Last Track, The (16 page)

At several points the narrow tunnel between the trees forced them to proceed single file. The air was cold, and the thicker overhead cover that surrounded them made it seem even colder

Suspicious of the way distance and terrain distorted conversations, Mike reserved judgment about the noise at the road until a loud, unmistakable insult sliced through the darkness: “Wrekker, you bastard! What were you thinking?”

Advancing closer to the headlight beams with Dagget in tow, Mike strained to match bodies to voices, but the caravan of Humvees concealed all the actors, save for a lone figure—a man near the hood. The headlight beam caught the barrel of a MP5, a fully automatic machine gun, slung across his shoulder. All the rules had changed.

“It was an accident is all,” another man answered, also out of view.

“You know how hard it is to flip these vehicles? Please. Tell it to someone who cares.” This was the voice of the leader, the man who called the shots. “The rest of you get everything out of the truck and spread the load out. Let’s go, ladies!”

Doors slammed as figures extracted sealed boxes from the downed vehicle, feeding them forward assembly-line style. The crew ran a winch between two Humvees and flipped the vehicle back on all four wheels. It made a lot less sound than one might expect. The shocks dissipated the weight as if the truck were merely a quarter bounced against a blanket. Seconds later, the engine of the downed vehicle caught.

“Hit it!” the leader said.

Breaking ranks, the crew piled into the trucks, except for a point man, a lone figure near Mike and Dagget. He alone had remained motionless in front of the hood, squinting into the trees. With his shoulders rounded, his upper body betrayed the direction of his stare. The stance and back lighting overstated the man’s height. Gripping the stock of the MP5, his first finger rested along the barrel edge as he raised the weapon. There was a click as the second metacarpal joint in his right hand involuntarily cracked from the suddenness of the movement.

The red point of the laser sight mounted on the MP5 had settled on Dagget.

Grunting, the point man tracked left from the tree trunk to Dagget’s forehead. The Marlin, which Mike held, was useless to Dagget. Dagget aimed his handgun back at the point man. One drop of muzzle flash from the MP5 meant he was already dead. Even if Dagget fired first, it might be too late. So he had to shoot now. A dead officer was useless to the public. There was no other option. With his fingers wrapped around the grip, Dagget steadied himself and threw the safety.

His elbows were even, his left arm almost straight and supporting the weight of the firearm. Applying an even pressure to the trigger, he pulled. The hammer lifted away from the firing pin.

Just before the trigger crossed the terminal point, the very instant where inertia would drive the hammer against the firing pin and launch a bullet through the barrel no matter what Dagget wanted, there was a loud whistle. From inside a Humvee came a demand in the unit leader’s voice. “What are you doing?”

The point man remained as before. Dagget noticed and held his trigger steady. A 9mm round awaited release from the chamber. Certainly blasting the point man was easy and reasonable. But he waited.

“There’s something in the trees,” said the point man, eyes locked on the laser-beam point.

From his spot, Mike noticed Dagget’s right eye as it twitched.

The point man lowered his MP5, and with it dropped the laser sight.

“It’s nothing,” he called back to the leader.

“Shag ass back in formation. This night’s been long-enough as it is.”

When the last Humvee roared out of sight, Dagget uncocked, holstered the gun, and stepped out on the road. Mike was already crouched near the side, staring at the ground and examining debris.

“Those guys were strapped down,” Dagget said. “Every last with high-capacity mags. Like a damn army.”

“Expensive weapons.” Mike’s first thought was how lucky Dagget was. How they both were, really. His next thought was something else:
there was only one Army
. In other circumstances, he might have corrected Dagget. He had bigger problems. Maybe outwardly he appeared calm, yet his vitals—heart rate, breathing, blood pressure—were elevated. Sweat covered his face.

He knew the chemical effects of a fight-or-flight experience on the body were inescapable. Facing a threat, higher-level brain functions largely shut down. The midbrain, which lay dormant until called to action, unleashed a wave of adrenaline to boost strength levels. Military exercises reinforced these midbrain reactions. Over the course of several thousand repetitions, one’s response to a threat eventually became automatic.

