I lean back and exhale heavily. “Well, that’s certainly convenient.”
“How’s that for another coincidence that isn’t a coincidence?”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around,” I say, thinking of those erased transcripts from Central Command at KAF.
“Yeah… so, Law, one more time, are you, and maybe Murph and Adanna, willing to get low down and dirty to get through the stonewall?”
She takes a final draw and crushes the butt on the ashtray. And in what seems like another cosmic moment, my phone vibrates again, and again, it’s Murph. But this time the message gets my attention.
HEY MOTHERFUCKER. ANSWER YOUR GODDAMMED TEXTS. ADANNA HAS LOCATED KERNS. WE’RE ON OUR WAY TO MEET HIM. CALL ME, ASSHOLE.
“Mia,” I finally say, “we might be missing body parts, but we’re still jarheads. We live for low down and dirty.” And I tilt the screen in her direction while adding, “From Murph.”
For the first time since I met her a few hours ago, NCIS ASAC Mia Patel gives me a broad grin.
But it isn’t pretty. It’s a smile of brownish teeth, a smoker’s smile, framed by gums that seem too pink for her dark skin.
Then, as if she’s almost reading my mind, the smile vanishes, and she checks her watch.
“Got a couple of hours to burn before we need to head back to the morgue, so why the hell not?” she says, before pulling the last cigarette from the pack.
Lighting up, she crumples the empty pack with a single hand and tosses it in the ashtray.
Chapter 15
The address that Murph texted leads us to a house on a corner lot in Portsmouth, just a few blocks from the Tidewater Marina. It overlooks the Elizabeth River.
A row of docked Navy ships monopolizes the opposite shore, but the scene is dominated by the massive hull of USS Wisconsin, currently undergoing upgrades.
The place is typical of most houses in this old neighborhood built in the 1980s. Red brick, shutters flanking a row of windows, and a low roof projects beyond a stained concrete driveway, where I spot Murph’s black Colorado truck already parked on the right side. It’s next to a blue Corolla I presume belongs to the elusive Jonathan Kerns.
I take a deep breath of anticipation as I get out while my mind still wonders how in the world Adanna managed to not only locate the Air Force pilot’s home address but also get him to agree to this meet. It was pretty clear from my repeated attempts—and those of Beatriz—that the man wanted to be left alone. But then again, the woman also managed to get intel on that gunship, when neither Finn nor Granite could.
Very resourceful, I think, as I knock on the door, and it opens a moment later.
It’s Adanna, dressed in faded jeans, black Army boots, and one of her skin-tight black T-shirts that reminds me of Beatriz’s muscular physique. According to Murph, she drags him to the gym every morning at oh-dark-zero sharp. A CID gold badge hangs from her neck on a metal chain. A standard issue Glock 19 hugs her right hip.
Resourceful and strong.
Her hair is longer than when we first met six months ago, reaching her narrow shoulders and framing a triangular face crowned by those cat-like light-brown eyes that settle on me.
And beautiful.
And once more I regret not making a move on her at Landstuhl. Perhaps Franky was right.
Too damn shy, Law. Still are. It could have been you, you know?
Yeah. Could have been doesn’t even buy a cheap cup of coffee.
Twice now I moved too slow, while Murph—and Dix for that matter—rocketed at the speed of light when spotting these very bright stars.
And speaking of warp speed and shiny things in space, I notice the diamond solitaire hugging her dark ring finger. It sparkles as sunlight forks into the narrow foyer.
Warp Speed indeed, Mr. Scott.
I’m guessing congratulations are in order, but as I’m wondering if now’s the right time or place for that, Adanna’s eyes shift to Mia while narrowing.
“Who the fuck is this?” she asks.
I look over at my new boss, who opens her mouth but says nothing.
I’ll be damned. The future Mrs. Murphy has managed to shock someone I thought was immune to shock.
Man, I get the sudden feeling that poor ol’ Murph isn’t going to win many arguments, but apparently, the man seems unable to survive without the milk.
“Adanna, this is Mia, my new boss at NCIS,” I say as the two engage in a staring contest. “I asked her to join us because I believe she can help.”
After another few seconds of very uncomfortable silence, Adanna says, “Then get your asses in here,” and she turns around to lead the way to the living room, the hard-rubber soles of her boots thudding on dark hardwood floors.
The place reeks worse than Mia’s SUV, and a moment later I locate the offending source.
Murph is sitting on a white leather sofa in front of a glass cocktail table that holds a large metallic ashtray crowned by a mound of cigarette butts. The table stands over a rug with a black-and-white zebra pattern. Murph faces a matching sofa occupied by a wiry man I presume to be Kerns because Beatriz and I were never able to find his photo, which only adds to the weirdness surrounding this whole incident. Behind him is a row of large windows facing the river and the Navy docks beyond it. Behind Murph’s sofa is another set of windows looking onto the street.
Kerns has a long face to go with his slim build, and he is dressed in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt with the image of a white ghost shooting fire onto the Earth. Above the emblem reads 4TH SPECIAL OPERATIONS SQUADRON. And below it is the word GHOSTRIDERS. Kerns also wears a matching cap over what looks like a full head of dark hair. His eyes, as dark as his hair and a bit bloodshot, gravitate towards me, then Mia.
“Who the hell’s that?” Murph asks as Adanna settles next to him, and Mia and I stand by a pair of recliners between the sofas. The U-shape living room arrangement faces a large flat screen hung on the opposite wall.
