“Sergeant Shephard was murdered after being removed from the program,” I said, not giving him a chance to claim otherwise. “Who drafted the order to have him killed?”

  He stared.

  I knew he had the answer. I needed to know what else he could tell me that I didn’t already know.

  “Are you prepared to give a response?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I approached him and removed the tape from his mouth.

  He drew a deep breath, gazed at one of the piles of clothes for a moment, and then looked up.

  “The order came from the DNI’s office,” he said. “Believe me, I didn’t like it. I was just following orders.”

  The Director of National Intelligence, or DNI, was a post-9/11 position created within the executive branch of the federal government. The Office of the DNI housed the DNI, and the staff that supported him. They answered only to the President. The Director of National Intelligence oversaw the CIA, NSA, FBI, Department of Homeland Security, DEA, ATF, and each of the military intelligence agencies.

  “Did the DNI give the order to have him shipped out?”

  “No. It came from somewhere in the Marine Corps.”

  “So, the Marines ordered him to be shipped out, and the DNI ordered that he be eliminated prior to him shipping out?”

  “Correct.”

  If the Marines ordered Shephard to be shipped out, and the Office of the DNI gave an order to have him killed, my worst fear was correct. The DNI acted on its own, independent of the military. They killed Shephard to prevent him from talking.

  “Who in the DNI office gave the order?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows,” he responded.

  I sharpened my glare. “What do you mean, nobody knows?”

  “Everything’s encrypted,” he said. “We get the orders, and we act on them. No one has ever met the man in charge, and no one’s spoken to him directly. The Director of National Intelligence is the only one who knows who he is.”

  “Bullshit!” I spat, waving the weapon in his direction. “Tell me what you know. Everything.”

  He lowered his head, thought for a moment, and then gazed into the path of my stare. “After receiving the order to eliminate Shephard, I started looking into who the guy is. I doubted he was military, because he was giving an order to kill a marine. Just last week I got his computer’s IP address, but it doesn’t tell me much. His server is in the Washington, D.C. area, that’s all I really know. I’ll need a few weeks to pinpoint his location. Then, I’ll know where and who he is.”

  “You’ve just recently started trying to figure out who this guy is?” I argued. “Over the course of three years, you’ve never wondered?”

  “The order to eliminate Shephard seemed out-of-character,” he said. “So, I started digging. Believe me, when it came time to assign that mission, I was just following orders. Processing paperwork. I didn’t like it.”

  “What about Martin? What were his thoughts about Shephard being eliminated?”

  His expression went blank.

  “He doesn’t know?” I asked.

  “The orders come to me. I assemble the intel sheets, and Martin signs off on them. The directive of that mission was clear. Martin was to have no knowledge of the order to eliminate Shephard. After the mission was complete, we received word from the DNI that Shephard was KIA in Somalia.”

  “And you didn’t tell Martin the truth?”

  He shook his head. “I did not.”

  I pointed the tip of the barrel at his stomach. “Are you sure?”

  “I swear it,” he stammered. “The orders come directly to me. Martin never sees them until after I sign them. The mission was marked for my eyes only.”

  Beads of sweat poured from his brow and ran down along his face. My interrogation experience told me he was telling the truth, but I needed to know everything he knew, and nothing less.

  “You have no idea who gave the order? He sends emails. You comply. It’s that easy?”

  He nodded eagerly. “We receive an encrypted email giving the target’s name, personal data, and a recent photo. We may or may not receive data supporting the reason for elimination. Beyond that, we assemble the intel in-house. Since the inception of New Dawn, we’ve received instructions from one man in the DNI’s office. The emails have all been signed, ‘R.P. McMurphy’, but there’s no such person in the Office of the DNI that I can find.”

  I laughed to myself. It was blatantly obvious that beyond assigning the order to kill Shephard, Wallace didn’t know a damned thing. With my suspicions confirmed, I was ready to begin phase two of my plan.

  “Who was assigned to eliminate Shephard?” I asked.

  “The order said there was to be no paperwork, no intel sheet, and that the operator utilized was not to be revealed to anyone in New Dawn, not even—”

  I pointed the barrel of my pistol at his thigh.

  “Who was it assigned to?” I demanded.

  He swallowed heavily enough that I heard it. “Pike.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Val

  Feeling as if I was in danger caused me to look at life with entirely different eyes. I felt a necessity to get my affairs in order, spend time with the people I cared for, and have everything in place to hold someone accountable if the unthinkable happened before Vincent and I were done.

  “I don’t know much, but I know this,” Jack said during a lull in the movie’s action. “In the last few weeks, we’ve seen a black truck in your driveway half a dozen times, and now you’re obviously upset about something. What’s going on, Val?”

  I took a drink of wine. “He has nothing to do with it.”

  “I doubt it’s completely coincidental,” he said.

  “You’re not yourself,” Jordan added.

  She was correct. I wasn’t myself. I was in the process of planning the killing of several coworkers, which left me feeling as if someone was peering over my shoulder and monitoring my every move.

