by Bob Mayer
“Donna, do you know who this is?”
Giannini recognized the voice, but she didn’t understand why her old friend wouldn’t identify himself. “Yeah, I know who it is. Listen, To—”
“Shh!” Tom hissed, cutting off Giannini. “Don’t use my name.”
“What’s going on?”
“My sister’s in big trouble and she needs help.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah—you remember her, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I remember her. What kind of help does she need?”
“She says people are trying to kill her. She says someone already killed her husband and they’re still after her.”
Giannini frowned. “Why are you calling me? Why don’t you call nine-one-one?”
“She’s not here in Chicago.”
This was getting crazier, Giannini thought. “Well, where is she?”
“North Carolina.”
Giannini took a deep breath. “Let’s go back to the original question—why are you calling me?”
“She says she can’t trust anyone. She called me, and the only person I could think of who might be able to help is you.”
“All right,” Giannini said, playing along. “What can I do?”
There was a long pause, and Giannini recognized it for what it was: her friend had not thought this through.
“She needs protection. She says there have been two attempts on her life in the past twenty-four hours.”
Giannini leaned forward in her chair and grabbed a notepad and pencil. “Take it slow and tell me what happened.”
“I can’t. Not on the phone.”
“It isn’t bugged,” Giannini assured her friend. People watch too many crime shows on TV, she thought.
“I can’t count on that. The last call my sister made almost got her killed, and she told me not to let out her identity over the phone.” The voice hurried on. “Listen, she’s in North Carolina. Can you get down there?”
Giannini tried once more to get some facts. “Who tried to kill her?”
There was a pause. “The Outfit.”
Giannini frowned. “Why? Listen, you’ve got to tell me something about what’s going on.”
A long sigh. “Okay. I’ll trust that this line is clear. Remember the big trial we just had this summer involving The Outfit?”
“Torrentino?”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“My sister’s married name is Cobb.”
All of Giannini’s senses went on alert. She’d followed the trial—everyone in Chicago had. And she knew who Philip Cobb was, but she hadn’t heard anything about a wife being involved. She wondered why the feds weren’t taking care of this.
“Can you make it down there, Donna?”
Giannini thought furiously. “It would take me a while.”
“She may not have a while.”
“How about if I contact the feds? They can get someone to her much faster.”
“No! She said definitely not. She already tried that once.” The voice on the other end sounded desperate.
Giannini’s thoughts settled on a possible solution. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a friend who might be able to help your sister. Can you get hold of her?”
“She’s calling me back in thirty minutes.”
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA
29 OCTOBER, 9:04 a.m.
The new Special Forces academic facility, or ACFAC, as it was called by those who worked there, was one of the most strangely constructed buildings Riley had ever seen. His office was on the fourth floor on the east end of the building, the only stairs that went from the first to the fourth floor on the east end began in the back of a classroom that was usually in use, thereby making the stairs effectively worthless. His other options were to take stairs in the center of the building or the lone elevator on the east end.
That was only the beginning of what disgusted Riley with his modern Fort Bragg workplace. Another problem with the design of the building became immediately noticeable as Riley pushed through the heavy fire doors that opened onto the offices for 1st Battalion, 1st Special Warfare Group. The work area was a large open room, more than a hundred yards wide and deep. To designate company and individual work areas, the powers that be had simply installed six-foot-high blue partitions, to form numerous cubicles each with space for two desks back to back. It was easy to get lost in this maze; in addition, everyone was too close together, with the chain of command all sitting within spitting distance. It made a free spirit like Riley uncomfortable.
Despite the advantages of being in a modern building, Riley and all the other worker bees missed the old World War II barracks that SF had used at Fort Bragg. In those aging, unattractive buildings, they’d had the latitude to design and modify the interiors any way they pleased.
Riley threw his small backpack onto the crowded desk and slumped down into his chair as he eyed the training schedule hanging on the cubicle wall. His team—Team 3, direct action—was on the light part of its teaching cycle, having just finished the mission planning and field training exercise at Camp Mackall. One of his noncommissioned officers (NCOs) had to teach a target analysis class later in the week, but other than that, there was nothing formally scheduled. Riley planned to give the five NCOs assigned to him some days off, and he would use the time to update lesson plans and outlines—a chore no one enjoyed.
A Company was broken down into four teams—direct action, strategic reconnaissance, foreign internal defense, and unconventional warfare. When a student officer reported to Fort Bragg for the Q-course, he’d already passed the biggest hurdle to becoming Special Forces qualified—the three-week Selection and Assessment (S & A) course at Camp Mackall. S & A was modeled after the selection course used for Delta Force, which in turn had been modeled after the course the British used for their Special Air Service (SAS). It was a land navigation course that involved marching many miles through the North Carolina wilderness with a heavy rucksack on the back. The participants were not told what the time limits were from point to point, or how many points they would have to complete, which increased the physical and mental stress as the days and nights went by.
