Bob reached inside the rear collar of the man’s sweater, looking for the manufacturer’s tag, but it had been cut out too. Same for the pants. No tags. Bob looked at the plastic bag with the sleek, gunmetal black knife that Iversen was holding. “I’m no expert, but it looks like a Hill tactical knife, European manufacture, and pretty expensive.”
“Is that a brand that Delta uses?”
“You keep hinting, but do I look like a Delta?” Bob laughed as he looked down at himself, knowing he was his own best camouflage.
The police sergeant looked at him too, and shrugged. “No, I guess not; but let me get to the nut of it, Major,” Iversen said as he leaned in closer. “Two guys in black, with ski masks, plastic restraints, no IDs, no tags, and a knife like that…”
“They weren’t amateurs, were they?”
“No, and I don’t think this was a burglary gone wrong, or a sexual attack, either.”
“The snap-cuffs? You think it was a kidnapping?” Bob asked, skeptical.
“Call it what you like, but she was the target.”
“Patsy? But why? Have you asked her about this?”
“At length. But tell me about Sergeant Pastorini. You’ve come in for his funeral. Was he a combat casualty somewhere?”
“Combat?” Bob shook his head. “Not hardly. He fell out the fifth-floor window of an Atlantic City casino.”
“In Atlantic City? Was it an accident? Suicide?”
“Depends on who you ask. Look, I know what you’re thinking, but where’s the connection? Vinnie ran up a bunch of gambling debts in a casino up there and tried to get away by crawling out a window. Patsy had nothing to do with that.”
“Well, she sure had something to do with this,” Iversen nodded at the corpse.
“You’re running fingerprints on this guy and tests on the blood on the front door?”
“Of course. Fingerprints clear pretty fast in the state and Federal databases, but don’t hold your breath on the blood.”
“Well, if you get a match, let me know.” Bob said as he looked into the kitchen. “Can we get Patsy out of here now? I’d like to take her back to the Embassy Suites with us, maybe have my wife grab some of her stuff.”
“Yeah, okay, but let me know where she’ll be. That second guy is still out there.”
As soon as they got Patsy in the car, she began to cry. “God, I can’t tell you guys how much I appreciate this. I don’t know what I’d have done… those two men…”
“It’s been a rough few days for you,” Bob commiserated. “But before we get to the hotel, let me ask you a couple of things. First, where’d you get the Glock?”
“It was Vinnie’s. He took me to the range and taught me how to shoot.”
“Looks like he taught you pretty well. But what woke you up? You must have been tired, and it looked like they were careful, creeping around in the house.”
“I don’t know. Something did. There’s a couple of boards out in that hallway that aren’t right. Vinnie complained to the builder two or three times that they need to be nailed down again. I’m a light sleeper, maybe that was it. Anyway, something woke me, so I pulled the gun out of the bedside table and waited. When the bedroom door opened and I saw someone standing in the doorway… I started pulling the trigger, like he told me to do.”
“You did the right thing. They were after you.”
“Me? But why? I didn’t…”
“You never saw him before, maybe with Vinnie, or around the post?”
“No, I swear.”
“Okay, okay, I believe you; but you need to be careful. They were here for a reason, and the other one is still out there.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fort Bragg is one of the largest United States Army installations anywhere in the world. Sprawling across parts of four counties in the central North Carolina Piedmont, it covers 251 square miles, an area larger than the city of Chicago. As every infantry grunt knows, Fort Benning Georgia, two states to the south, is the home of the boring, old-fashioned, crawl-in-the-mud, “leg” infantry and the elite 75th Ranger Regiment, while Fort Bragg cornered the Army’s fun jobs. It is home to the 82nd Airborne Division, the sky troopers who jump out of airplanes. It’s also home to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School, and the men and women who wear those nifty green, maroon, and beige berets. Many of them belong to various hush-hush, “if-I-told-you-I’d-have-to-kill-you” Special Operations units, like the ultra-secret Delta Force, who work under the Joint Special Operations Command or JSOC as it’s called. As such, it was home to 77,000 of Bob Burke’s “close personal friends,” each of whom takes it very personally when one of his fellow soldiers is murdered.
