Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  Yanez tilts his head at me. “It does, Commander, and that led me to my second observation. So, I had Jerry perform a quick search in our joint military databases—all five branches—and we were able to come up with sixty-three murder-suicide cases of veterans without any priors in the continental United States in the past five years. And guess what? Every one of the 57 men and 6 women involved in those murder-suicides took the popular PTSD prescription med regularly for at least three years. Of course, that’s sixty-three murder-suicides out of a population of almost one point six million who have taken the medication regularly for a minimum of three years without any incident. That’s barely 0.005% percent, hardly a trend. But like you said, Commander. It does get you thinking.”

  Yes, it does, and on a very personal level I also like those odds. A lot.

  “Jerry’s now performing a wider search,” he adds. “We’ll see how many more cases he can pull up.”

  Yanez then works the remote control and the screen shows what looks like a bar graph with different chemicals listed along the bottom of the graph with their respective concentrations shown by the height of each bar.

  “This is my third observation: an analysis that Jerry and I pulled together of the right amygdala of Petty Officer Franklin. The chemical composition is almost normal with one exception: the tissue we analyzed has this abnormally-high concentration of zolopronil.”

  “What’s that?” Mia asks.

  “The active ingredient in Zilopronol-B.”

  Oh, shit, I think.

  “Oh, shit,” she says.

  “And Dawson’s analysis is basically the same, though the strength of the concentration of zolopronil is less but proportional to the size of his right amygdala.”

  I nod, remembering that Dawson’s was about a third larger than the left one while Franklin’s was almost doubled. And now I can’t help but wonder if mine is also growing.

  Fuck.

  “Law?” Mia asks. “You okay there?”

  Damn. Apparently, I need to work at controlling my facial expressions. “Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”

  She frowns and looks back at Yanez.

  “And that’s my third observation,” the forensic pathologist concludes. “And although nothing is definite by my book, the observations do tend to fit together, enough to bring it to your attention.”

  Well, the pasty little doctor definitely has my attention.

  Mia and Beatriz cross their arms in unison before the latter asks, “What’s your next move, Harry?”

  “I’m sending an email to the manufacturer of the drug, Hewitt-Pharma, and also to a guy I know at the FDA. See what comes out of all that. But while I was waiting for you folks to get here, I had Jerry do a little research on the history of this drug and here’s what we’ve learned so far: Zilopronol-A, the predecessor of Zilopronol-B, is a beta-blocker developed in the late 1970s and released in 1982 for the management of cardiac arrhythmias and ischemic heart disease in Vietnam veterans exposed to Agent Orange. But at the time, it also seemed to positively affect depression, anxiety, hypervigilance, and other PTSD symptoms. Because of this early success, it was refined into Zilopronol-B by Hewitt-Pharma and made available for public consumption in 1987. The main difference between the -A and the -B versions is the concentration of the active substance: zolonopril. The -A version was set at 73%. The -B version was cut down to 19%. At the last count, close to seven million Americans, primarily veterans, have taken the FDA-approved prescription over the past quarter of a century as one of several medications available to treat depression and anxiety symptoms.”

  I think I feel a tad better knowing I only took the -B version, but still have to wonder if the damn drug is screwing up my noodle. But that aside for a moment, all of these revelations feel really, really bad as my mind starts conjuring a possible theory.

  But Mia, once again, manages to read my thoughts as she says, “Don’t know about you guys, but I’m starting to think we have an issue with this drug, and the back-to-back episodes in the past day, plus what you experienced in country—and everything we just discussed with Roy… it sure smells like some sort of government cover-up.”

  As I’m about to wholeheartedly agree with her, she adds, “And I need a smoke,” and starts marching toward the parking lot.

  Rossi, Beatriz, and I exchange a glance, and like little bees, we all quietly follow the smoking queen.

  Chapter 26

  The night is clear and cool. My lungs fill with fresh air and my mind with fouled thoughts.