Passing S & A allowed a student to become slotted into the Q-course, and that was where Riley and his team took over. A Company handled the incoming officers; B through E Companies took over the enlisted specialties from weapons man through commo man. Several months were spent learning the individual specialties, then the surviving students were assigned training teams and sent to Camp Mackall for a final training exercise called Robin Sage. For the students the course was a one-time grind. For the instructors it was a never-ending rotation, as the long-range training calendar on the wall of Riley’s cubicle constantly reminded him.
Riley stared with consummate distrust at the laptop computer he’d been issued when assigned to A Company. Every officer who came in as a student to A Company was issued one of the computers for use during the course. Riley imagined that somehow it helped training, but he would have preferred to see each student issued a 9mm pistol and spend the sixteen hours learning to operate that weapon instead of a computer. Riley often joked with the commander of A Company, Major Welch, that he was going to put his computer in his rucksack on the next jump and see how it fared.
The phone rang and Riley ignored it. He made it a rule never to answer the phone in the company area. Usually the company training NCO up front handled all calls, and Riley didn’t see “secretary” listed anywhere in his job description. Besides, phone calls usually meant something was screwed up; in the army nobody ever called to say things were going well or as planned.
The phone kept up its insistent braying, past the normal three or four rings. Riley gave it eight, then reluctantly picked up the receiver. “A Company, 1st Battalion, Chief Riley.”
“Dave, it’s Donna.”
Riley’s feet swung off his desk in surprise. Giannini ha
d never called him at work. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a friend who’s in trouble and she needs help and she’s down in your neck of the woods.”
Riley digested the run-on sentence without a blink. “What kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know. She says someone killed her husband and now they’re trying to kill her.”
“Sounds like pretty big trouble,” Riley commented warily. “Sounds like police-type trouble.”
“I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, Dave, but I think she is in big trouble and needs help. She may have professional killers after her, and there may be a reason why she can’t go to the police.”
“Where’s she at?”
“Gordontown. It’s about five miles from I-85 just below Greensboro.”
Riley twisted in his seat and glanced at the map tacked on the wall. Many of the exercises in which he was involved were run off the Fort Bragg Military Reservation, particularly one called Troy Trek, which covered almost a hundred miles in and around the Uwharrie National Forest, in central North Carolina. He spotted Gordontown on the northwest side of the national forest.
“Yeah, I see it. How do I contact her?”
“You don’t. She contacts you. I passed on to her what you and your truck look like. You go to the center of town and park outside the courthouse, across from the police station, and she’ll link up with you.”
“What’s going on?” Riley asked. “Why all the secrecy? If someone killed her husband and is trying to kill her, why doesn’t she go to the cops?”
“She says she doesn’t trust the cops. I don’t know too much about what’s going on. When you meet her, ask her what the story is and straighten all this out.”
Riley leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, considering the situation. Giannini didn’t give him much time for reflection. “Hey, listen, Dave. I’m asking this as a personal favor.”
She didn’t bother to add that he owed her one—indeed Riley owed her his life—but he had already added it into his mental calculations. “All right. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, Dave. Get in contact with me once you talk to her and tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay.” Riley hung up the phone and headed out. He stuck his head inside the company commander’s door before exiting the fourth floor. “Hey, sir, I’ve got to take care of some stuff. I’ll be out the rest of the day.”
“Roger.” Major Welch didn’t even bother to look up from the mountain of paperwork. His men spent more than half their time out of the building, mostly at Camp Mackall, so Riley’s absence would be nothing unusual.
Trust was something that good commanders in Special Forces granted their men as a normal part of everyday activities.
Instead of immediately heading west, Riley took a detour off post to his townhouse. It was a two-story, two-bedroom place off Yadkin Road, one of the main drags onto Fort Bragg. He ran inside and hauled a footlocker out of the back of his closet. After surveying the contents and considering the situation, he pulled out a 9mm Beretta pistol in a shoulder holster and strapped it on inside his camouflage fatigue shirt. Then he grabbed a High Standard silenced .22-caliber automatic pistol and wrapped it in a towel. He carried it out to his black Bronco II and put it between the front seats, handle up for ready access.
Reversing direction, he drove back on post, past the 7th and 3d Special Forces Group areas to Chicken Road. From there it was a straight shot due west, along the south side of Fort Bragg, out to Camp Mackall. Then Riley would take back roads up to Gordontown.
Chapter 6
GORDONTOWN, NORTH CAROLINA
29 OCTOBER, 11:23 a.m.
The town square in the center of Gordontown featured a courthouse with police headquarters directly across the street. Lisa Cobb sat in the small restaurant two doors down from the police station and sipped on her eighth cup of coffee. Her time had been split between watching, drinking, and going to the bathroom.
