Rich grinned. “Hey, we got a stewardess.”
The airman, who looked barely older than Moyer’s teenage son, studied Rich for a moment, then turned back to Moyer. “Did you choose him or did he choose you?”
“I’m being punished for my misspent youth. Thanks for the offer. We’ll eat whatever you have.”
“Very well, um . . . ”
“What is it, Airman?”
“Six Army men in civilian clothes and a ton of equipment makes me think you’re on a mission. May I ask what it is?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“What kind of mission are you on?”
Moyer looked the kid in the eyes. “It’s a training mission.”
“I had a feeling you were going to say that. It seems like all you Army guys are on training missions.”
“That’s why we’re so good, kid,” Rich said. “I’ll take a ginger ale.”
The airman slipped to the back of the craft, stopping at each of Moyer’s team and taking orders.
Before long, a microwaved plate of chicken breast, rice, green beans, and almonds was placed on the small table in front of him. “Man, if this is lunch, I can’t wait to see dinner.”
As he ate, Moyer gazed out the window at the passing world below. From this height he could see roadways and cities, but people were invisible. Six billion people on the planet, most of them good, honest, respectable. But there were the others. Moyer wasn’t good enough at math to work out the percentages, but he knew that a few people could make life horrible for millions of others.
He had to find one such man.
MOYER WAS A YOUNG man at thirty-eight, but he was beginning to feel his age. Not so much physically, he could still bring it when he needed to, but his mind and worldview had aged faster than his body. In his twenties he never worried. The world was a toy. The Army trained him, equipped him, and empowered him to move beyond emotion. Even after he married Stacy, he never worried about dying on the field. She was young and could remarry easily. But when his children came along, Rob and Gina, that began to change. The idea of another man rearing his children ate at him. Still, he learned to live with it. Rob was now seventeen and until a few months ago had been a royal pain in the butt. Like many teenagers, he withdrew, battled his parents about everything, and took an interest in anything that would irritate his father. Moyer had only made things worse. Being an Army brat was no easy thing; being an Army brat to the leader of a Spec Ops team was worse.
Gina, however, remained the jewel in his crown. Smart, supportive, she often saw things more clearly than adults. He hoped that she wouldn’t change as she entered her teenage years. Moyer would be happy if his daughter remained perpetually thirteen.
Early on Moyer showed little concern for the families of his team. Then his own children arrived. Suddenly he saw things differently. He began to invite his team to his house for barbecue. He and his men would watch sports, preferably NASCAR racing, and the women would visit. Those times grew special.
Months ago, before beginning the mission to Venezuela, Moyer had thought he was seriously ill. Not wanting his superiors to know, he first went to a civilian doctor but received a call-up before the doc could run the needed test. The entire time he was in South America, Moyer believed he had colon cancer.
Moyer gazed down the aircraft and looked at his men. Rich Harbison was big, loud, funny, and seemingly impervious to pain or fear, but Moyer knew the man loved his wife more than most men are capable. He might joke about the hardships of marriage, but he would eat glass if Robyn asked him to do so. The highest compliment men like him could receive is, “He’s a good soldier.” Rich was a great soldier and an excellent second in command. They didn’t always agree, and Moyer had knocked heads with the big man more than once, but when bullets began to fly, he wanted to be next to Shaq.
Pete Rasor sat at a window over the wing, something he did every time he flew. He said it was a smoother ride. Pete was the youngest of the bunch, a fact that earned him the nickname, “Junior.” He was smart, and like many young men his age, he loved anything tech. He was an early adopter. If anything tech came out that had a high “cool factor,” Pete bought it. Even as Moyer watched him, Junior was playing a video game on his iPhone. When J. J. announced his engagement, Pete did the least of the teasing.
J. J. sat on the other side of the aisle from Pete, earbuds crammed into his ears. His eyes were closed as if asleep, but every few moments the Sergeant First Class bobbed his head. Moyer assumed the man was listening to music, but with J. J. it could be a sermon. He was an enigma Moyer had yet to fathom. Several of his team believed in God. It didn’t mean they were churchgoers, Bible-thumpers, or goody-goody.
J. J. should fit those descriptions, but in many ways he didn’t. He never preached to the others; never used guilt to make a point; never meddled. Still, he never kept his faith secret, would answer questions when asked, and provided a needed balance to the team. Although he was devout, no one could claim the young man wasn’t a soldier. No one trained harder, and no one had shown more courage when the chips were down. Compared to the other team members, J. J. seemed the least likely to be the weapons and demolition guy. But he was and he excelled at it. His love of guns earned him the nickname, “Colt.”
Sergeant First Class Jose Medina sat behind J. J. and across from Zinsser reading a newsmagazine. He looked Hispanic in every way: dark hair, rugged brown skin, and dark eyes that released glimpses of his intelligence. Considered one of the top medics in the Army, Medina had been approached by nearly every team leader in the country. Moyer had to threaten to break the thumbs of those trying to steal Medina away. He had four children at home. He used to boast that a man couldn’t have enough children. That changed last year when his wife Lucy’s pregnancy nearly cost her life.
