No Remorse

by Ian Walkley

  Two weeks ago, shortly after returning to Fort Bragg, he and his team had been arrested and placed on suspension pending formal charges. Scotty had been packed off back to Hereford in the United Kingdom to face a disciplinary hearing in front of his SAS Commanding Officer. Termite and Freckle were still waiting on charges to be laid.

  Mac had had the book thrown at him. Rumour had it his case had become embroiled in some sort of power play between two Generals at the Pentagon, one of whom was trying to curb the influence and budget allocation of the Special Operations Command. Mac had been charged with two counts of negligent homicide relating to the deaths of the two girls killed by the kidnappers, and one count of aggravated assault on the youth Mamexi, who apparently had lost a leg. Mac’s attorney had advised him that it was certain he would face a full court-martial, which would mean another year or more on suspension from Delta, then a trial. He was prepared to accept that he had fucked up, allowing the two young Mexican girls to be killed. It would stay on his conscience for the rest of his life. But negligent homicide? That was crazy.

  His biggest fear was that they would lose the trail, that Sophia and Danni would vanish forever, denied justice. If that happened, it wouldn’t matter what the court-martial found. During Mac’s confinement he had kept in touch with Bob, who’d continued to follow up leads with limited assistance from the FBI, which apologised that it was fully occupied stopping terrorists and curbing the Mexican drug cartels. He was only sorry he couldn’t help Bob more actively. Last he’d heard, Bob was following up leads from a list of flights out of Ciudad Juarez, which Marvin had somehow obtained from an FBI source, an investor in one of Marvin’s condos in southern Baja.

  Mac jogged across the road to the old Confederate cemetery where he stopped to recover, his face flushed with thumping blood. The freshly mown grass had a minty scent and the early morning dew caused clippings to cling to his sneakers. He found a dry area and started doing sit-ups. The Suburban pulled over and the two men inside sat watching. Maybe they were just there to make sure he didn’t skip town before tomorrow’s Article Thirty-Two hearing.

  In darker moments of his confinement over the past two weeks, Mac had reflected on how some guys in a similar situation might eat the barrel of a pistol. But taking the easy way out wasn’t him. In the bathroom mirror one morning, he’d been jolted by the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and the furry tongue. He was determined to expunge the crap that had been filling his mind and his time in custody. He’d had it with accepting what the politicians at the Pentagon were dishing out. Time to fight. He would tough it out. Whatever he had to do, he was prepared. Any deal, so long as it enabled him to continue the search for Sophia and Danni.

  He had made the call to his Commanding Officer, Colonel Matheson.

  Back on his feet, he jogged off along the track into a thicket of trees. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw the men step out of the vehicle and begin to walk quickly after him. An average-height moon face in uniform, early thirties, and a tall suit, late forties, shiny scalp, John Lennon glasses, trimmed greying goatee. He doubted they were here to kill him. A minute later, after they hurried past where he was hiding, he stepped out onto the track.

  “Looking for me?” he said, jogging on the spot.

  The two men swung around. The tall one with glasses moved his hand towards his waist, then relaxed. He was carrying. But if someone wanted to eliminate the problem called Lee McCloud, there were plenty of better ways to do it. He sized them up. They both had the physiques of office workers. No contest.

  “Sergeant Lee McCloud? I’m Captain Bryce Taylor from JAG. This is Derek Wisebaum.”

  “A Confederate cemetery’s a hell of a place to offer a plea bargain.”

  Taylor brushed aside a low hanging limb. “As you’re aware, Sergeant, your case has created some difficulties in Washington...”

  Mac held up his hand. “Guys, I don’t want to hear this bullshit, all right? My lawyer told me someone wanted my scalp for a career hump. Whatever, I don’t care.”

  “You’ll want to listen to our offer,” Wisebaum said coolly, “if you care at all about your buddies.”

  “Excuse me?” Mac’s muscles tensed at the implied threat. Wisebaum was a player—it was obvious from his eyes. That ruthless glint. Probably a spook, he decided, or some General’s shit cleaner. Mac made it plain by the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes and the hands on his hips that he did not take kindly to threats.

  Taylor spread his palms in a peace gesture and shot a disapproving look at Wisebaum. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to give us five minutes to explain, so we can all stop the posturing.”

  “You have two,” he said. He took a swig from his water bottle. “And do us all a favour. Tell it like it is.”

  Taylor swatted at one of the plentiful early morning mosquitoes. “All right. If tomorrow’s hearing goes as expected, you’ll face a general court-martial in a year’s time, at which you’ll be found guilty of the two charges of negligent homicide relating to the girls. You’ll be sentenced to two to five years’ incarceration, loss of rank and dishonourable discharge.”

  “You can’t possibly know that. You’d have to own the jury and the judge.”

  Wisebaum took off his glasses and shook his head.

  “It’s politics, Sergeant.” Taylor continued: “Let’s say I’m wrong and you’re found not guilty. The powers in Washington will bring a murder charge for the four Mexican national police you killed or ordered to be killed.”