Calling her brother had been an act of desperation, but Tommy had bailed her out of more than one scrape in her life. When both their parents died in a car wreck when she was fourteen, it had been Tommy, seven years older, who had taken care of her and helped put her through college. Lisa was grateful for his help, but sometimes she wished he had been as generous with his advice as he had been with his money. It was only after her husband had been picked up by the police that Tommy had expressed his disapproval of Philip and of her marriage—a disapproval that dated from the time she had first gone out with the man. From anyone else, Lisa might have made a change of hindsight, but she believed Tommy—he had never lied to her. He had not spoken his mind back then, he said, because he thought it was futile: people in love will never believe they’re making a mistake. While awaiting the trial, he’d urged her to divorce Philip, but to Lisa that was not an option. She felt she couldn’t abandon her husband at this worst possible time; it seemed as immoral as what he had done to her. Tommy tried to convince her, telling her it wouldn’t get any better. But the thought of starting a new life alone on the shattered remains of her old one had seemed overwhelming. More than anything, what she had wanted was time—time removed from crisis to sort things out, and the Program had seemed to offer her that. How ironic that the “solution” had unraveled the remaining strands of her life. Now she had nothing left.
Lisa spotted the black Ford Bronco II on its first loop around the square. The vehicle and driver fit the description her brother had forwarded to her on the second phone call. She gave it three loops and watched as the Bronco pulled into a spot facing the courthouse steps. Then she forced herself to wait another ten minutes—the memory of the incident at the rest stop all too fresh in her mind.
She finally stepped out into the sun-drenched street and came up on the vehicle from behind. She was surprised when the passenger door swung open without the driver even turning his head. She hopped in, and he had the truck started and out into the traffic before he even looked at her.
“I’m Dave Riley.” He wore camouflage fatigues, and a faded green beret lay between the seats on top of a crumpled towel.
“Lisa Cobb.”
He nodded, his eyes flicking from the rearview mirror to the streets and buildings and finally to her, then immediately back to a scan of the surroundings.
“Have you spotted anyone here in town who might be one of the people who have been after you?”
“No.”
“We’re heading to Fayetteville, which is about two hours away. I’m going to put you up in my apartment, where you’ll be safe. I need to know what’s going on, so why don’t you start from the very beginning and tell me all that’s happened.”
The last thing Lisa felt like doing was tracing the events of the past twenty-four hours. She wanted to sit back in the cushions of the seat, close her eyes, and escape from the world. The cross-country walk toward the lights of the town, then the hours spent shivering on the outskirts before entering at daylight, had drained what little energy she had left. She knew she looked ragged, although she had done the best she could to clean up in the restroom of the coffee shop.
“Please,” Riley said, this time really looking at her as he halted briefly at a stop sign. “I know you’re probably beat, but to help you I’ve got to know what’s going on. Your brother got in contact with a friend of mine on the Chicago police force, and she also needs to know so she can help. As soon as we get to Fayetteville, I’ll give her a call and fill her in. So if you can hang in there for another couple of hours, I promise you a hot shower and some good rack time.”
Lisa nodded and began her tale.
CHICAGO
29 OCTOBER, 12:38 p.m.
The police file on the Torrentino case filled four cardboard boxes. Giannini shuddered to think what the court file looked like; it would probably fill her office and flow out into the corridor. At least whoever had put it together had labeled the folders. She began her search, thumbing through the volumes of paperwork, looking for anything that
might help her understand what was going on. Within five minutes, she knew there was something wrong with the file—pages were missing and certain names had been blacked out on all copies.
Forty minutes later, a large shadow filled her doorway. She glanced up to see Mike Guyton leaning against the doorframe, cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.
“A little bird told me someone had pulled the Torrentino case.”
Giannini didn’t say anything, waiting for Guyton to get to the point.
“It’s closed, Giannini.”
“Yeah, I can read.”
Irritation flashed across Guyton’s face. “So why are you looking at it?”
“That’s my job, in case you haven’t heard. To go through these old cases and then put them away downstairs.”
Guyton shook his head. “Not the Torrentino case. The captain didn’t give that to you to close out. I closed it out two weeks ago. You drew it out of the basement.”
Shit, Giannini thought to herself. Caught in one lie already. Why was Guyton so uptight about this? He must have told the clerk downstairs to call him if anyone asked for the Torrentino file. Guyton had been in the papers big time throughout the trial, sharing the fame and credit for breaking the case with the FBI task force—a most unusual scene of cooperation between local and federal authorities. Most likely, Giannini figured, he was worried about anybody messing with his prize baby.
Unless he was worried about the pages that weren’t in the file. Giannini felt a small worm of fear begin to crawl about in her gut.
“All right, Mike, you caught me. I’m just curious is all. I wanted to check it out.”
“Get curious somewhere else, doll.” He pointed at the boxes. “Those go back downstairs right now.”
Giannini bristled but held herself in check as the big man turned and swaggered down the hall. She knew he’d be waiting to get a phone call from the clerk confirming that the file had been replaced, so she quickly packed up the boxes and returned them to the holding area.