by Diane Capri
Gaspar’s limp was pronounced at first, but eased with exercise, as it usually did.
“I know you’re running through it again in your head,” Gaspar said with a grin to distract her from his limping. “Just verbalize for me while you’re at it. Another run-through never hurts.”
She scowled as if he’d falsely accused her. He hadn’t. She never stopped thinking, analyzing, crunching data in her head, even if it was the same data, over and over. He didn’t complain. Her odd habits had already saved his ass more than once.
“The subject is retired Army Lieut. Col. Alfred Weston.” She rattled off the few important facts they’d received in the Boss’s materials: “Sixteen-plus years ago, Weston was posted here on a classified assignment. No details in the file. Weston’s wife and three children were murdered. Reacher somehow became the lead Army investigator on the case. He thought Weston was the killer.”
“Why?”
“Who knows?” she said, as if she was slightly irritated at Reacher’s unfathomable behavior. Which she probably was.
“But Reacher couldn’t prove Weston did it,” Gaspar continued for her, “and it turned out the real shooter was arrested quickly by the locals.” He fingered the Tylenol in his pocket. He’d swallow another one when she wasn’t watching. His doctors prescribed narcotic pain medication, but he couldn’t risk taking it. Tylenol was the strongest thing he’d allow himself while they were working.
She said, “After the killer’s arrest, the official investigation of Weston ended.”
“Unofficially, Reacher wouldn’t let it go,” Gaspar went on. Reacher never let anything go once he had his teeth into it. Otto was the same way. For sheer bulldog tenacity, Reacher and Otto were as alike as bookends.
“Weston’s been living abroad,” Otto said, “Middle East mostly, since he left the Army under a cloud of Reacher’s making.” She stopped talking abruptly, as if she didn’t want to mention the rest.
Gaspar’s right leg was feeling stronger. The cramping easing. Limp nearly under control. Pain ever-present, sure, but he could handle pain. He’d been handling it a good long while.
“And now,” Otto said, “Weston’s accused of major crimes against the U.S. Government. Various forms of corruption, mostly, related to the private security company he operates. A few allegations of using unauthorized force and excessive force. Suspected manslaughter of civilians is at the center of it. A lot of conflicting evidence. Nothing actually proved so far, but plenty to support an arrest and interrogation.” She hesitated half a breath. “This is the first time Weston’s been on American soil in the past sixteen years.”
Same facts he’d memorized on the plane. He hadn’t missed anything. He still didn’t like it.
Gaspar mulled for a couple more steps before he asked, “Why come back at all? He’s got nothing here. Why not just stay offshore and make Uncle Sam send covert operations after him if we wanted him badly enough?”
She shrugged as if the answer didn’t matter, when Gaspar knew it did.
“Once they snatch him,” she said, “he’ll be locked up and off limits to us. We need to get to him today.” She took another breath and glanced again at the plain Seiko on her narrow wrist. “We’ve got less than an hour before the service starts.”
Gaspar felt his eyebrows knitting together. Their mission still wouldn’t make sense. “Why should Weston tell us anything useful?”
“The Boss says Weston blames Reacher for his troubles and wants to even the score. We’re supposed to give Weston that chance and strongly encourage him to take it.” Unconsciously, perhaps, she patted her gun under her blazer.
“We’re striking out with Reacher’s friends so we’ll squeeze his enemies instead?” A harsh, dry chuckle escaped Gaspar’s lips. “Sounds a little like sticking your head in the mouth of a hungry carnivore doesn’t it?”
Otto said nothing.
3
They’d been allotted one hour to get in, get what they could, and get out without crossing paths with the arresting agents or stepping in another pile of stink from unknown origins. Flight and traffic delays had sucked up more than half of their time already.
“Your gun’s loaded, right?” she said, patting hers again as if she didn’t realize she’d touched it.
“Come on, Sunshine.” He ran both hands through his hair again and stuffed them in his trouser pockets. “We’ve been over this. We can’t discharge weapons we’re illegally carrying. Do you have any idea what would happen if we did that?”