Three days after they left Chicago, Bob found himself slowly ascending the curved staircase to the elevated pulpit inside Fort Bragg’s Main Post Chapel. It is a lovely, two-story white clapboard colonial building with a tall, red-shingled, bell tower. The chapel’s interior is painted pure white, with stained-glass windows and balconies, a crimson carpet down the main aisle, and an elegant brass chandelier hanging high overhead.
The pulpit where Bob stood was no less impressive. Hung from the side wall, it looked down on the altar, the main floor, and the flag-draped casket at the head of the main aisle. He had been inside the chapel many times for weddings, ordinary church services, and funerals. Today was the third occasion when he had been asked to deliver the eulogy. The first two were when the Iraq and Afghanistan wars were at their peak, and post chapels were busy places everywhere. This time, it was different. The level of conflict around the world had slowed, and Washington was even pulling Special Operations troops out of many places, which only made a eulogy that much harder.
Vinnie had served in many of the units at Bragg and at Benning, especially the elite ones, such as Delta and the 75th Ranger Regiment and all its components, with distinction. Any death among this elite fraternity of warriors was to be mourned, but Vinnie’s death was anything but ordinary, and everyone in the room knew it. Perhaps that was why Bob found himself standing in front of an overflow crowd that morning.
In the front row sat Lieutenant General Arnold Stansky from JSOC and Colonel Irving Jeffers from Delta, with Patsy and Linda sitting between them, accompanied by several other general officers and a phalanx of colonels, lieutenant colonels, and majors, all in uniform. To their immediate rear sat Master Sergeant Harold Ace Randall, several graying command sergeant majors, and Chester, Lonzo, The Batman, Koz, Bulldog, and countless other NCOs and warrant officers with whom Vinnie had served, or at least tipped a few beers with over the years. Most wore their dress green uniforms, as Bob had done, complete with all the ribbons, special badges, and insignias. Sitting next to Linda was Ernie Travers, who arrived from Chicago minutes before the chapel service began. One of only a handful of men in dark business suits, at his size he was hard to miss.
From the serious expressions on everyone’s face, it was obvious they wanted answers. Unfortunately, Bob knew if he told them the truth, a torch-lit mob would head north and storm Donatello Carbonari’s New Jersey “castle,” as the good citizens of Transylvania had marched on Count Frankenstein’s. Looking down on the grim faces and the closed, flag-draped casket with Vinnie’s many medals and his tan beret from the 75th Ranger Regiment lying on it, it would be hard for Bob to say they shouldn’t.
“This is not a happy occasion for any of us,” he began. “Today, we lay to rest Sergeant First Class Vincent Pastorini, a highly decorated veteran of fifteen years’ service in two wars and many other conflicts, and the recipient of two Silver Stars, two Bronze Stars, four Purple Hearts, the Meritorious Service Medal and three Army Commendation Medals. Over the years, as many of you can attest, there are very few elite Army fighting units in which Vinnie did not serve. Those of us who fought and bled with him knew him as a warrior who left us far too soon. He was a good friend, a brave soldier, a loyal comrade-in-arms, and he’ll be sorely missed. Someone once said that the only noble end for a soldier is to be
killed by the last spear, or the last arrow, or the last bullet in the last battle of a war; and then be carried off the field on his shield by his fellow soldiers. I’m sure that’s what Vinnie would have preferred, but it was not to be. Instead, he died in a tragic accident not of his making. However, rather than dwell on his sad ending, let us remember the man and the good times when he walked amongst us with a moment of silent prayer.”
After a few minutes of absolute silence in the chapel, Bob looked up and said, “Following this service, Vinnie will be interred in the Main Post Cemetery, and I’d like to thank General Stansky for his help in making that happen. Finally, there will be an informal gathering of Vinnie’s friends at the Conference Center at 4:00 p.m., and everyone is welcome to help send Vinnie off in the style I’m sure he would have wanted. Thank you for coming.”