  Is this what it is, really?

  A goddamned government cover-up?

  Is Zilopronol behind the murder-suicides that Yanez described, including the ones in the missing files as well as the one I witnessed two days ago at the Hampton VA?

  And speaking of the late Petty Officer Franklin, his Olympic-level agility did remind me of the hajis that we put down in Compound 35, as well as the descriptions from Cope and also Adanna about those villagers going bat-shit crazy the following day.

  And Cope. Dammit, man. What the hell? Plus, Uncle D. How could he possibly be connected to Yuri?

  And I can almost see the late Greg Hostetter all gunned up making those comments outside Compound 35, plus the biohazard crates.

  But Mia is right. They’re all just trees.

  We can’t seem to get our arm around the big picture.

  The forest.

  At this juncture, I’m really desperately hoping that between my calls into Granite and Uncle D., plus the inquiry that Ledet is doing, plus the noise that Yanez is now making at the FDA and Hewitt-Pharma, that it will be enough to start getting a higher view of what we’re dealing with.

  And on top of all that, I now have the added concern that I’ve taken the damn med for six months. Is my right amygdala also growing, like a cancer? And if so, would I be able to tell? Will I know if I’m starting to go crazy?

  As I ponder that, I notice that Rossi bums a cigarette from Mia and lights up, smoking side by side with her while leaning against the hood of her Mercedes SUV. There’s no breeze sweeping in from the bay at this early hour, so a haze quickly develops around them. Beatriz and I step away to the next row of cars facing them to get away from it.

  Rossi takes a drag, leans down and whispers something to Mia, and then exhales smoke skyward. Mia nods, grins, and whispers something back before also drawing from her cigarette. Then they shake their heads and even manage a brief laugh at the same time.

  I settle next to Beatriz by the bumper of her NCIS-issued Chevy Tahoe. “So those two are best buds now?”

  Beatriz sighs. “With Mia, it’s always a love-hate thing. Her heart’s in the right place, but she has a way of pissing people off.”

  We stand in silence for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, then Beatriz also decides to add to my bizarre day by asking, “That little lady back at the Norfolk office and at the marina… are you with her?”

  I turn to face her, and I think I can see in her big green eyes why she is asking that. I can swear it’s the same expression that washed over her yesterday after the shooting, when she wished me well in my new assignment.

  Then again, I could be completely off base.

  So, I settle for the safe answer. “Her husband died today. I’m looking after her. Why do you ask?”

  As she considers that, her phone goes off, and a moment later so does mine, followed by Mia’s and Rossi’s.

  What now?

  I look at my screen but Beatriz beats me to it as she says, “The Russian’s gone!”

  “Son of a bitch!” I hear Mia screaming, staring at her phone, as is Rossi, looking at the same text I’m reading from the lead MA at the hospital. It appears that the Russian that I wounded at the marina left the OR but never made it to the recovery room on the first floor.

  As I’m trying to digest what that means, and al
so how that was even possible given the number of MAs guarding the man, I spot shadows on my peripheral vision moving swiftly toward us from our left, the direction of the street.

  My body reacts before my mind can process it, dropping to a deep crouch while my shooting hand slaps my waist, fingers curling around the Sig’s grip.

  Their motion is smooth, fluid, signaling professionals.

  “Get down!” I shout as the world around me goes into the slow motion of close combat. Rossi looks in the direction of the threat. Mia reacts by pushing him out of the way just as a spitting sound precedes Mia spinning around when she takes a round in the shoulder meant for him. But the next round catches Rossi in the gut.

  They both roll on the ground as I line up the closest incoming figure and fire once, twice, the reports echoing across the parking lot as the assassin screams before dropping out of sight behind a parked car.

  Two others take his place, and now I recognize the bulky sound suppressors projecting from the ends of the barrels, which they turn in my direction, muzzles spewing silent violence.

  But I’m already scrambling left and only hear the hammer-like strikes of slugs pounding the hood of Beatriz’s Tahoe.

