Fool Me Once(14)

“Shane?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t really care. I’m out of the military. I’m even—gasp—a widow. Let him do his worst.”

She wondered whether Shane would buy the bravado, but then again, he didn’t know the full truth, did he?

“Okeydokey.” Shane finished the beer. “So are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I ran that test for you, no questions asked.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’m not here for gratitude, you know that.”

She did.

“Running that test was a violation of my oath. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, against the law. You know that, right?”

“Let it go, Shane.”

“Did you know Joe was in danger?”

“Shane—”

“Or were you the real target?”

Maya closed her eyes for a moment. The sounds were raging toward her.

“Maya?”

She opened her eyes and turned toward him slowly. “Do you trust me?”

“Don’t insult me like that. You saved my life. You’re the best and bravest soldier I’ve ever known.”

She shook her head. “The best and bravest came home in a box.”

“No, Maya, they didn’t. They paid the biggest price, yes. Mostly, they were the unluckiest. We both know that. They were just standing in the wrong spot at the wrong time.”

It was true. It isn’t as though the more competent warriors had a better chance of surviving. It was a crapshoot. War is never a meritocracy for the casualties.

Shane’s voice was soft in the darkness. “You’re going to try to do this on your own, aren’t you?”

She didn’t reply.

“You’re going to take down Joe’s killers by yourself.”

It wasn’t a question. The silence hung there for a while, just like the humidity.

“I’m here if you need help. You know that, right?”

“I do.” Then: “Do you trust me, Shane?”

“With my life.”

“Then leave it alone.”


*

Shane finished his beer and headed for the door.

“I need one more thing,” Maya said.

She handed him a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“A license plate for a red Buick Verano. I need to know who the car belongs to.”

Shane made a face. “I won’t insult either of us by asking why you want this,” he said. “But this is the last freebie.”

He kissed her on the top of the head, fatherlike, and left.

Maya looked in on her sleeping daughter. Then she padded down the corridor to the high-tech workout room Joe had built when they first moved in. She did some light weights—squats, bench, curls—and then hit the treadmill. The house had always felt too big for her, too fancy. Her family hadn’t been poor by any stretch, but this kind of wealth didn’t sit well with her. Maya didn’t feel comfortable here, hadn’t ever, but that was the way the Burketts were. No one really left the family’s environs—their compound just spread out.

She worked up a good sweat. Exercising always made her feel better. When she was done, Maya threw a towel around her neck and grabbed a frosty Bud. She pressed the bottle against her forehead. Nice and cold.

She moved the mouse, waking up the computer, and jumped on the web. She typed in the URL for the CoreyTheWhistle website and waited for it to load. Other similar sites like WikiLeaks had no-nonsense layouts—very cookie-cutter, monochromatic, informational. Corey had gone for a far more stimulating visual. The motto, written in alternating fonts across the top, was simple and crude: “We Provide The Whistle, But You Provide The, Uh, Blow.”

There were bursts of color. There were thumbnails of videos. And while rival sites downplayed any hyperbole, Corey’s had brought all the best and cheesiest click-bait terminology: “Top Ten Ways The Government Is Watching—Number 7 Will Blow Your Mind!” “Wall Street Goes For Your Green . . . and You Won’t Believe What Happens Next.” “Think the Cops Are There to Protect You? Think Again.” “We Kill Civilians. Why the Four-Star Generals Hate Us.” “Twenty Signs You’re Being Robbed By Your Bank.” “The Wealthiest Men in the World Pay No Taxes—How You Can Too.” “Which Despot Are You Most Like? Take Our Test.”

She hit the archive and found the old video. She wasn’t sure why she went to Corey’s site to get it. YouTube had a dozen variations of it up. She could have easily just gone there, but somehow it felt right to go to the source.

Someone had leaked to Corey Rudzinski what had started off as a rescue mission. Four soldiers, including three Maya knew and loved, had been killed in an ambush in Al Qa’im, not far from the Syrian-Iraqi border. Two were still alive but pinned down by enemy fire. A black SUV was moving in for the kill. Maya and Shane, flying at full speed in a Boeing MH-6 Little Bird light helicopter gunship, had heard the terrified calls for help from the two surviving soldiers. They both sounded so young, so damned young, and she knew the four already dead would have sounded exactly the same.

Once they had the target in view, they waited for confirmation, but while everyone thinks military gear is infallible, the radio signal from Joint Operations Command at Al Asad kept coming in and out. Not so with the two soldiers who were begging to be saved. Maya and Shane waited. Both were cursing through the radio, demanding a reply from JOC, when they heard the two survivors scream.