The Summer House(64)

Why is a very good question. I’ve thought about it, over and over again in the long hours above the Atlantic, running through the investigation and what my crew and I have learned, and I’ve come to some sort of conclusion, but this will be the very first time I dare to say it aloud.

I lift myself off the seat a bit, so the pilot can hear every word, and even through the sudden pain, I make myself clear:

“I need to get to Afghanistan because a team of Army Rangers is being railroaded, and I need to find evidence they’re innocent before they get executed.”

The pilot looks over at the three Army Rangers, ready to go into combat in Afghanistan, and turns back to me, nods.

“Glad we got that cleared up,” he says. “Major.”

He turns around and climbs up the steps to the flight deck. One of the Army Rangers sitting across from me gives me a brief nod, unbuckles from his seat, and comes over. He doesn’t say a word but picks up my Bruce Catton book and hands it over to me. I nod in thanks, and he goes back to his place. I suppose if I was the investigator the NYPD and Army think I am, I would go over and try to interview these Rangers, to see if they have any knowledge or feelings about the Ninja Squad, but I know in my gut that the real truth and evidence are not here but where I’m headed.

The engines roar louder, and the large, lumbering C-17 maneuvers its way to take off. I’m ashamed to feel regret, regret that I wasn’t pulled from the aircraft.

It would have been the easier, and safer, outcome.

But ease and safety aren’t in my future.

Within a few more minutes, we’re airborne again, heading for Bagram.





Chapter 57



CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE is leaving the interior of a cluttered and busy restaurant called Four Corners BBQ—located at the intersection of Route 119 and a local country road—when his smartphone rings. He puts down the plastic tray holding cold drinks for the squad and checks the phone’s caller ID, sees the call is coming from SULLIVAN DISTRICT ATTORNEY.

“This is Pierce,” he answers. Most of the restaurant’s seating is outside on worn, splintering wooden picnic tables, and the Army personnel are sitting at a far table, underneath a large hickory tree. For once they don’t have the news media hovering around.

“Hey, Captain, glad I caught up with you. How’s your day going?”

“It’s going well, Mr. Slate.”

“I hear you and your folks might be leaving soon, heading back home to Virginia. That true, son?”

Pierce works his jaw as the old insult comes across his phone, said in a polite and soothing voice, a descendant of the master class establishing the correct order of things.

“First, we’re not leaving any time soon, Mr. Slate, and second, I told you not to call me son. Understand?”

Slate says, “Oh, sorry to offend you, snowflake. That’s what all you entitled members of society do nowadays is look for ways to be offended. Isn’t that right? Or is snowflake one of the forbidden words nowadays? Should I make a list, then? Make sure I don’t hurt your tender feelings?”

“What do you want?” Pierce says, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“Well, it looks like the head Ranger, Staff Sergeant Jefferson, has changed his mind. He wants to talk to me, and he demanded that you come along as well when we meet.”

It feels like a sudden hot wind is buffeting him. “Are you sure?”

“Damn, I’m not going to win reelection in a few days because I’m not sure of my work. ’Course I’m sure. He told Chief Kane over in Ralston that he wants a meeting as soon as possible with you and me. Now”—and Pierce hears the sounds of paper shuffling—“I’ve got a couple of appearances over in Chatham County Superior Court tomorrow, but I think I can manage to get over there this evening. Say…8:00 p.m. Does that work?”

Pierce could have had an appointment with the Georgia Lottery Corporation to receive a payout at 8:00 p.m., but there is no way he is going to miss this meeting.

“I’ll be there,” he says. “At the Ralston jail?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know what Staff Sergeant Jefferson is considering?”

“Not a clue, but I bet we’ll know soon enough, now, won’t we?” The district attorney chuckles and says, “See you then, son.”





Chapter 58



LESS THAN THIRTY MINUTES after Captain Pierce has told them the news of Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s change of heart, Special Agent Connie York and her squad are still at Four Corners BBQ, seated at an outdoor picnic table sipping way-too-sweet iced tea and thinking through options and strategy, when her smartphone rings.

The number is ANONYMOUS, and before she answers, York says, “It’s settled, then. Pierce, when you go to Ralston, I want Huang to go along. Another set of eyes and ears will prove helpful.”

Huang says, “Glad to be there, ma’am.”

Nodding, York turns around on the picnic table bench, accepts the incoming call, and says, “Hello?”

“Who’s this?” comes a suspicious-sounding woman’s voice.

“This is Special Agent Connie York, Army CID.”

“Oh,” the woman says. “Just wanted to make sure. I saw that you’d been calling me all day, leaving messages and such, but I wanted to make sure. This is Peggy Reese, Sullivan County Times.”