Wrongful Death: A Novel

by Dugoni, Robert

  Then the noise stopped and Ferguson dropped down the hatch shouting and coughing. “Two-forty down. I can’t clear it.”

  Two thunderous roars followed two fireballs that again lifted the Humvee. This time it did not drop back down. Ford felt himself being tossed about like a pinball. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the dirt ground, the Humvee on its side, the back end completely blown off. Sandbags and splintered pieces of plywood littered the street. He sat up and watched Fergie pop his head out the hatch and hand Kessler the M249 machine gun. Using the Humvee for cover, Kessler sprayed bullets as Fergie helped Thomas and Cassidy to crawl out the turret opening. Rounds pinged off the carriage.

  Kessler handed the 249 to Ford, who continued to return fire. Fergie grabbed the M203 and launched a 40-mm grenade at a building from which they were drawing the most muzzle flashes.

  Poomp! Pause. BOOM!

  Kessler shouted, “Cover me.”

  He dropped back down through the hatch and crawled out with the radio. Pressing his back against the Humvee, he spoke calmly into the mouthpiece.

  “Wolverine six, this is Alfa one-two.” A bullet skimmed past his helmet. He slid lower on the ground. “Sending nine-line. Over. Wolverine six, this is Alfa one-two,” he repeated. “Status report. Green. Red. Red. Over.”

  Bullets sprayed the ground near his boots. He tapped Ford on the shoulder and pointed. Ford saw two insurgents standing in the open, spraying and praying, and rattled off a burst, knocking both men down.

  Kessler continued his transmission. “Need immediate CASEVAC. Time now. Sending nine-line. Over.”

  The voice came back clear and calm. “Alfa one-two, send your traffic. Over.”

  Ford continued to spray the buildings while Ferguson launched another grenade over their heads.

  “Wolverine six, this is Alfa one-two. Our grid is—”

  An RPG exploded behind them. Cassidy, who was in a fetal position, screamed. Then he vomited.

  Kessler shouted. “Echo, Hotel, zero, six, zero, five, one, zero, zero, six. Over.”

  “Alfa one-two. Say again. Over.”

  Kessler repeated the grid.

  “Alfa one-two, this is Wolverine six. We have your grid. Directing you to LZ. Proceed three blocks south. Left two blocks. Right two blocks. Rendezvous at traffic circle. Locate and secure granary. Pop smoke when you arrive. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Kessler said. “Alfa one-two moving out. Over.”

  He dropped the handset and cradled the radio. Without missing a beat, he pulled a grenade off his ammo vest, cut the electrical tape holding down the spoon, and tossed it through an opening in a wall. It belched dust and debris. Then he pulled off two more grenades and tossed them in front of the Humvee. Yellow and purple smoke obliterated their position.

  “Moving out!” he yelled, grabbing Cassidy from the ground and shoving him forward, leading them, exactly where, Ford did not know.

  HIGHWAY 19 NEAR SAN VICENTE VILLAGE

  BAJA, MEXICO

  ALEX DIRECTED THE cabdriver north on Highway 19. She knew her gimmick to separate them from the two men would only offer a short reprieve. Access in and out of Cabo San Lucas was limited to two roads, and they quickly merged into one. Highway 1 went north to Los Barriles, then cut inland to La Paz. Highway 19 connected to Highway 1 just past Todos Santos, about an hour outside of Cabo. Ideally Alex would have preferred to travel to La Paz, the capital of Baja and a city of nearly 200,000. It would be easier to get lost in a crowd. But the drive was two hours, too long to remain on the same stretch of road. Two men could each take a road and, traveling at a high rate of speed, easily overtake them. She was not eager to get into a shootout.

  Todos Santos was closer, but significantly smaller, just a few square blocks with a limited number of hotels. That wouldn’t work either. Instead, she directed the driver to turn off the highway onto a dirt road, looking back to make sure no car followed them.

  “Aquí,” she said.

  The driver stopped and looked about the desolate desert. “Aquí?”

  “Sí.” She stepped from the taxi into the warm sun. Tina and Jake followed.

  “What are we doing here?” Jake asked.