“I’m familiar with procedures,” she snapped.
“And you’re familiar with prison sentences, too.”
She seemed unimpressed with his reasoning. “Weston’s made enemies here and around the world. A few have a strong appetite for vengeance.”
Gaspar knew she was worrying about one particular enemy. So was he.
“Unlikely Reacher knows Weston’s here,” he said. “How would he have heard? The man’s far enough off the grid even the Boss can’t find him. Not likely anyone else can.”
Finding Reacher wasn’t the issue, though. The question was whether Reacher would find Weston. Or them—a growing possibility, the longer they went looking for him. Reacher had friends. By now, smart money said at least one of those friends had somehow passed along that they were on his trail.
“Reacher lives to piss on the other guy’s grave,” Otto said. “He’s a highly qualified sniper. The only non-Marine to win the 1000-yard invitational rifle competition.”
“It would be crazy to try to kill Weston here where he’ll be so heavily guarded. A good sniper would choose a highway location. Shoot from a vehicle. Make a clean getaway,” Gaspar said.
Again her hand passed over the lump in her blazer. “I’m saying we need a Plan B. Guns work for me. Unless you’ve got a better plan.”
He didn’t.
They’d arrived at the ceremony site. Setup was completed and the audience was slowly filing in. Gaspar estimated seating for about 1,000 people. A temporary, elevated stage at the front, a center podium flanked by four chairs on either side. He saw flat, open parking lots behind the stage where official vehicles and emergency personnel waited. A dark sedan pulled in from the opposite side of the parking lot. Which meant there was a second means of ingress and egress to the area.
One more entrance or escape route to cover. Not ideal.
He studied the site’s perimeter. Otto was right. Weston’s tenure here at MacDill, and with the Army in general, had produced more enemies than most men accumulated in a lifetime. Yet, today Weston would stand in an open field on an elevated stage surrounded by too many spots for a moderately good shooter to hide.
It felt foolhardy to Gaspar. Weston had to feel the same way.
Any military man would.
Which was one of the things that made the setup feel so profoundly wrong.
Gaspar identified the most likely shelter points for snipers within a seventy yard range. Any military sniper was reliable at five times that distance. There were several good ones and a few more that a sniper as good as Reacher could use to kill and disappear before anyone found his nest. What they had learned about Reacher was that even though he could kill from a distance at any time, he preferred to handle his problems up close and personal. Gaspar had felt like prey every day since he’d received the Reacher assignment. The only reasonable solution was to ignore it and press on.
The base held plenty of weapons and ammo and legitimate personnel who were trained to use them. In theory, all arms were accounted for and all non-security personnel were prohibited from possessing personal weapons on base. In theory.
Like most theories, that one was obviously unreliable. Gaspar knew for sure that at least two people carrying unauthorized weapons were standing in this precise spot already. Seemed to him more than likely there’d be others.
“You know what worries me?” Otto asked.
He laughed. “Everything worries you, Sunshine.”
She glared at
him. “Why did Weston agree to attend this ceremony, make himself an easy target?”
“I was just wondering that myself,” Gaspar said. “Maybe he’s got a death wish.”
“Or homicidal intent,” she said.
Gaspar didn’t argue. Either option was possible.
He again checked the potential sniper points he could identify and pointed them out to her. Shooting into a crowd and hitting only the intended target was not a simple thing, but it wasn’t impossible, either. The best locations were in the west, with the sun behind him. Firing out of the sun was every sniper’s basic preference.
“Just stay out of the line of fire,” he told her. “If my partner is shot and killed on a military base, I’ll be buried in paperwork for the rest of my natural lifetime. I’ve got kids to raise.”
“Your concern is touching,” she said, just before she slugged him in the bicep hard enough to knock him off balance. He righted himself and hammed it up a little to conceal how easily she could fell him.
“Enough horsing around. Be serious for the next ninety minutes, will you?” she scolded.
She was tiny, but fierce. He admired that about her.
Not that he’d let her know it.
Movement near the stage caught his attention. “There’s Weston. Let’s go.”