Moyer let his eyes shift to Jerry Zinsser. New Guy sat in the back. Unlike the other team members, he passed the time staring straight ahead or out one of the small windows. Something about him gave Moyer pause. The man was a hero; he’d shown bravery in the worst of situations—the kind that usually left soldiers bleeding to death on the ground. Zinsser deserved every honor he received, but Moyer sensed there was something more. Looking at Zinsser, Moyer found one thought repeating in his head: Some heroes came home whole and healthy; others came home broken. Fractured in ways that couldn’t be seen.
He could only hope Zinsser was in the former category. If not . . . Moyer didn’t want to think about it
THE ROAR OF THE luxury jet’s engine vibrated through the hull and bored into Zinsser’s brain. He took a deep breath then let it out, releasing the air in a slow, steady stream. He repeated the action. His heart tumbled in his chest. His stomach twisted. The sound of automatic fire echoed in his skull. He pressed his eyes shut as if squeezing his lids hard enough would exorcise the images from his mind.
If only the jet would go down. That would end it.
It would end it all forever.
CHAPTER 9
DELARAM SAT AT THE outdoor coffee shop sipping espresso and gazing down the street. The late Rome night remained warm and the air carried a perfume of warm bread, rich sauces from the restaurant a half block down the narrow street—a street so narrow only foot traffic could travel its length. It was her favorite spot, the place she retired to when the day became too stressful—and every day was stressful.
Her attention flitted from a person at a nearby table to a man walking down the street. A young couple brushed past her. An elderly man with gray whiskers gazed at her from a second-floor window in a building across the lane. They were there; she knew it. Several people looked familiar, but she couldn’t be certain they had watched her before.
They always watched her, and she had no doubt they had tapped her phone. Even now, as she sat under a darkening sky, she imagined men rummaging through her small apartment nestled in a complex of apartments a ten-minute walk away.
Let them look. Let them search all they wanted. She had done all they asked,
provided no resistance, kept the police out of the matter. She had done it all. They would find nothing to fault her with. Not that it mattered.
Delaram looked into the small cup she held as if she could read the future in the black fluid; as if wisdom waited for her just below the surface. No amount of wisdom would save her. Her life ended two weeks ago with a hand-delivered letter containing photos.
She set the cup down. Holding it made her hand shake.
Locals spoke in soft Italian. Tourists strolled the uneven surface of the walkway, drawing in the ambiance of the quaint and quiet part of Rome. Delaram knew how they felt. Once she had been captivated by the charm of the neighborhood. She had traveled the world with her parents, and this had been one of her favorite spots to visit. Her mother loved Paris; her father London; both loved Mexico.
Water brimmed her eyes and she forced her mind away from those thoughts.
“He wishes to see you.”
Delaram didn’t bother looking up. She knew the voice. Knew it too well.
She rose and walked from the coffee shop, the dark-skinned man by her side.
DELARAM SAT IN THE backseat of an American-made SUV and watched the country scenery scroll by lit by a bone-colored moon. The skyline of Rome and its thick traffic receded in the distance. Delaram had been down this road countless times over the last two weeks. Each time she said it would be her last. She followed these men because she had to, and so tight was their grip on her mind and soul she had been unable to resist. Their cocky attitude allowed her to live on her own as long as they never had to go looking for her.
She should have run.
She should have sought help.
She should have done so many things, but she did nothing. How could she?
Her stomach began to roil as the first images invaded her mind again, just as they had a thousand times before. Just as they did every hour, sometimes every minute.
The pictures were horrible. The threats horrifying. The . . . She clamped her eyes shut willing the tears back. She refused to cry in front of these people.
Thirty minutes later the driver pulled from the road and motored down a graded dirt path. It would take five minutes before they reached their destination. She looked at the distant hills and wished she could be on the other side of them, far from this vehicle, far from the two men in the car.
The man next to her shifted in his seat. He had said nothing beyond the few words spoken at the coffee shop. He never did. Nor did he exchange words with the driver. Silence was the norm. Once, however, the driver had called the other man Abasi. All she knew about Abasi was that he was tall, thin, dark-skinned, spoke with an Egyptian accent, and smelled of strong cigarettes.
The road slowly rose to a crest. Once the vehicle crested the rise Delaram could see the ranging villa illuminated by the moon and decorative exterior lights that cast drapes of golden light on white stucco walls. Italian tile blanketed the roof. Delaram came from a very rich family. Her life was spent traveling or living in private schools around the world. She had lived in massive, rented mansions, each of equal or higher quality as the villa she was approaching.
From the outside the compound looked palatial. Inside was a different matter. While expensive art hung on walls, budget-breaking rugs covered teak floors, and the latest high-tech entertainment could be found in every room, there were things that made the building seem like the lobby to hell.
The car pulled to a massive iron gate and stopped. The driver turned on the overhead lights and flashed the vehicle’s headlights three times.
An armed man stepped through an iron gate the size of a doorway and approached. The driver lowered the windows and sprung the latch to the back door that opened. The guard shone a light in the front seat, backseat, and searched the cargo area. Delaram thought it a waste of time. These men knew each other, worked together. Yet the procedure never changed.