  “Give me a minute,” Alex said. Tina walked Jake away from the taxi.

  Alex leaned in the driver’s window. The fare was nearly $80. Taxis in Cabo were not cheap. She handed the driver three hundred dollar bills, continuing to speak to him in Spanish, telling him that when he got back to the road, she wanted him to continue driving north to La Paz as quickly as he could.

  “Cuando regresemos a la carretera continua manejando hacia el norte rumbo a La Paz. Ve lo mas raido que puedas.”

  The driver gave her a perplexed look.

  She handed him a note. “Give this to the person at the registration desk at the Grand Plaza hotel and they will give you an envelope. Inside is another three hundred dollars. That is also yours to keep. If anyone stops you on the drive back, tell him you took us to the Grand Plaza in La Paz. You can’t get in any trouble if you tell them that. Me haces ese favor?” she asked.

  The driver nodded. “Sí, señorita. No hay problema.”

  Alex thanked the man and stepped back, watching the taxi make a U-turn and depart, kicking up dust as it left them in the desert.

  Tina and Jake stood looking forlorn.

  “Are you ready?” Alex asked Jake, trying to sound upbeat.

  The boy shrugged. “Ready for what?”

  “A hike.”

  “Is this another one of those things I’m supposed to do without question?”

  Tina said that it was.

  “Then I guess so.”

  Though nearly dusk, it remained hot. The cactus and scrub brush offered no shade. They also had no water. As they neared what appeared to be a small farming village of cinder-block and adobe homes Alex left the path, giving the village a wide berth.

  Tina spoke into her ear. “Why don’t we go and at least get some water?”

  “I don’t want anyone in town seeing two women and a boy.”

  “Then, where are we going?”

  “Trust me.”

  Clear of the village, she looped back to the path and continued walking for another half an hour. Just as she was beginning to think she had screwed up, they came to the campground in the foothills of the Sierra de la Laguna mountain range. The woman at the first motel had told her about the camp, an option Alex had stowed away, though hoping not to have to use.

  Jake surveyed the handful of tents pitched in the shade of an organic orchard of mango, avocado, and grapefruit trees. “Is this the surprise?” He didn’t sound or look happy.

  “Your mother and I thought we might camp for a night,” Alex said.

  Jake turned to his mother. “But you hate camping.”

  Tina shrugged. “We always talk about trying things outside our comfort zones.”

  “We don’t have any camping equipment.”

  “We can rent it here,” Alex said. “Why don’t you look around while I talk to the owner. I’m told there are all kinds of lizards, Jake.”

  That perked his spirits a bit. “Cool. Come on, Mom, let’s find one.”

  As Alex approached the open-air kitchen, a woman ducked out from beneath the flap of a green canvas tent. “Can I help you?” American, she was decidedly of the Whole Earth crowd, in baggy shorts, Mexican sandals, a tank top, and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “We need a place to stay for the night, maybe two.”

  The woman eyed Alex with suspicion.

  Alex nodded to Tina and Jake. “Her husband is a very wealthy man in Southern California. He’s also abusive. My organization helps women and their children hide until the divorce is final, and court decrees are in place. His men have tracked her to Cabo. They cannot find her. I’ll pay cash, double the rate. We won’t be a problem.”

  The woman shook her head. “That’s not necessary. They’re welcome here. I’ll see what I can round up in the way of sleeping bags and some
extra clothes. Are you hungry?”

  AFTER GETTING JAKE to bed, Alex changed from the maid’s uniform and the two women sat outside the tent talking. Alex did her best to fill Tina in on what had transpired since she first noticed the men at the dock.

  “Tomorrow morning take Jake up into the mountains. The owner says there’s a pool up there to keep him occupied. The trail is not well marked, so take a machete with you and make an X at the base of the trees as you go. I’ll find you.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay together?”

  “I’ve only bought us time, and maybe not a lot at that. On the walk in I saw what looked like a large cattle ranch to the south of the village. I’ll go and see about arranging for some permanent transportation out of here, then come back and get you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MAPLE VALLEY, WASHINGTON

  Jenkins sat slumped in his seat, tired from the boredom and inactivity. His legs ached, but each time he adjusted, it caused a stabbing jab in his back. By his count, the two doofusses in the truck had stopped at nine drugstores, backtracking as far south as Auburn. He was ready to just pull them over and tell Cassidy to “go home,” like a misbehaving dog, but then the white Chevy jumped back on Highway 18 in the direction of Maple Valley.