  “You can’t do that. This isn’t fucking Mexico.”

  Wisebaum rolled his eyes. “They can. And they will. Certain people want to make your case last.”

  “And certain other people need the case to go away.” Despite the isolation of their surroundings, Taylor had lowered his voice. He smacked another mosquito. “We believe we have a solution. We can abort the court-martial today. You walk, with an unblemished record. And Sergeant Tucker and Sergeant Franks—Termite and Freckle—will also be off the hook.”

  Mac laughed. These two expected him to trust their word? “But...?”

  Taylor seemed to sense his scepticism. “But, you would have to plead guilty to the charges of AWOL and unauthorised use of weapons. You’d receive an Article Fifteen slap on the wrist and a standard discharge from the Army. No black marks. Full pension rights.”

  “Leave the Army? What do I get out of that? I’ve got nothing to fall back on. No house. Not much saved. A soldier’s skillset...”

  “You’d do some work for Mr. Wisebaum as part of the deal. A well-paid contract, as I understand it, doing the sort of work you’re good at.”

  Mac studied Wisebaum’s eyes. “You with Blackwater XE? DynCorp? CIA?”

  “All in good time,” Wisebaum said, putting on his glasses.

  “I’m not leaving the Army-”

  “The choices, McCloud,” Wisebaum interrupted, “are jail time with a dishonourable discharge, or the plea bargain and work with my agency. Your poison, bud.”

  “Fuck, I don’t even know you guys!”

  Wisebaum shrugged and gestured at Taylor. “Call him, Bryce.”

  Taylor dialled a number and passed Mac the cell phone. It rang for a moment.

  “Matheson.”

  “Colonel? It’s Sergeant Lee McCloud. Sorry to—”

  “Quite all right, Sergeant. You with Captain Taylor and Mr. Wisebaum?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for—”

  “I know you’re a team player, Mac. It’s unfortunate you’ve ended up in the middle of this. Your own fault, of course. But we obviously need this disposed of quickly, and quietly, just as you want your freedom. I understand Mr. Wisebaum has an important mission for you that I understand will give you the scope you need in that regard.”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  “Your record will be unblemished. Mac, I want to extend my gratitude for your outstanding service with SFOD-Delta. Your actions during your time with us saved many lives. I know that’s
not enough, but you guys are used to that. There it is. Whatever you decide, good luck, soldier.”

  “Thank you, sir. I—”

  Matheson had hung up.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you’d been speaking with Matheson?” Mac held out his hand. “Give me the document.”

  He quickly read the plea bargain agreement and signed the three copies with the pen Taylor offered.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Wisebaum said, and he and Taylor turned and strode away towards their car.

  Mac stared at his copy and his vision blurred. He felt numb. He knew he should be pleased the matter had been settled. But he hadn’t expected the outcome to require him to leave the Army. The Army was his life. His family. His friends. His profession for the last sixteen years. Whatever Wisebaum had in mind for him, it could never replace the times he’d spent with his Delta buddies.

  He jogged back to the house and called Freckle and Termite to tell them the news. Eventually, he noticed the messages on the screen and checked them. There was a voice mail from Jogesh Khoury, his contact in Paris, telling him there was no news yet on The Frenchman, but that he would keep digging. There were also four missed calls from Bob’s cell phone, but no messages. He returned Bob’s call. At least he’d have a few days to help with the search before he’d be Wisebaum’s boy.

  Bob’s wife, Elena answered. “Mac! Thank God you’ve called. We’re in Martinique following a lead. Bob’s been shot.”

  ~ * ~

  7

  “Just take it easy, Austin. You don’t understand.” Tally Francis said as she stood with her weight on her toes in the hallway of her house, ready to react if he attacked.

  Austin Shephard was unshaved and reeked of beer and sweat. His shirt was wrinkled and buttoned wrong. He wasn’t a big guy, but he was ex-Army who’d done it tough in Afghanistan, and being from Nebraska he’d been raised on beef seven days a week. Quick on his feet too—at least when he was sober. Tally was expecting the confrontation to end in violence like the last time, two weeks ago. She was still bruised and sore from then.

  But this time she was better prepared.

  She cursed herself for not bothering to check the security viewer before opening the door. But it had been natural for her to assume the buzzer was Rosco forgetting something; after all he’d only left a couple of minutes earlier. Austin must have been watching, waiting for him to leave.

  Austin’s nostrils flared. He started jabbing his finger like he was stabbing a knife. “No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand. I come here to apologise and you shove it right in my face. That’s what’s not right. What is it now, two weeks? And already you’re fucking other guys! You think I don’t know? Jesus, I’ve seen the look on your face after a good fuck. The cheeks, the eyes. Look at yourself! You know what you are? You’re a disgrace, you know that? A fucking, whoring disgrace!”