The “informal gathering” in the rear ballroom of the large, new Conference Center was well underway and already elbow to elbow by the time the cemetery crowd arrived. Like the others, Bob headed for the bar, but from the moment he passed through the door, he couldn’t walk five feet without a handshake, a backslap, or sharp questions about what the hell had happened and what was being done about it. Eventually, he persevered long enough to make it back to the bar, where Ernie Travers waited with a large bourbon on the rocks for him.
“I’ve got to admit, Army guys know how to throw a good Irish wake,” Ernie said.
“We get a lot of practice,” Bob answered.
“Still, if it wasn’t for all those green uniforms, I’d think I was in O’Shaughnessy’s or The Galway Arms on the north side of Chicago.” Within moments, Ace, Chester, The Batman, Koz, and even Bulldog had gathered around, shaking hands with Bob, Ernie and each other. “Like any good Chicago cop, I’ll drink with anyone regardless of race, creed, national origin, rank, or height.”
“Same for Army sergeants,” The Batman answered with a big grin. “We’ll even drink with a Chicago cop.” That was when the girls walked in — Linda, Patsy, and Ace’s new friend Dorothy, whom they met at dinner the night before and immediately became fast friends. Dorothy was a tall, solidly-built blonde, perhaps in her early thirties and older than the other two women. She wore a simple black sheath dress and a striking string of pearls. As they approached the men, Bob asked her, “No uniform, Captain?”
“If I did, I’m not sure what would look more awkward,” Dorothy answered as she latched onto Ace’s arm, “having an Air Force captain put an occasional lip lock on this handsome Army master sergeant, or being the only blue uniform in a sea of green.”
“It wouldn’t be awkward for him, I assure you,” Bob answered. “He’d love it.”
As the group broke up into a number of side conversations, Ernie seized the opportunity to pull Bob aside. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?” he asked.
“When we left Atlantic City, I figured I’d let it ride, and see what the coroner came up with; but after what happened on the Expressway, and then outside my garage, Carbonari crossed the line. I’m a simple guy, Ernie. I don’t get mad, I get even.”
“I understand completely, especially when family is involved. But what’s with those people? Haven’t any of them watched The Godfather, for Chris’ sake? Don’t they know the women are supposed to be off limits?”
“Yeah, where’s Vito Corleone when you really need him? Anyway, I assume Shaka and his pals were arraigned the next morning.”
“In the county court center in Rolling Meadows, just a few miles west of where you live, so I went up there myself to watch the show. It didn’t take long. Black eyes, heads bandaged, and Corliss’s arm in a sling — they made quite a sight when the deputies trooped them in,” Ernie laughed. “You really beat the crap out of them, Bob.”
“Hey! Linda and the cat did most of it. Besides, they got what they deserved.”
“Well, somebody must’ve tipped somebody off, because the court room was full of reporters. The Chief Judge himself presided and the Deputy State’s Attorney handled the prosecution. I know the FBI and the New Jersey state cops had been on the phone with the prosecutors all morning, because I called them too. Everybody wanted a piece of Corliss. We all expected the judge would set a high bail, or no bail at all, so the cops could sweat them in that hellhole they call Cook County Jail, and try to flip them. When their case was called, a big-time criminal defense attorney named Winston Jenkins from Ernst and Willie downtown stood up, complete with his expensive suit and handmade Italian shoes, and told the judge he was representing them. That rattled the judge. He’s up for reelection and Ernst and Willie are big contributors to all the Circuit Court races.”
“Illinois politics: don’t you just love it?”
“Well, to his credit, the judge didn’t back off. He set bail for $1 million for Corliss and a half a million each for the other two. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’s going to keep a perp behind bars. Not that day. Jenkins posted the bonds without even blinking, and they were out the door in thirty minutes. We were floored, all of us.”
Bob shook his head. “You’ll never see them again.”
“Well, if they don’t show, it’s gonna cost somebody a lot of money.”
“Doesn’t matter. Carbonari wasn’t about to let those three spend another night in jail, where the cops can work on them. Next stop would be Witness Protection in Oregon or New Mexico, and the Federal Supermax prison for Donnie.”
“You think he’ll get rid of all three of them?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Bob answered with a cynical laugh.