  “Thank God,” Jenkins said, relieved.

  They eventually wound their way back to Valley Painting. The brown truck was still not there. Kroeger’s son unleashed the dog, but rather than open the tailgate to ease her out, he tugged the chain collar and forced her to jump over the truck bed. With her leg muscles weary from being forced to stand the entire trip, the animal tumbled and hit her head. She rose shaking the water from her coat. Freedom was brief. Kroeger opened the hatchback of the Corolla, yanked the dog by her collar into the cramped space, and slammed it shut.

  When Cassidy backed out to leave, the Corolla followed. Jenkins couldn’t catch a break. He would have to be really careful. Following a car on rural residential streets without being seen was difficult enough. Doing it as part of a convoy would be even more so.

  About ten miles outside of town, Cassidy made a left and ascended a mild grade. Jenkins slowed to give the two cars a head start before he turned and started the climb. Cresting the top, he quickly realized his problem had just become worse. Densely forested on each side, the road was sparsely traveled. He turned off the headlights, hoping that dusk, the weather, and the bends in the road would help to conceal the Buick. After another half a mile, he lost sight of both cars over a rise in the road. When he descended the other side, the stretch of asphalt was empty.

  “Damn.”

  He couldn’t slow for concern the two idiots weren’t as stupid as he thought and had pulled off the road to determine if they were being followed. He drove until another bend in the road took him out of the line of vision, saw signs for a quarry, and made a two-point turn so he could back down a gravel driveway, facing the road. When the two cars didn’t drive past, he started back the other direction. If they had pulled off, it had to have been within a short distance of the crest in the road.

  Proceeding slowly, he saw what he was looking for, a dirt road partially overgrown with brambles of blackberry bushes and Scotch broom. He stopped on the side of the road and got out, feigning interest in a front tire but really looking at the muddy road. The tire tracks were fresh.

  Back in the Buick, he turned off the asphalt and crept up the road, the bushes scraping the sides of his car. He sensed a creek bed to his right and tried to hug the left side of the road, but foliage on that side scratched the door panel. Cassidy sought serious solitude, and Jenkins sensed why after the daylong pharmaceutical trips.

  When Jenkins came to a small clearing big enough to park the Buick, he killed the engine and let the car glide into tall grass and foliage. The front wheels dropped slightly, indicating an embankment. He stepped down on the emergency brake, grabbed the binoculars from under the seat, and slid out the door.

  The rain had lightened to a drizzle, but judging from the darkened sky, the storm had not yet passed. He walked up the road, which inclined for another hundred yards, and started down the other side. The road bent sharply to the right. Unsure what lay ahead, he decided to get off the path and pushed through foliage. The ground was muddy and the underbrush thick. Then it cleared, revealing a large field of waist-high grass. Jenkins slowed, unsure of his footing. Dampness began to seep through his ankle-high boots, but the ground seemed hard enough to hold him. Halfway across the field he knelt and raised the binoculars. The night-vision made the landscape glow a ghostly gray-green. Across the field someone had buttressed a weathered mobile home against a hillside. It sat amidst piles of junk, a toilet, propane tanks, beer cans, gas cans, wood, and a mound of miscellaneous garbage near which Cassidy and Kroeger had both parked. A light, tempered by a curtain, leaked from the trailer’s window.

  “No place like home,” Jenkins said.

  He surveyed the surrounding area. The road, had he stayed on it, continued around the field perpendicular to the trailer before turning again and running parallel to it, like a horseshoe. Just past the trailer Jenkins focused on an aluminum shed. The dog lifted her head at the sound of a coyote yipping. They’d chained her to the side. Jenkins saw no bowl for water or food.

  He crept in for a closer look. The darkness and tall grass would cover his advance, though he’d have to be careful not to alert the dog. As he crossed the field his boots began to sink deeper, making a sucking sound each time he pulled free. He got within sixty yards, knelt again, and refocused the binoculars on the trailer.