  I’d been driving to work with my eyes darting between the rearview mirror, the sideview mirrors, and back to the road, fearing that someone from the DNI’s office was following me. At night, I could be mistaken for a paranoid meth addict, peering outside every time a car drove past, or if I heard a noise—any noise—that sounded different than the noises I convinced myself I was accustomed to hearing.

  I was sleeping on and off throughout the night, getting no more than a few hours’ sleep, which wasn’t near enough for me to function properly.

  I looked like a walking zombie.

  “There’s some things going on at work.” I reached over the side of the chair and picked up my purse. “Things I’m not completely comfortable with.”

  Jack took a drink of beer, glanced over his shoulder, and met my blank gaze. “You ready to spill the beans on who you work for and what you do?”

  “I’m not sure,” I responded. “But I have something I want to give you.”

  I removed a small lockable personal safe from my purse. It wasn’t much larger than the box a cell phone came in, was made of steel, and secured by a combination lock. If someone wanted to get in the box, they certainly could. It would only keep honest people from being nosey.

  “I want to give this to you, but only if you’re willing to take it,” I said. “There’s risk and responsibility that comes with it.”

  “Oh my God!” Jordan gasped. “What is it? Are you okay, Val? What’s going on—”

  “Just listen,” I said. “I’ll try to explain everything the best I can.”

  Jack turned off the TV and stood. “Did you do something stupid?”

  “I’m beginning to think I did when I took this job,” I responded.

  He nodded toward my lap. “What’s in the little box?”

  “I feel like I’m going to be sick,” Jordan complained. “What’s going on?”

  “Let me explain everything, okay?”

  She nodded.

  I looked at Jack.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “I’m listening.”

  I drew a deep breath, and then let it out. I glanced at each of them. “If I tell you who I work for, and if you accept this box, you’re putting yourself at risk of becoming a victim of the government’s wrath. You both need to think about whether or not you want to accept that responsibility.”

  “More of a risk at being a victim than we are now?” Jack asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re here a few nights a week. Other than that, you go nowhere. Don’t you think your employer knows we’re like family? The first place they’re going to look for information is right here.”

  “Right now, I don’t think anyone is at risk,” I explained. “This is a precautionary measure. I don’t work for the CIA or NSA. This isn’t matter of national security. Not really.”

  “So, they’re not going to send goons in here to ransack our home looking for that little box?” Jack asked.

  “They don’t know this box exists. I didn’t steal anything. There’s nothing missing. I just took some photos of a bunch of things they don’t want me taking pictures of.”

  “I don’t like this,” Jordan said.

  “I don’t either,” I admitted. “But I did it to protect myself. As an insurance policy. A bargaining chip. Things are getting ready to happen with my employer, and they’re not going to like what it is. If they try to do anything to me, I’m going to let them know this thumb drive exists. I’ll tell them if anything happens to me that the contents of this box will be released to CNN News. They won’t want that, and I doubt they’ll take the risk.”

  Jack gestured to the box. “If something happens to you, do you want us to take it to CNN?”

  I nodded.

  He looked at Jordan. “We don’t have a choice.”

  “It makes me nervous to keep it in the house,” Jordan said.

  “I’ll lock it in the safe deposit box in the bank,” Jack said. “It won’t even be here.”

  Jordan looked at me. “This is going to keep them—whoever they are—from hurting you?”

  “I hope so. It’s really my only viable option.”

  She glanced at the box, and then at me. “Okay.”

  I shifted my eyes to Jack.

  “I’ll accept it, and all the responsibility that comes with it,” he said. “But only if you explain to me what it is, and why it’s so important.”

  I feared that might be his response. I knew I couldn’t tell him everything, but I could tell him enough to satisfy his curiosity and keep me out of trouble.

  “Grab another beer and have a seat,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Briggs

  To allow my plan to fall into place without having it picked apart by investigators, I needed to make sure there was no sign of a fight or any visible wounds on Pike’s body.

  Other than the ones I had planned for him.

  Threatening him in an effort to get him to admit who gave the order and who was knowledgeable of the mission would produce nothing but laughter—or a challenge for me to kill him.

  Val’s revelations about Pike’s sadistic and psychotic state of mind—combined with what I already knew—led me to believe there was little I could do to intimidate him into talking—or to force him to comply with my demands.

  I was left with no alternative but to use him as a piece of the puzzle I intended to assemble, and nothing more.

  “Do you really think this is going to fix it?” I asked.

  “It should,” he replied. “The spot on the garage floor is right under the water pump. I don’t know what else it would be.”

  “I thought the valve cover was leaking on mine, and I found out it was the crank seal. Now I’m driving a fucking rental car while they fix it.” I leaned over the fender of his truck and peered under the hood. “Why don’t you pay someone to fix it? Who wants to spend a Saturday evening working on their truck?”

  “I’m not like you. I’d rather do it myself than pay somebody to do it. It feels good knowing I fixed this fucker myself. I’m damned near done with it.”