He set off toward the opposite side of the venue at a good clip. Otto struggled to keep pace at first and then strode past him until it was his turn to struggle. They closed the distance to the edge of the stage where Weston stood at ground level, flanked by a military escort and two women. The escort would be Corporal Noah Daniel, according to the Boss’s instructions.
Twenty feet behind Weston stood three bulky civilians wearing navy business suits, white shirts and rep ties, and thick-soled shoes. These could only be private bodyguards. More holes in the “no guns on base” theory, Gaspar figured.
He slowed so Otto reached their target first, allowing Gaspar time to gather quick impressions of the Weston group.
The older woman was Samantha Weston. She was draped in ridiculous fashion garments that probably came from Paris or Milan without benefit of filtering through American good sense.
She was fortyish. Lanky. Lean. Artfully styled hair. Handsomely well-constructed.
Gaspar could spot skilled plastic surgery and haute couture across a dim and crowded Miami ballroom. No detective work required here, though. Mrs. Weston’s familiarity with both was revealed by Tampa’s brutally honest sunlight.
The younger woman standing slightly behind Mrs. Weston was well groomed but plain. Wholesome. Smallish. About thirty, or a couple of years either side, Gaspar guessed. Dark hair. Short, scrubbed fingernails. Everything about her appearance was professionally no-nonsense.
And something else.
She seemed familiar.
A certain lilt to her nose, crinkles around her eyes as she squinted into the sun, dimple in her chin.
Who was she?
Wife of an acquaintance? Ring-less fingers ruled out that option.
Maybe she resembled a celebrity or even a crime victim from a prior case.
He waited a moment for the information to bubble up. No luck. He couldn’t place her.
Next, from behind the aviators he scanned the subject like a full body x-ray machine. Weston’s dark suit covered him from turkey neck to shiny, cap-toed shoes. All visible body parts were pathetic. Gaspar’s scan noted pasty skin, eye pouches, jowls, tremors. Weston was fifty-five, maybe? But he looked every moment of twenty years older.
The expat life in Iraq as a military contractor suspected of murdering local civilians carried its own unhealthy burdens, sure. In Weston’s case, the added pressure of surviving the murder of his wife and children on U.S. soil couldn’t be easy. Guilt might have gnawed his organs, maybe. Whatever the cause, he looked like he was being eaten alive.
Otto presented herself to them. “Corporal Daniel. Colonel Weston. Mrs. Weston.” She hesitated briefly before reaching out to the unidentified younger woman.
“Jennifer Lane,” the woman said, extending her hand for a firm shake with Otto first, then Gaspar. “I’m Mrs. Weston’s lawyer.”
Instantly, Samantha Weston became more concerning. In Gaspar’s experience, only people already in trouble and expecting worse trouble traveled with a lawyer.
“I am FBI Special Agent Kim Otto and this is my partner Special Agent Carlos Gaspar. We’d like to talk to Colonel Weston for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
The expression settling on Weston’s face was something close to satisfaction. He didn’t smile, exactly. More like a smirk. So Weston had expected them. Or someone like them. Which made Gaspar more uneasy than he already was. Why would Weston anticipate that cops would approach him today? The Boss said Weston’s arrest was a sting. Gaspar could dream up a dozen explanations, but none of them were good news.
Corporal Daniel performed as ordered. “Mrs. Weston, Ms. Lane, our base chaplain would like a word with you before we begin,” he said, leading Samantha Weston away by a firm forearm grip.
Attorney Jennifer Lane followed her client like a pit bull on a leash.
Gaspar positioned himself facing Weston, better to observe and avoid the sniper positions he’d previously noted. Otto stood to one side, also out of identifiable firing lines. Weston remained an easy target and had to know it, but didn’t seem to care.
“Sir, we’ll only take a few moments of your time,” Otto said. “We’re hoping you can help us with some background data about the investigating military police officer on your wife’s murder case.”
“Reacher,” Weston said, as though naming an enemy more heinous than Bin Laden. Then, eagerly, “Is he with you?”
