Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(93)

“I’ve got General Fuller with me,” Thompson’s presidential baritone echoed from the speakers. General Pete Fuller was the head of the Joint Chiefs and the man the Knights reported to. “Who all am I talking with in Chi-Town?” Thompson asked.

Every conference call with Thompson began this way, with a roll call. Boss was the first to make his presence known, followed by Becky. Around the table it went until finally Chelsea said, “Special Agent Chelsea Duvall at your service, Mr. Thompson. I mean, Mr. President. Uh…sir. Shit. Oh, sorry, sir. I mean Mr. President.”

President Thomson chuckled and said, “At ease, Agent Duvall.”

Chelsea groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. A deep blush stole into her cheeks. God, she’s adorable. When she blinked her eyes open, Zoelner sent her an encouraging wink.

Ozzie leaned over and surreptitiously whispered, “That woman is a tornado and you, my friend, are a trailer park.”

“Meaning what?” Zoelner whispered back, frowning.

“Meaning I see disaster ahead.” Ozzie nodded like it was a foregone conclusion.

Zoelner’s frown deepened, but even if he’d wanted to argue or make Ozzie explain himself further—which he didn’t—the conference call was getting underway and he was forced to turn his attention to the topic at hand.

“…able to find out from Winterfield, Rock?” Thompson was asking. “Anything?”

“Oui.” Rock nodded, taking a fortifying sip of coffee. “Quite a lot, sir.”

“Really?” General Fuller’s deep base echoed through the speakers. “That surprises me. I would’ve thought he’d clam up and start making demands before he’d agree to talk.”

“Well”—Rock adjusted his green John Deere ball cap and sat forward, resting his elbows on the table—“he does want some assurances before he’ll give us the details about what all he stole and who all he sold his information to.”

“There you go,” Fuller said, disgust heavy in his voice.

“What assurances?” the president asked smoothly, ever the professional politician.

“He wants the death penalty taken off the table,” Rock drawled.

“Typical,” Fuller snorted.

“And he doesn’t want to be put in with the general population when he’s imprisoned,” Rock continued.

“What?” President Thompson asked, curiosity lacing his tone. “Why?”

“Accordin’ to him, Spider will be sure to have someone on the inside who’ll kill him.”

Spider? Zoelner wondered if that was the ubiquitous “him” Winterfield had been screaming about when they were in the van. And now his curiosity was piqued.

“Spider?” President Thompson asked. “I’m assuming we’re talking about a person and not an eight-legged creature.”

“Yes, sir.” Rock nodded. “Apparently, this Spider person was the one pullin’ Winterfield’s strings, the reason the sorry sonofabitch went rogue.”

“Explain,” Fuller demanded. Just the one word. Patience was not the general’s forte.

Rock blew out a breath and settled back in his chair. “First of all, let me state for the record that I’m pretty sure Winterfield’s cheese done slipped off his cracker.”

“He’s nuts?” Boss asked.

Rock nodded, then realized el Jefe and the general couldn’t see him and said, “As my daddy would say, he’s nuttier than squirrel shit.”

“So you can’t believe anything he says,” Fuller grumbled.

“Well, you’d think so,” Rock mused. “But Winterfield’s crazy leans more toward paranoia and emotional instability, and not so much toward delusions or hallucinations. I think the tale he told me was the truth.”

“And what tale was that?”

“It all starts five years ago when Winterfield was runnin’ an op in Iraq,” Rock began, and by the way the Cajun leaned back and laced his fingers across his stomach, Zoelner knew they were in for a long tale. “He had an asset inside the local al-Qaeda group named Marnia Sultana,” Rock continued. “It seems Winterfield developed a little crush on her, and one thing led to another. Durin’ pillow talk one night, Winterfield let some sensitive information slip about a shipment of weapons we were handin’ over to the Iraqi military. Turns out Sultana was a double agent and she gave that information to her al-Qaeda handlers. An assault on the shipment resulted in the loss of thirty-two American lives, hundreds of weapons, and thousands of rounds.”

“I remember that fiasco,” Fuller mused. “It happened just outside Mosul. We never could figure out how al-Qaeda knew about the shipment.”

“Well, now ya know.” Rock scratched his chin. “But this is where it gets weird. Accordin’ to Winterfield, two weeks after the disaster he was contacted by a mysterious man who went by the name of Spider. The guy, I’m assumin’ it’s a guy, had a video confession from Marnia Sultana fingerin’ Winterfield with the blame. And Spider used this video to place Winterfield under his thumb, forcin’ Winterfield to funnel top secret information to him whenever he came askin’ for it.”

“And Winterfield never thought to come clean?” Again, Fuller’s voice was heavy with disgust. The general didn’t suffer turncoats lightly.