  Thirty minutes later he was finished with the water pump. He started the truck. Within seconds it was obvious that it was leaking again. The plastic coolant bypass hose that I’d purposely cracked earlier in the morning was the cause of the leak, but Pike didn’t realize it.

  The coolant was leaking along the valley of the intake manifold, down the front of the engine, onto the water pump, and dripping on the garage floor.

  Upon seeing the coolant dripping on the floor, Pike kicked the truck’s fender so violently he left a sizable dent.

  “You piece of fucking shit!” he seethed.

  He reacted exactly the way I wanted him to.

  “Let’s go in and have a beer. We can look at it later,” I said. “It’s almost time to get something to eat, anyway.”

  “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s have a beer.”

  Once inside, he tossed his hat on the kitchen counter and yanked the fridge door open. He handed me a beer and opened one for himself. Frustrated about the truck, he finished the beer in one gulp. He opened another.

  “Have you got any whiskey?” I asked.

  “Got a bottle of Jack above the fridge. Why?”

  “I need a shot,” I said. “Hell, let’s have one in Shep’s honor.”

  “That’s the least we could do.” He retrieved the bottle, poured two shots, and handed me a glass. “To Shep.”

  I raised my glass, knowing in a matter of minutes Pike would get what he had coming to him. “To Shep.”

  He raised his glass. “Shep.”

  After drinking the shot, I poured our glasses full once again. “Here,” I said, handing him his glass. “We need to drink two more. This one is for the sniper he got in Iraq. Crazy fucker saved my ass.”

  I raised my glass.

  He clanked his glass against mine. “To Shep.”

  I drank the shot, winced, and poured another. “This one is for dragging the entire rifle team to safety in Afghanistan. Saved our asses again.”

  I gestured to his glass. “Let me pour you another. Last one.”

  He set the shot glass down on the countertop and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I poured his glass full and nodded toward it.

  “To Sergeant Austin Shephard,” I said.

  He drew a breath, downed the shot and slammed the glass down on the countertop.

  I set my empty glass beside his and raised my hands in mock surrender. “I’m done.”

  “Gonna stop at three huh?” he asked.

  I needed him to have whiskey in his system for my plan to work. Having more than three shots and half a beer in mine would prevent me from being mentally sharp.

  The three shots of whiskey he’d consumed would be enough for the coroner to find in the autopsy. That was all that mattered.

  It was time to quit.

  After a few more steps were taken care of, I would kill him without remorse.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got to hit the head. My gut’s churning.”

  “You know where it is,” he said.

  I left the kitchen and went to the hall bathroom. Purposely, I left the door ajar. I lifted my shirt tail, removed the HK23 .45 caliber pistol from its holster, and screwed the silencer to the threaded barrel.

  I placed the weapon on the far side of the toilet, out of sight. I pulled down my pants, sat on the toilet, and tilted my head back.

  “Hey Pike!” I shouted.

  “What?” he responded, his voice muffled by the half-closed door.

  “Do me a favor.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Taking a shit?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That Jack Daniels is killing me.”

  “Pussy.” He chuckled. “What do you need?”

  “Can you write me a note?”

  “What?”

  “God damn it, come here!” I yelled. “I can’t hear you.”

  I heard his footsteps approach the door.

  “What?” he asked through the door crack.

  “I just thought of something, and ever since that Texas job, I can’t remember shit. My short-term memory’s fucked. Will you write it down before I forget it?”

  He laughed. “You want me to write you a fucking note?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just scribble it down on a piece of paper. I’m not admitting it to Doc Rhoades, but lately, if I don’t write shit down, I forget it. It’s terrible since killing that bitch in Texas.”

  Memory loss was common with military forces that had been exposed to bomb blasts, and we’d been exposed to our fair share.

  “Do you have any short-term memory loss?” He asked in a mock female voice. “I’d like to butt fuck that sexy bitch.”

  I clenched my teeth at the thought of him touching her. “Me, too.”

  “What do you want me to write down, dip-shit?” he asked.

  “Just write Wallace 1730 and suppressor.”

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll explain what it means when I’m done.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Wallace. 1730. Suppressor.”

  “Appreciate it,” I said. “Now. Close the door. This could take a minute.”

  He pulled the door closed.

  I waited for five minutes, hoping he’d finish the beer he was drinking. The more alcohol he had in his system, the better my plan would work. I slipped the silenced pistol in the waistband of my jeans, against the small of my back. After covering it with my shirt tail, I washed my hands.

  I wiped the area free of any fingerprints with the hand towel. Protecting the door handle from finger prints with my shirt tail, I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

  Out of his line of sight, I whistled jokingly. “Holy shit. You don’t want to go in there.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” he said with a laugh.

  I walked into the kitchen. “Did you write that stuff down for me?”

  Standing on the kitchen’s tile floor facing the television in the living room, he tilted his head to the side. “Sitting by the bottle of Jack.”

 

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