moment while using the fork to toss the salad around her slice of Christmas baked ham. “At least we got hit by the Talis,” she says. “Your team took it in the ass by our own people. Probably the more bitter of the pills. Sucks either way.” She looks back at the snow scape as anger recoats her eyes.
Like me, the blow is too damn hard to overcome in just a few weeks, thus our anger stage. These things take time, and if you look at the statistics, quite a few never make the journey back.
I can’t help but take another moment to admire this badass warrior who literally saved my bacon.
“About that day, Adanna,” I finally ask. “What do you remember?”
She puts her fork down, leans back, and crosses her arms. “Well, for starters, it was a very strange op.”
“Strange how?” Murph asks before I can.
Adanna looks over to him. “As in the LT was not in charge.”
“Then who was?” he asks.
“These two FNGs that joined us in the helos,” she says, using the acronym for Fucking New Guys. “They had a brief chat with the LT and after that it was pretty obvious they were calling the shots.”
Now she has my undivided attention. Those two had to be Jones’ people—perhaps one of them was even Jones himself.
“Ever get names?” Murph asks.
Adanna shakes her head. “And I don’t think the LT ever did either. At least he never told me when I approached him that afternoon, after we delivered you guys to the Role 3.”
“What happened up there, Adanna?” I ask. “Brooks called in an airstrike but instead of limiting it to the Talis at the front of the village and along the path, they blew up the entire area, including the village and any non-combatants within it, plus our side of the mountain.”
She looks at me and shrugs. “Not really sure. By then my squad and I were in our DFPs. The LT was up at the front with the FNGs, and at one time I think I saw one of them actually on the radio. He might have been the guy calling in the strike. And then shit really hit the fan.”
“You mean the airstrike going all over the place?”
“No,” she says. “The damn Talis coming at us. I’ve never seen such shit.”
“I heard gunfire right before we got taken out, and also Brooks saying you guys were surrounded.”
“Surrounded? It was more like the attack of the goddamned Tali zombies. These bastards were on drugs or something. I mean, the way they were running toward us, leaping and jumping all over the place, like—”
“Monkeys on steroids?” I offer, remembering what Cope said and also thinking of the Talis we put down in Compound 35.
She blinks. “Yeah. Nearly ran out of ammo, but between the whole hillside going up in smoke except for our little enclave, plus we were well dug in our DFPs… that kept us from getting overrun. But it was close, man. Damned close. Then Brooks ordered us up the hill to search for you guys and I lost track of the FNGs. And you know the rest. But the LT… the whole episode kind of freaked him out. Wouldn’t talk about it afterwards. Kept telling me to,” she makes air quotes, “leave it the fuck alone.”
It�
��s my turn to blink. That’s precisely what Dix told me a couple of days ago, after coming back from the dead.
Leave it the fuck alone, Boss.
But I can’t.
How can I?
Could you?
“Did you?” Murph asks while I’m having this conversation with myself.
“Not really,” she says. “I mean, how could I leave that alone after what I saw?”
Damn. I really like this woman.
“And not just with the FNGs,” she continues, “but with those monkey-like Talis with the crazy eyes. It almost looked as if the FNGs were anticipating the bastards were going to behave like that by calling in that airstrike so quickly. I’m telling you, a minute later and we get run over.”
“So,” Murph asks. “What did you do?”
She gives him a mischievous look. “I dug into it a little.”
“And?” Murph asks.
“I was able to get something on the crew of that gunship.”
“Really? How?” I ask, leaning forward. Finn tried like hell and came out empty-handed.
“Trade secret. I can be really sweet when I need to.” She gives me a slow feminine wink.
Holy cow.
“And?” Murph presses.
“And I did a little following up.”
“Did you get a name?”
“At first, just the term ‘GS Contractors.’”
I stare at her as it all starts to make sense. The reason there were no names mentioned in the official report is because those aboard the gunship were General Schedule contractors. And I can bet my crappy O-4 salary—which amounts to less than six grand a month before taxes—that in this case it means CIA contractors on an SAP.
Ghosts.
Fucking CIA ghosts.
“I think you’re right,” I tell her. “Those two FNGs were talking directly with that gunship.”
“Yep,” Adanna replies. “But I also figured that spooks wouldn’t know dick about piloting a complex gunship such as the Ghostrider. So, I looked into it some more and came up with the names of the actual pilots.”
“You did?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, fuck me,” I tell her, totally stunned. How in the world did she—
“Buy me a drink first?”
Before I know it, I’m blushing, which draws a giggle from her and a frown from Murph, who gives me an I-have-dibs-on-her look.
The moment passes and she turns serious again.
“Anyway,” she says, “the names are Major Sal Norman and Captain Jonathan Kerns, both Air Force. But they’re both based out of Bagram.”
“Bagram? That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “Why would the Air Force deploy a Ghostrider all the way from Bagram when we have an entire fleet parked at KAF? And besides, the official report I got states that—”
“Yeah,” she interrupts. “I read it, too. Says that the gunship flew out of KAF on an air support mission. Not true. I was able to locate Kerns and got him on the horn, but he told me he couldn’t talk at that moment. So, we set up a time to chat the following night. But the Talis apparently had other plans and did a number on me the next morning.” She looks down at her legs.
And that, of course, makes me think of my team getting blown to bits the day after I started making waves. Is there a chance that someone also didn’t like the fact that Adanna was digging into—
“I made calls to Bagram a couple of days ago,” she says. “But both Kerns and Norman were transferred stateside and are unavailable.”