  “With me!” I shout, cruising along the rear of her SUV before coming back around to the other side, catching the two assassins looking in Mia’s direction.

  Beatriz and I fire in unison just as the pair is about to fire on Mia, who is bleeding from her shoulder but trying to tend to Rossi’s wound. We score simultaneous hits.

  The assassins go down just as more silent rounds pound the car to our right, a small red Kia.

  I drop and roll again, getting out of the way before the new set of shooters adjust their fire. Beatriz does not, standing in plain view of the menace for a second longer. I’m about to pull her down when a short and dark figure lurches into her, tackling Beatriz with the power of an NFL linebacker, shoving her out of the way, sending her crashing against the side of a truck.

  The side of Beatriz’s face strikes the passenger window just as I recognize the tackler.

  Mia!

  But before I can provide covering fire, a silent round smacks the Glock out of Mia’s hands, and it skitters away.

  Reaching for her right ankle, Mia grabs her back-up piece, a Walther PPK/S, and fires at the incoming figures to try to give Beatriz time to hide.

  Not fast enough.

  A bullet finds Beatriz’s right shoulder, spinning her around. I catch her before she hits the ground, her Glock dropping from view. Her eyes wide in shock, she cringes and gazes at me while I try to drag her out of the immediate kill zone.

  “Law…” she mumbles, her face draining of color. “Cold… I’m cold.”

  “Hang in there,” I tell her, pressing her against me with my left arm while holding the Sig in my right hand, searching for the threat that has to be almost on top of us.

  “Protect my little bees!” Mia shouts, grabbing Beatriz’s Glock in her left hand while still clutching the Walther in her right, turning the muzzles in the direction of the threat just as I do.

  “You’re hit,” I tell her.

  “Flesh wound,” Mia replies.

  Two hooded figures materialize above us, tall, muscular, clutching sound-suppressed pistols in their gloved hands, which I recognize as Sig Sauers.

  Mia and I fire in unison, taking one of them out, but the other fires into the middle of her chest from a dozen feet, scoring a hit.

  NO!

  She falls out of my immediate field of view as I continue holding Beatriz. The surviving assassin then levels the pistol at me just as I try to raise my Sig even though I know I’m a fraction of a second behind him—just late enough to know I can’t get him before he gets me.

  Shit.

  So instead of taking aim, I opt to shield Beatriz, rolling over her.

  “Law… no,” she whispers when realizing what I’ve done, as our eyes meet in the semidarkness while waiting together for the inevitable.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper back, pressing the side of her face against mind. “It’s—”

  Two loud reports whip the parking lot, but I feel no impact.

  Confused, I turn in the direction of the shots as Beatriz trembles in my arms. Mia trashes on the ground next to us clutching her chest. Sirens blare in the distance.

  Standing where the assassin had been a moment ago, and looking larger than life, are no other than Ponytail Jonesy and Mark Kessler. They’re holding M4s.

  This can’t be.

  It’s impossible.

  My first reaction is to shift my Sig toward them.

  These are the bastards that tortured Dix.

  These are the monsters that killed Chappy, and wounded Murph and me—and God only knows what they did to those noncombatants in Compound 35.

  But before I can raise my weapon, a third figure emerges behind them.

  Another impossibility.

  But his big head and his even bigger jaws are very real, and more so when I see them trembling, ready to bite someone’s head off.

  Colonel Jim “Pitbull” Granite turns his angry glare at me as he shouts, “Stand down, Marine!”

  I just stare back at him completely stupefied.

  Nothing is as it seems.

  Absolutely nothing.

  While my mind tries to catch up to what my eyes are seeing, and I slowly lower the Sig—and also my guard—someone sneaks behind me, slips a bag over my head, takes the Sig away, and flex cuffs me.

  Chapter 27

  “So, Colonel, are you going to tell me what in the world you’re doing hanging out with these assholes?”