Otto’s expression, betraying equal parts horror and astonishment at the very thought, was quickly squelched.
Gaspar hid his grin behind a cough. One mystery solved. Weston meant to lure Reacher here today.
And maybe he had. Gaspar didn’t find that option comforting in the least.
“We haven’t seen him recently,” Gaspar said, truthfully enough. He slouched a little and settled his hands into his trouser pockets because it made him seem friendlier. Gaspar knew many successful interrogation techniques, but none of them worked unless the subject wanted to talk. Most of the problem was making them want to. Once they wanted to tell him everything, witnesses were nearly impossible to shut up.
Disappointed that they hadn’t served up his quarry, Weston became more suspicious. “Why are you collecting background on Reacher?”
The half-truth rolled more easily off Otto’s tongue after weeks of practice, “We’re completing a routine investigation.”
“Why?”
“He’s being considered for a special assignment.”
“Cannon fodder? Road kill?” Weston’s sharp retorts came fast. “Those are the only jobs Reacher’s fit for.”
“Meaning what?” Otto asked, unintimidated.
Weston said, “My wife and children were executed. By cowards. While I was serving my country.”
“Nothing to do with Reacher, right?” Otto asked.
Weston’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “Reacher accused me. He arrested me. I wasn’t there to see my children buried. I wasn’t there to see my wife buried. I sat in a jail cell instead.” He clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “This is the first memorial service I’ve ever been able to attend for my slain family. You call that nothing? I sure as hell don’t.”
“Not unreasonable of Reacher, though,” Otto said, detached, cool. “Most people are murdered by someone close to them. Anybody who watches television knows that. Reacher wasn’t out of line when he considered you a prime suspect.”
Weston’s chest heaved. He shifted his slight weight and leaned closer to Otto, towering unsteadily over her. She didn’t flinch. She remained the polar opposite of cowed. Gaspar figured Weston wasn’t used to having any woman stand her ground with him, much less one nearly half his size.
&n
bsp; Weston lowered his voice to a mighty pianissimo and still Otto didn’t budge even half an inch. “When Reacher found out he was wrong about me? What did he do?”
Otto lifted her shoulders and opened her palms, unimpressed. “I give up.”
Otto’s behavior enraged Weston a bit more. He leaned in and all but engulfed her like a vulture’s shadow. She didn’t move and said nothing.
Then, as if he’d flipped some sort of internal switch, he released the stranglehold on his fists and relaxed his posture. Regular breathing resumed. Sweat beads on his forehead and above his upper lip glistened in the sunlight. A breeze had kicked up, carrying floral scents from the tropical plants in and around the base. A breeze that any good sniper could easily accommodate.
When Weston spoke again, he sounded almost civil, as if Otto had asked him about nothing more personal than last night’s dinner menu.
The guy was a sociopath, Gaspar thought. Clearly. Total nut-job. All the signs were there. He’d seen it too many times before.
“It’s unfortunate that Reacher’s still alive. If I see him before you do, he won’t be. Please tell him that for me.” His tone reflected the controlled calm Gaspar recognized as subdued rage. A hallmark of stone cold killers, crazy or not.
Gaspar asked, “Why did Reacher think you killed your family? We haven’t seen the whole file. Was there some evidence against you?”
“Ask him next time you see him.” Weston folded his hands in front of his scrawny abdomen, miming that he had all the patience in the world to do nothing but humor them.
“Right now I’m asking you.”
Attendees had been filing in steadily as they talked and now filled the chairs in the audience as well as on the stage. Again, Gaspar noticed a significant number of disabled men and women. Many of them were young. Too young.
Not much time left.
Weston’s satisfied smirk turned up a notch. “You work for Cooper, don’t you?”
Hearing him utter the Boss’s name was a sharp jab, but Gaspar recognized a classic deflection and refused the bait. Whatever happened after Reacher left the Army, he’d been a good cop. After twenty minutes with Weston, Gaspar was ready to believe anything Reacher reported about Weston on Reacher’s word alone.