  She crossed her arms defiantly, refusing to be drawn into an argument, but remaining alert in case she had to move fast. This time she wasn’t going to let him get the jump on her. It was difficult to maintain a calm voice, and inside she felt like churning concrete. She had to get him out the door before he lost it. Her two-story house backed onto bush in the Montreal suburb of Laval, and neighbours would not be rushing to her aid any time soon.

  “It was only Rosco from work,” she said. “I’d hardly be rushing into another relationship after us. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “How convenient.” Austin said, as his demeanour continued to darken. “Clearly, I was standing in the way.”

  “Rosco’s gay, for God’s sake! Surely you knew that. He makes no—”

  “Oh, sure! He comes around for an intimate little meal and doesn’t leave till two a.m. You used to kick me out before that, and that was after we’d had sex!”

  “Rosco cooked. And he likes to talk. And you kicked me once too often.”

  “One time. I kicked you one time...”

  “As I said. Once too often. And now I think you should leave.”

  “Look, I said I was sorry. How many times do I have to fucking apologise?”

  “Do you want me to call your mother? You obviously can’t drive.”

  An aggressive laugh. Austin glared at her. He looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  “You fucking deserved it. You think you’re so smart, don’t you, in your nice, cushy office overlooking the lake. Looking down on people like me who have to do the dirty work in the field.”

  “Just go, Austin. You need help. The Army will—”

  “Don’t make this about the Army!” he yelled, jabbing the finger again. “I know what you think of the Army. This is about you, you skanky bitch. You and your whoring.” Suddenly his expression turned morose. “How can you treat me like this? After what I’ve been through...”

  He began to cry.

  Tally lowered her voice. “I think you should leave.”

  He whimpered as the tears ran down his cheeks. Tally didn’t move any closer. She knew better. That was how he’d surprised her last time. Austin sniffled and his face twitched, as though he was trying to decide what to do. He ran his fingers through scraggy hair that was greying prematurely, and began to dawdle to the door.

  Keeping her distance, looking for objects she could grab if he lashed out, Tally followed. Usually, once he started to cry, Austin would become morose and introspective. Their boss, Derek Wisebaum, had tried to help, but in the end, cutting him loose was their only option. Even then, Derek was worried he would try to hurt her. Derek told her he was trying to get Austin into treatment.

  “You want me to call a cab?”

  He turned to her, his eyes full of shame. “God, I’m sorry, Tal. I’m so fucked up, aren’t I? So. Fucked. Up. Oh, God, let me stay. Please... just tonight.”

  The hairs prickled on the back of her neck at the thought of Austin prowling around while she slept. “No. Come on, I’ll—”

  “I’ll sleep here, downstairs. On the couch. I’m sooo tired.”

  “No, Austin.”

  “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? Scared I’ll sneak up and rape you? Slit your throat or something? You know, you are one fucking gutless bitch!”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Austin.” Keeping her voice steady was difficult.

  “Hah, you think that Aikido crap would save you? No chance! Wanna know how many men I’ve killed with a knife? Eight. You’d be easy fillet.”

  She lifted the phone handset on her grandmother’s antique cherry dresser she kept in the hall.

  “What are you doing?” His expression changed again, his eyes narrowing, a dark frown appearing above his nose.

  “Calling your mum.”

  “The fuck you are. You’re fuckin’ calling the cops, aren’t you, you lying cunt.”

  That was when she knew. When he used that word. She spun around and ran, just as he lashed out. He tackled her, slapping the handset away. It flew across the floor as he rammed her against the wall. His fist pounded against her cheek and the blinding flash made her miss seeing his second punch, into her gut. She backed away with her hands covering her face as his fists landed like rocks. She tried to stay on her feet to avoid his kicks but lost her balance and fell to the floor, trying not to make any sound. That would only provoke him more. If he grabbed her around the neck with those hands....

  He kicked. Somehow the blow missed her head and connected with her shoulder. He laughed and said something Tally couldn’t make out, then grabbed her hair and began dragging her towards the kitchen.

  “I’m going to kill you! Then I’ll tell the world about the slick little operation you guys have going at the agency. The media’ll pay a fortune for that story…”

  The sickly smell of his body odour wafted over her. She felt a sharp pain in her chest and wondered whether it was a pulled muscle or broken rib, or if she was having a heart attack. Her face was throbbing. Her scalp stung and she glimpsed a clump of her hair on the floor. A thought flashed that these m
ight be her last moments of life; that she’d be found cold and alone, stabbed and gutted.

  No! She wouldn’t let it happen. She mustn’t let Austin reach the kitchen where the long knives were primed in the block. He kept yanking her like he was pulling up an anchor chain. A few more feet. She had to move.

  Now.

  With both hands, she reached up and grabbed the hand holding her hair. As she had anticipated, Austin reacted by raising his fist to punch her again. But she was ready. She drew her knees up and released the full force of her legs in an upward kick into his crotch. She missed, but the unexpected attack stunned him long enough for her to follow up with two quick punches to his crotch that struck home. He uttered a string of expletives as he doubled up, coughing and collapsed to the floor, grunting from the crippling pain.