“Imagine that,” Murph says.
“Right,” Adanna says.
“So, what’s your next move?”
“Going to pass it on to the CID over in Virginia Beach.”
The comment makes me think of Granite, who was also considering going to the CID after digging into it some more—or at least that’s what he claimed he would do.
“Whole thing smells,” she adds, “and I got a buddy who works there. We went through CIDSAC training together during my last rotation home. I was planning to land there after I had my fill of killing Talis. Looks like I’m going there sooner than I thought ‘cause my in-country days are pretty much over.” CIDSAC stands for Criminal Investigative Division Special Agent Certification. Basically, the same training that NCIS special agents go through.
Wow. This woman, on her own, is light-years ahead of me on this investigation, and she’s probably even passing up Granite—assuming the man is really looking into it and not just blowing me off. She is also well on her way to her next job, having planned ahead by taking the special agent certification course. Very tenacious.
“And that’s it?” Murph asks.
“Pretty much,” she says. “And now I’m contemplating my options on this beautiful white Christmas.”
In an almost cosmic way, Bing Crosby’s White Christmas comes on while a group of soldiers and jarheads—most missing one or more body parts—gather by the tree and start singing terribly out of tune. It’s truly a sight for sore eyes—and ears—but at the same time uplifting in some strange way, like there might be some sort of hope for broken warriors like us.
We sit there listening to them while my mind is going in a number of directions. There’s almost enough to go back to Granite. I now have the names of the pilots, plus what Adanna saw on the ground. It’s pretty clear that the OGA was in control of what had to be a SAP, including the Ghostrider strike. Meanwhile, Brooks and his Marines, and my team for that matter, were there in a sort of cosmetic/support role, like we were the day before in Compound 35. And then there’s the coincidence of Brooks and team getting blown up just as we did.
But what can the Pit Bull realistically do? If Ponytail Jones and his crew vanished without a trace, I’m sure their pals on that gunship did the same damn thing, which explains the missing names, transcripts, recordings and the convoluted orders. Bastards know how to work those smoke and mirrors to cover their tracks. And of course, now both pilots are suddenly made unavailable.
But perhaps there’s a chance with the CID and also the NCIS, especially if I join them.
At a minimum, like Adanna, it would give me something to do when I get back. Because I gotta tell you, any returning veteran without some form of mission back home is bound to become the wrong kind of statistic. And who knows, perhaps it could have the added benefit of gaining me fact-gathering muscle to go after Ponytail Jones, because at the moment I feel quite powerless.
“How are you holding up?” Murph asks Adanna, his voice unusually soothing, tender.
Who is this guy?
“Well, no more beauty pageants for me,” she replies with a self-deprecating shrug and a frown. “Unless there’s like a Special Olympics version.”
Murph leans closer to her, places a hand on her shoulder, and squeezes it gently while saying, “Adanna, you have my vote in any version.”
“Well, aren’t you a sweet one,” she replies, locking eyes with him. “Where are you from, Marine?”
“Harlem.”
“Well, look at that. I’m just up the road from you. Queens.”
“No shit?” Murph says, smiling.
“No shit,” Adanna replies, still gazing into his eyes.
No shit, I think, getting a sense of déjà vu from the Star Bar between Franky and Dix. Though at least this time around I didn’t get emotionally invested before one of my buddies put the move on somebody I was starting to like.
And off they go, hitting it off just like Franky and Dix, talking about the places they know, restaurants and bars they frequented, even had a few common acquaintances.
After five long and painful minutes of sitting there listening to them, I start to get that old familiar fifth-wheel loving feeling again.
I stand and yawn. “I’m beat,” I lie. “Thanks for the info, Adanna, and also
for bringing me back.”
“Nothing to it,” she replies. “Merry Christmas, Law.”
“Merry Christmas.”
With that, and with Murph barely looking in my direction as I make my hasty departure, I leave them to whatever it is they’re doing or planning to do.
I head out of the cafeteria as Aaron’s Neville’s version of Oh Holy Night comes on and our ragtag band, which now includes Cheech and Chong and a dozen MPs, attempts to sing along.
The dining facility is at one end of the very long hallway on the first floor, opposite the lobby. The elevators are in the middle and there are also stairs at either end. I’m debating whether to take the stairs up to my room on the second floor or perhaps continue one floor higher and try to talk my way in to see Dix. Maybe the nurse on duty will have pity on my lonely state of mind on Christmas Eve.
But as I leave the haphazard chorus behind and walk into the hallway, I notice two men in scrubs and white lab coats stepping out of the elevators and heading toward the lobby.
And I freeze.
It can’t possibly be…
Those elevators are at least five hundred feet away, plus the men turn away from me before I can be sure. But unless my eyes are playing tricks on me—and mind you I have great eyesight—I’m pretty sure I know what I saw.
And now I spot that damned ponytail swinging behind the smaller of the two. The other one is tall, wide, and completely bald.
Jones and Linebacker.
Son of a—
Armed with my cane, I start moving as fast as I can to attempt to catch up to them, but I’m nowhere nearly fast enough. Before long they make it to the double doors leading to the lobby, which leads to the parking lot, while I’m just halfway to the elevators.
Goddammit.
“Hey, Jones!”
The pair slows down but don’t turn around.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I shout at their backs.
Instead of responding, they simply vanish beyond the smoked-glass doors.
Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 10