A few moments later the large gate swung open and the driver pulled the car onto the long concrete drive that led to a tall, wide porte-cochere.
Delaram waited for the driver to open her door. Once she had let herself out, but a swift backhand had put an end to any future foolishness. Only after the driver arrived at the door did Abasi exit. Then they took positions to either side of Delaram like bookends and escorted her to the front door.
If she ran, she would die.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
CHAPTER 10
A HAND ON MOYER’S shoulder woke him. “Sorry to wake you, Sergeant Major, but we’re on final approach to Darby Air Force Base. I need you to swivel your seat back into place and raise the seat back. Also please make sure your seat belt is fastened.”
“Thanks. Will do, Airman.” Moyer glanced at his watch: 0400 local time.
The young man smiled, turned, woke Rich, and repeated the message. Soon he had awakened every member of the team and the off-duty crew.
As the steward came forward again, he engaged Moyer. “Ever been to Italy before?”
“Nope. I don’t travel much.”
The airman chuckled. “Yeah, I bet you don’t. Once your . . . what did you call it? Training mission?”
“Yup.”
“Once your training mission is over you should take a few days to visit the north country. Fabulous sites. Food is great.”
“I’ll remember that, son. I travel like a salesman.”
The airman looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“I fly in, see the airport, see the base, see the airport again, and fly home.”
“I’m familiar with the problem. My father is a business consultant. He’s been in every major city in the U.S. and, according to him, seen none of them.”
Moyer wanted to tell the man that he had seen parts of some cities no one should see, but let the conversation go. It was time to think of other things.
CAMP DARBY CONDUCTED ITS business near Pisa, Italy, and had done so since 1951. Named after General William O. Darby, who died in combat in northern Italy during World War II, the camp served as home to twenty-six Army, Air Force, and Department of Defense tenants. Among the military, the base’s greatest claim to fame was its tourist appeal. Moyer’s briefing revealed that 80,000 tourists visit the area annually. The base was one of the few in the world with access to the beach front. Not far away was the city of Pisa with its leaning tower. Any other time such sights would interest Moyer, but for the moment he had other things on his mind. The fact that many military personnel made the area their vacation spot created one more layer of secrecy for Moyer and the team.
The airman had been a little broad in his announcement that they’d land at Camp Darby. The aircraft touched down at Galileo Galilei International Airport, a facility that served the Aeronautica Militare, the Italian Air Force.
The men joked and chatted while they deplaned and climbed into the Fiat Ducato minibus that waited for them. As they headed toward the Via Aurella Sud, Rich Harbison gazed back at the C-37A. “I gotta get me one of those.”
“On your salary?” Pete said. “You can’t afford to have the thing washed.”
“How do you know I’m not a man of means?”
“Because you’re U.S. Army.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
The banter died once the small bus pulled away from the airport. Moyer knew his men well enough to recognize their weariness. No one complained. They never complained. He also knew they were thinking about the mission. If they weren’t sleeping, then they were thinking. It’s how their mission worked. Moyer’s own thoughts ricocheted from his family to his mission.
Female suicide bombers—the world has lost its mind. Battles should be fought by warriors willing to die for their cause; not cowards who hid behind civilians; who used noncombatants to do what they didn’t have the guts to do themselves.
The early morning sun pushed the silvered moon back to the horizon. Traveling across the Atlantic played havoc with Moyer’s sense of time. He looked at his watch and did the math: nearly t
en hours in the air and local time was six hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast: that made it close to 2330 back home. That made it 0530 here. They had flown through the night. His body was yearning for bed while everyone in Pisa was having breakfast.
The van pulled to the main gate of Camp Darby and was waved in by a bored looking MP. Outside the single enlisted barracks, a boyish looking major met them.
“Welcome to Italy, the sweetest duty in the military.”
Moyer snapped a salute as soon as his feet touched the macadam of the road. “Thank you, sir.”
The major returned the salute. “Put your men at ease, Sergeant Major. It’s breakfast time here, but I’m betting you guys could use a little time in the rack.”
“We slept on the plane, sir.”
The major smiled. “I’ve made that trip a few times. No one sleeps on a plane. At best, we nap. Let me show you the barracks. I have a room for each member of your team. Grab some shut-eye. You have a meeting in four hours and Colonel Tyson doesn’t like to see any yawning, if you catch my drift.”
“Understood, sir.”
“You won’t have any trouble finding your way around the barracks. I’ll make sure you have some chow before the meeting. You want breakfast or lunch?”
“Lunch, sir. It’s best if we eat at local time. Easier to adjust that way.”
“I’ll take both,” Rich said. He grinned.
Major Barlow studied the big man for a moment. “I make it a point not to argue with men twice my size.” He returned his attention to Moyer. “Get some rest. Fall out.”
Moyer thought it the best order he had received in a long time.
CHAPTER 11
DELARAM DIDN’T SLEEP. AT least not that she remembered. The night crept by, minutes passing like hours, leaving her to stare at the ceiling. Pale light pressed past sheer drapes casting shadow monsters on the wall. The shadows didn’t frighten her; the monsters on the other side of the door were the real ones.
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