The Summer House(90)

More gunfire.

Robed women scream, hold up their hands. Rapid fire collapses them. A young boy runs into another room, is cut down.

I see the flash of weapons.

Uniformed men.

More screams.

The video goes black.

My hands and chest feel heavy. “Can I see it again, slower? Muted?”

“Sure.”

I look through the video a second time, spotting the mottled look of the uniforms—one bearing the RANGER tab on a left shoulder—and the weapons, from an AK-47 to a pistol, and then I look at Major West’s calm yet serious face.

“Well?” she asks. “What say you?”

“It’s a fake,” I say. “Those aren’t Army Rangers.”

She nods. “Good job, for a former NYPD detective.”

West swivels the computer screen back to her. “I don’t know what happened in the States, but those Rangers sure as hell didn’t kill a houseful of civilians in Pendahar.”





Chapter 82





Afghanistan




SHE GIVES ME one more stare and says, “Just out of curiosity, how did you know it was a fake? To most people I’m sure it looks pretty damn real.”

I try to swallow, fail. My throat is incredibly dry. A jet takes off outside, the noise silencing me longer in this plywood room.

When the jet engine sound drifts away, I say, “The shootings were real. The casualties look real. But those weren’t Army Rangers. The uniforms were wrong. There was a mix of regular ACUs and fatigues of the Afghan National Army. The weapons were wrong, too. I saw an AK-47 and what looked to be a Russian pistol, maybe a Tokarev.”

She slightly smiles. “But one of the shooters was wearing a Ranger tab.”

“Yes,” I say. “But you and I both know that Rangers don’t wear any unit patches in the field…and the camera froze there for a second too long, like whoever was doing the taping wanted to make a statement.”

“Good job, Major.”

“What’s the story, then? A setup?”

“That’s what we’re thinking,” she says. “Commit an atrocity, put it up on YouTube or other social media, blame the Rangers and the Crusader unbelievers defiling this holy land, blah, blah, blah. Some unlucky innocents got caught in a cross fire organized by the local Taliban. But we were lucky to have intercepted the video before it was spread around too much. Oh, there were rumblings and the start of an official investigation—which I’m closing out when you go out that door—but the Rangers were innocent. We even showed the video at a local tribal loya jirga, and the tribal leaders are on board that the Army didn’t do it.”

“But…the Rangers are accused of doing the same thing stateside.”

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” She looks down at her notes and says, “Hold on. You said the civilians who were killed in Georgia, some of them were drug dealers. How far up did they go? Big-time players?”

I shake my head. “Some weed, some crystal meth, and fentanyl. Strictly small-time.”

“Too bad…well, good, I suppose. But I was thinking if they were players, and they were involved in something to do with opiates, and Afghanistan being the leading cultivator of the same, with a lot of flights going back to the States, there could be some sort of connection.”

“Not with that group,” I say. “Do you have any additional information on Major Frank Moore, the Fourth Battalion’s executive officer?”

West shakes her head. “He was supposed to have been deployed a couple of days back when the Fourth Battalion left Hunter Army Airfield, but he was unable to be located. Then Savannah cops pulled him out of the local river back there, bullet round right to the face. They’re running the investigation, but I was able to learn that he was probably killed after meeting with Staff Sergeant Jefferson, who’s being held in a local jail, yes?”

“Ralston,” I say. “He’s in a jail in Ralston.”

“And you tell me he’s planning to plead guilty to those shootings?”

I check my watch, run the difference in time in my mind and say, “In about eight hours, yeah.”

“Hell of a thing to do if he’s not guilty, but he’s taking the rap anyway.”

“He’s doing that, but the two surviving members of his team will go free. That’s the deal. They don’t face a trial, and he pleads guilty, takes whatever sentence comes his way.” West ponders this before I add, “You Ranger guys are tough. And loyal.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she says.

“You think Staff Sergeant Jefferson would plead guilty to something he didn’t do to see his guys get cut loose?”

“He’d have to have one hell of a good reason,” she says.

Something comes to me and I say, “Hold on. This alleged massacre in Pendahar. I heard that was the reason they were sent home ahead of schedule. But you’ve told me that it was pretty suspicious right from the start.”

West carefully says, “It was.”

“But why send them home on such flimsy evidence?”

“Good question.”

She doesn’t say any more, and I quickly realize how to fill in the blanks. “They weren’t assigned to a local Ranger company. They were sheep-dipped, borrowed by the CIA.”