“Our department can only afford two MP5s,” Dagget said. “We’re no match for these guys. Maybe we should move along before they come back.”

“I want to check the debris.” Mike hoped the men were negligent in the cleanup, and had left something behind at the accident scene. With his thumb, Mike clicked on the Maglite.

“What do the caravans have to do with Sean?” Dagget wondered out loud.

“Nothing right now,” Mike said. “But it might have everything to do with it.”
Or the phone threats from the Partner.

“Five minutes,” Dagget said, “and we’re out. The caravans are running all night. At least so far they have been.”

“Got it,” Mike said. “This might take longer, though.”

“Do what you need to do. Just get it done in five minutes. I’ll try a few more spots and make some calls,” said Dagget.

“By the way, Dagget,” Mike said, looking up, “thanks for not firing. If you had shot the point man, it would have set everyone off. That would have been a bloodbath. You did the right thing.”

“It’s Officer Dagget,” Dagget said over his shoulder. “And I had him, you know. Could’ve put two in his chest.”

Exhaust from the trucks still hung in the air, even near the ground, where Mike was crouched. The noxious fumes made him cough. He searched the accident scene, moving toward the tree line and the point of impact. Coming up empty-handed, he worked the opposite side of the road. He had hoped for more.

Rising, the bright beam of light bobbed in his hands and caught a bit of metal just ten feet beyond in the grass—a piece of headlight casing. Mike discarded the bent metal and continued.

One minute. Two minutes. Moments ticked past and there was nothing to show for his efforts. He wasn’t certain what he expected to find, but he was almost positive a sign awaited discovery.

Ahead of time, Dagget returned. “I spoke with Lisbeth about the caravans. She said she would look into it.”

“I might spend a few more minutes here in the morning, all the same.”

“What the hell are you looking for that’s worth getting machine-gunned over?” Dagget said.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Mike said.

If Mike had any doubts about deferring the search, the sound of stones ground beneath approaching tires ended them.

01:19:40 AM

Violence, Crotty decided as he contemplated punching Wrekker, the idiot who had crashed the Humvee, was an unfortunate—yet necessary—behavior modifier. It worked, but the dramatic results came at a price. So when he prepared to slam his fist against Wrekker’s cheekbone, he hesitated, because he knew it would amplify his own darkness and self-loathing. Still he wanted to pound Wrekker once anyway. He had his rationalizations.

To Crotty, the course of a life followed one basic path. Men avoided pain and sought pleasure. The more severe the pain inflicted upon a man, the more effectively that pain altered his behavior. A scared man heard orders. A scarred man followed them. The Partner disagreed with that philosophy.

When employees like Wrekker made mistakes, the Partner chose the passive route. Crotty knew all about the bullshit reasoning. Dangle a carrot on the end of the stick long enough and eventually a rabbit hobbled in the correct direction. Crotty believed that in certain cases a stick served more effectively as a club.

That he could be violent was not to say he delighted in suffering. Really, Crotty abhorred the pain of others, regardless of who decided their fate. There was little joy for him in broken spirits or shattered bones. He was hardly a child who blew up frogs with firecrackers and laughed evilly in the corner. He savored neither the action, nor the process. He merely wanted the outcome, wanted a sign he was understood.

Wrekker sat before him on a chair, looking at Crotty like he expected the worst.

Crotty asked, “What were you doing out there tonight?”

“The job.”

“Not quite. You had one task. Transport my property,” said Crotty. “You failed. Now I trust this is the only time we need to have this conversation.”

“Yes, sir,” Wrekker said.

“So we’re clear?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” Crotty dealt Wrekker a hard blow, square in the face.

Wrekker slid sideways in the chair from the impact.

“I think we are, too,” Crotty said. The point made, Crotty helped Wrekker to his feet and gave him an ice pack.

As Wrekker walked unsteadily, he clutched the ice pack to his already swelling cheek.

01:21:59 AM

Crotty and the unit leader were alone in the room. By custom, the unit leader remained at attention during disciplinary actions. The unit leader spoke now: “Sorry about the error with the convoy, sir. I take full responsibility. My men’s failures are my own.”