“My imagination doesn’t stretch that far, but I see your point.”
“The two Hulks are dime-a-dozen muscle,” Bob said. “But Corliss isn’t that stupid. When the judge offered bail, he should have jumped up and screamed, ‘No thanks, man, lock me back up!’ They’re dead men walking, they just haven’t figured it out yet.”
As he and Ernie finished talking, Master Sergeant Harold “Ace” Randall squeezed in next to them. For Bob’s last six years on active duty, Ace had been his senior NCO and alter ego. That included four deployments in Afghanistan, two in Iraq, and countless battles and firefights in between. Physically, the two men could not be more different. Ace was everyone’s image of a soldier’s soldier — six feet two inches tall, a muscular two hundred and ten pounds, and ruggedly handsome. With twenty-one years in, he was older than the other sergeants in the unit, almost Bob’s age, and had the scars to prove it. On the other hand, at five feet nine and now one sixty-five, Bob was no one’s image of a special ops officer.
The Army’s Delta Force had three odd peculiarities that distinguished it from other units. First, membership in the Unit was top-secret. Other than wives, you told no one, not girlfriends, not even your mother, for their own protection. Second, like undercover cops, Delta Force “operators” were not required to adhere to the Army’s normal physical appearance standards. Long hair, beards, and earrings were the norm, allowing them to blend more easily into civilian populations. In Ace’s case, he wore a long, tightly braided ponytail, a Fu Manchu moustache, and a tattoo on each forearm. One read, “Been There, Done That,” and the other said, “Kill ’em All, Let God Sort It Out.” And, third, except in formal military settings with other soldiers around, they usually used their tactical radio names or “handles” when talking to each other, regardless of rank. It was a sign of unit cohesion, exclusivity, and even affection.
Ace smiled and extended his hand to Ernie. “Colonel-Captain Travers,” he said, having fun with Ernie’s twin status as a Reserve Military Police colonel and a Chicago Police Department detective captain. “I didn’t expect to see you again soon.”
Ernie laughed. “Funny how things like that go; how have you been?”
“Good, until a few days ago, anyway. I saw you and ‘the Ghost’ with your heads together over here. What’s he decided? We going on another Gumbah hunt?”
“Sounds like you’re up for it,” Bob laughed.
“Locked and load
ed, sir, as are half the guys in the room, if we asked.”
“Sir? Did you hear that, Ernie?” Bob asked. “Now I know the man’s bored.”
“Not bored, just determined. This one’s personal,” Ace answered as his expression turned serious. “Somebody’s gotta pay for Vinnie, but I get it. The Ghost just got married, and we’re a long way from Chicago. But no need, I can pull a Barrett from the arms room, spend a few weekends up on the Jersey shore, and drive all their business away until they come clean.”
The M107 Barrett was the most lethal sniper rifle in the world. In the hands of an expert, it can accurately hit targets up to a mile away and its .50-caliber bullets can punch large holes through the exterior brick and stucco walls of a hotel, a car body, a slot machine, or a hotel window. The best shot in the unit had been Vinnie Pastorini, but the second best was Ace, and a very close third was the Ghost.
Ace shrugged. “You guys know me. It ain’t bragging if you can do it.”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Bob told him as he looked around the room. “By the way, looks like all the old unit is here. Vinnie would have liked that.”
“Guys came in from a lot of places,” Ace told him. “Benning, Campbell, Eglin…”
“I see about everybody here except Gramps Benson,” Bob said. “I heard he had some problems at the end, but somehow I still expected to see him walk in.”
“You got me,” Ace answered. “He disappeared about six months after you did. It was all hush-hush, and us lowly NCOs knew not to ask what was going on in your ‘secret officer fraternity.’ He must’ve really pissed somebody off, though. I heard there was a Board or something, but none of the guys were ever called to testify. He just disappeared.”
“You don’t think they sent him somewhere, maybe on a detached assignment?”
“Who knows. It felt more like he took a dump in the middle of the general’s carpet, and they escorted him off the post, cut off his buttons, broke his sword, and sealed the files.”
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