  I’m in a holding cell somewhere in the area because we drove less than ten minutes before I was pulled out of the back of a van and dragged inside this room.

  And when the hood came off, I found myself on one side of a metal table cuffed to its shiny surface staring at Jonesy occupying the seat across from me. Colonel Granite stood behind him dressed in his Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform with the desert camouflage pattern. He sipped coffee from that same old mug with the spike-collared pit bull. Kessler and his pronounced facial scar leaned against the door dressed in civilian clothes, just jeans and a T-shirt, his muscular arms crossed, a pair of dark eyes glaring my way. To screw with me, the assholes took off my prosthesis before kicking me out of the van, making me hop on one leg from the van with the hood on, across what I guessed was a parking garage, onto an elevator, and down what seemed like endless hallways before slamming me down on this chair. But that still child’s play compared to the shit my instructors put me through at Coronado.

  “You’re out of your depth, soldier,” Jonesy says while Granite looks on.

  “I’m a SEAL and a Marine, dumbass. Not a soldier. Get your nomenclature straight. And you’re the one out of control,” I reply calmly. “Because on top of being a SEAL and a Marine, I’m also a federal-fucking-agent, whom you just kidnapped. I think I’ve lost count of how many damn laws you’ve broken.”

  Jonesy grins at that. “Kidnapped? I’d like to think I just saved your sorry ass.”

  “And,” I add, “you—Jonesy—and your compadre, Kessler, tortured a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient, not to mention what your Russki pal Yuri did to Dix afterwards, forcing him to kill himself. Add that to the pile of broken laws on your plate.”

  The comment makes Jonesy blink because he has no earthly idea how I’d know his name or Kessler’s, or even Yuri’s.

  Granite suddenly takes an interest in what I’m saying as he steps to one side of the table, sets down the mug on its metal surface, and asks Jonesy, “What’s he talking about? And how does he know your names?”

  Jonesy recovers quickly and says, “I have no idea, sir. As M.K. and I reported, Dix—”

  “These two tortured Dix, Colonel, then they sent their pal
Yuri to finish him off.” By now I have a pretty good idea that Jonesy probably didn’t sanction Yuri’s actions, but it does have the desired effect.

  Jonesy leans back in obvious surprise. But as he’s about to reply, Granite cuts him off and turns to me. “Lawson, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  For a moment, I wonder if the good colonel is playing me, just like he played me at the DFAC in country and again during our video call. But he looks sincere. Then again, he looked pretty damn sincere before. Either way, it doesn’t really matter because my response is the same. “Colonel, it means your two hound dogs here plus their Russian buddy tortured and then forced Dix to take his own life. And I really don’t care what in the world is going on, their actions will never be justified in my book.”

  “He’s full of shit, sir,” Jonesy says. “That’s not what happened.”

  Granite looks over at Kessler. “And you back him up?”

  Kessler nods. “Damn right.”

  I just grin.

  “What the hell’s so funny?” Jonesy asks. “You’re in a world of shit.”

  “No, asshole. You are.” Then I point to Kessler and add, “And so are you, M.K., because NCIS has your ass on high-definition video torturing Dix before Yuri stepped in to do your dirty work and finish him off.”

  Jonesy leans back again while Kessler approaches the table looking ready to shoot me between the eyes as he says, “You lying piece of—”

  “You’ve already emptied my pockets,” I say as Jonesy stares at me dumbfounded while Granite just clenches his massive jaws, looking for a target to chew. “Check out the little memory stick clipped to my keychain. And don’t bother destroying it like you did with the transcripts between Brooks’ platoon and KAF. This time I made sure there were plenty of copies.”

  Granite snaps his fingers at Kessler, who is still staring at me. Visibly pissed, he leaves the room, and returns a few minutes later with my keyring.

  The colonel points at the little blue flash drive dangling from the keychain ring along with my keys.

  “I’d get some popcorn and a coke, sir,” I say. “To soften the blow.”