  The door opened.

  The effect was like a flashbulb popping, though the binoculars were designed to shut down upon sudden light exposure to prevent blinding the user. Still, instinct caused Jenkins to lower them and look away.

  Car doors slammed. An engine cranked to life, followed by another. Back-up lights lit up the night.

  Evidently this was not home sweet home, Cassidy and Kroeger weren’t staying, there was only one road out, and it went right past where Jenkins had parked his car.

  Even Dumb and Dumber would notice it.

  THE TIN ROOM

  BURIEN, WASHINGTON

  COLONEL BO GRIFFIN had candidly admitted that the military’s sudden interest in settling James Ford’s claim was because of Sloane’s involvement.

  “You changed things.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t serve in Vietnam, but the drug and alcohol problem there was very real,” Griffin said. “We tried to minimize that impact in Iraq by banning alcohol from base. Unfortunately, it has created quite a black market.”

  “You’re saying Captain Kessler’s squad didn’t get lost in a sandstorm.”

  “There was a sandstorm, but the chances of a squad getting lost with the technology now employed inside the vehicle makes it highly unlikely the storm caused them to veer off course that far.”

  “So how did they end up in that village?”

  “What do I know happened? Or what do I suspect happened?”

  “Either.”

  “I know for certain that Captain Kessler and his men were bringing supplies to their FOB. Most of those supplies were basic staples to people like you and me, but to people living in the middle of a war zone they become considerably more valuable. We’re talking about cartons of cigarettes, household supplies, and MREs—meals ready to eat. The squads protecting those convoys would have had ready access to those supplies. Things get lost, unaccounted-for. It isn’t difficult.”

  “You’re saying they can be stolen and then sold or traded?”

  Griffin nodded. “The Iraqis understand bartering very well. It’s not a fortune, but it’s not about what they’re trading, it’s what they’re seeking in return.”

  “What are they seeking?”

  “Drugs. Cocaine, hashish, opium, heroin. And alcohol and Iraqi pornography. We’ve become aware of soldiers falsely reporting an inability to sleep or to cope with the stress in order to ge
t prescribed tranquilizers, antidepressants, and pain medication like Valium and Percocet, or modafinil, which is like speed but without the aftereffects. Those have a much higher street value.”

  “So they drive into these small towns, open up the back of the Humvee, and trade on the streets?”

  “The sandstorm would have been the perfect cover for Captain Kessler to stop his vehicle, let the convoy proceed ahead, and divert into the local towns. He wasn’t far from base, and the insurgency wasn’t as well organized or widespread. Unfortunately, he picked the wrong town on the wrong day. He drove directly into that ambush.”

  “If you suspected that to be the case, Colonel, why didn’t you push this matter further? Why not conduct an Article 15 hearing? If what you’re saying is true, Captain Kessler was directly responsible for James Ford’s death.”

  Griffin’s voice hardened. “You saw the reports. What evidence did I have to pursue it? What evidence will you have?” Griffin crumpled a napkin and put it in his glass of melting ice. “And what good would have come from it? Why did you take your flak jacket off in Grenada and then lie about it? Who were you protecting, and why were you protecting him?”

  The question was rhetorical. Sloane didn’t respond.

  “An investigation would have led to Captain Kessler and every one of those men being court-martialed. And it would have changed absolutely nothing, not a damn thing that we’re doing over there. Don’t you think Kessler was punished enough?”

  “It would have sent a message to other soldiers.”

  “More than the message that ambush sent? More than the message James Ford’s body sent when it came back to base in a bag?” Griffin shook his head. “Word spreads quickly on a base, Mr. Sloane. The message got out loud and clear. How do you think I heard the rumors? And what about the families of those men? Was I going to be the one to pull those medals off their chests?” Griffin cleared his throat and took a minute to calm down. “Besides,” he said, softer. “I had no other avenues. As long as they all stuck to the same story, I had nothing to pursue. Kessler knew that. He knew it when I ended my investigation and James Ford’s claim was denied. It was over—until you got involved.”