Crotty stifled a smirk. His precepts echoed back at him in another’s voice. A reassuring affirmation indeed. “Did anyone see the contents?” Crotty asked. “Some searchers are very close to the area.”

“There were no witnesses,” the unit leader said. Crotty stared at him for an eternity without speaking. “Then the issue is closed. I have a new task for you. Ready four of your best grunts and bring them to me. I care about only one thing. How much damage they can inflict.”

“Perhaps more information might guide the selections?”

Crotty flipped his hand like a wealthy lord dispatching a street urchin blocking his way. “I want your four best.”

Alone, Crotty took off his gloves and locked them inside a portable kit. Seamless polymer, designed for assault, the gloves concealed the telltale marks of a fistfight on the wearer’s hands. When one must remain presentable for the Suits, scrapes in odd places were bothers he would rather not explain.

He removed the chain of rosary beads from his pocket. He rubbed two of the largest beads together. The smaller plastic spheres clicked as they slipped around in his hand.

His moment of quiet passed too quickly.

The phone rang and Crotty picked it up. “What do you want?” This Crotty snarled.

“We have a problem,” said the Partner.

“And why the hell are you telling me about this on this line? This is not how we work.” His thumb hovered over the
end
button, ready to kill the call, when the Partner’s voice roared back at him.

“This is a nuclear-grade situation! I didn’t know what else to do.” The unusual show of nerve from the Partner gave Crotty pause. The Partner sounded disoriented, almost spastic with worry. Crotty regretted not being present to witness the panic.

“Rule number one in problem solving—admit you suck at it and let me handle it,” Crotty said. “Now what is the problem?”

“They’ve got a helicopter.” Just hearing the Partner’s words, Crotty realized the very serious issue they faced. The Partner added, “It’s coming tomorrow morning.”

“And what sort?” asked Crotty. “If it has thermal imaging equipment, we’ve got something beyond a nuclear situation.”

“It definitely does,” the Partner said. Crotty heard the apprehension.

“And how did a two-bit detective from the middle of nowhere manage that so early in the search?” Crotty asked. “Especially since I got the other requests stopped.”

“That reporter Jessica Barrett knew someone high up in the National Guard. She called him before the bonfire.”

“This is exactly what comes of being soft on employees,” Crotty said. “I’ve told you before, draw boundaries with them or they think failure is acceptable.”

“Enough blame game, right?” the Partner said. “I can’t control everyone all the time from where I am. We need a plan.”

Crotty thought until a solution appeared. Decisions under fire came more easily when there was no middleman running interference. Unlike at the office, where any notion required a pony show for the Suits, a seven-page report, and twelve meetings—here he was in charge.

He clicked the rosary beads together and thought. “Listen carefully, this is what we’re going to do . . .”

05:51:18 AM

The rest of the night, Mike Brody slept badly. Sounds from the caravans running through the basin and racing thoughts kept him awake. Leaning against a stone, one knee bent, the other straight, he observed the caravans. Every twenty-three minutes a crew raced past, as if on a schedule, until the final truck rolled out of earshot at dawn, and the canopy swallowed the last vehicle. By dawn, the count was fifteen passes. Sixteen counting the one he and Dagget had investigated.

The cell phone, which had functioned inconsistently on the ledge before, did not work at all the rest of that night. He checked it a few times anyway, in case the signal improved.

Around 3 AM, Dagget woke up and mumbled about the awkwardness of sleeping on the hard ground. Mike ignored the officer’s complaints.

He knew what covering great distances meant—aside from the exhaustion and hunger—and these were discomforts he wished upon neither man nor enemy.

In between the long stretches of quiet, Mike worked with his GPS and maps. Knowing what direction the caravans were headed, their rough speed of travel, how much time elapsed between trips, and allowing for time to unload or load the contents, he estimated the location of a few possible destinations. He stored the coordinates for later. Maybe they would make sense then.

The calculations finished, he repacked the gear and wondered what the trucks were hauling that needed such protection.