“Law’s new girlfriend,” Adanna offers.
“Fuck you,” Mia says, glaring at Adanna before looking at Kerns. “I’m NCIS Assistant Special Agent in Charge Mia Patel and—”
“And this meeting is over,” Kerns cuts in, standing before turning to Adanna. “I warn you these bastards are everywhere. She could be one of them.”
“I may be a bastard, Captain Kerns,” Mia retorts, “but not the kind that kills American soldiers.”
“I vouch for her,” I say.
“And I vouch for him,” Murph adds.
“Goddammit,” Kerns mumbles, standing for another few seconds before sitting back down and pointing at the two recliner chairs.
We take our assigned seats while Kerns shifts his attention back to Adanna. “Please tell me no one else is coming to dinner.”
“No one else is coming to dinner.”
The man then stares at the zebra rug for what seems like an eternity while Murph and Adanna shoot me a pair of what-the-hell looks, to which I simply shrug in return.
“Alright. Alright,” Kerns finally says, before lifting his gaze. “I just can’t be too careful. Not after what happened to Sally.”
“Are your referring to Major Norman?” I ask.
Kerns gives me a slight nod, before removing his cap, running a hand through his thinning hair, and putting it back on. “As I was telling them before you showed up, that was no accident.” He then proceeds to explain how Major Sal Norman was flying a routine training sortie over the Gulf of Mexico to break in a new pilot when the AC-130U gunship disappeared from radar. “It basically blew up, creating a field of debris over a five-square-mile area. A lot of it ended up on the bottom, but what was recovered, including the black box, gave no indication of an equipment problem right up to the moment they vanished. But the Air Force still catalogued it as an accident, which is bullshit. Sally couldn’t get
over the horrible shit we did on that mountain, and he was going to go public with it. Told me so himself over a couple of beers the day before he went in the drink. Then this training accident reports pops up. And when I challenged it with my superior officer down at Hurlburt, I was suddenly found unfit to fly. Some Air Force shrink placed a red PTSD stamp on my record, and that was that. Bastards may have taken away my wings but not my balls.”
Murph leans forward. “Tell them, Captain. Tell them what you told us about that last mission you and Norman flew in country.”
Kerns briefly presses the tips of his fingers against his eyes, before standing, and reaching into his side pocket, producing a pack of Camels and pulling one out with his lips.
I notice Murph and Adanna frowning. They’re nonsmokers, like me. But this is the man’s castle. His house, his rules.
Tossing the pack on the table, Kerns then produces a plastic lighter and thumbs the flint wheel, but there’s no flame, only sparks. He shakes it and tries twice more with the same result, before mumbling, “Goddammit.”
Mia also stands, reaches into her pocket and offers her silver-and-gold lighter, which Kerns gladly takes and lights up. Mia then pulls out the new pack of Marlboros she bought at a convenience store on the way here. She wedges one in between her lips, and tosses the pack on the table, next to the ashtray. She then leans toward Kerns, who automatically flicks a second flame and places it under the tip of her smoke.
Mia then decides to sit by Kerns, who automatically makes room for her while shifting the ashtray between them. And just like that, the smokers join forces.
“So, tell us, Lil’ K.,” Mia says after drawing once and exhaling in the direction of Adanna, who gives her the bird. “What the hell happened that day?”
Kerns turns to face Mia, one hand holding the Camel and the other her lighter. He is obviously considering what she just called him, but instead of protesting, he pulls on the cigarette, then says, “That whole day was one giant Charlie Foxtrot, Agent Patel.”
“Please, call me Mia.”
“Mia,” he says, still toying with the lighter. “Anyway, Sally and I are on the ramp at Bagram doing the preflight before heading out to support a platoon of Marines fifty clicks from the base, but these two guys climb aboard carrying a letter signed by no other than General Baker. It’s basically an order instructing us to head west of KAF on a strafing sortie that’s not on the list of approved sorties. The mission has SAP written all over it, and to make matters worse, the bastards introduce themselves as Jones and Smith. Fucking OGA.”
I have to blink at the damn names, and for a moment I think of Olga on Christmas eve looking at her computer screen claiming those were the names of the two doctors. I’m also surprised at the fact that Kerns is talking about no other than Brigadier General John Baker, the 455th Air Expeditionary Wing Commander. Basically, the big kahuna at Bagram.
“Did Jones have a ponytail?” I ask, before I do my best at describing him physically.
Kerns squints through the smoke rising between us and regards me for a while before giving me a slight nod.
“And was Smith big and tall and bald?”
“What the hell, man?” Kerns says, staring at me like if I have three heads. “How could you possible know what those guys—?
“I’ll tell you in a moment. What happened when you reached that mountainside?”
He contemplates the zebra rug again, takes another drag, and says, “Pretty simple, actually. We were told to unload everything we had on it, except for a single no-strike coordinate. Sally and I objected that we were hitting an obvious Afghan village, and we could see people down there running for their lives. A few were firing back, but most weren’t. After you do this for a while you can always pick out the Talis. Bastards seldom run, firing back at you until they either take you out or you rip them apart. But Jones kept waving those orders in front of us and even threatened us with a court martial. So, we kept making pass after pass, leveling the whole goddamned area. Bastards wanted to make sure no one got out, so we also blanketed the surroundings as well, minus the no-strike coordinates. But I now understand from Adanna that the victims that day included the two of you plus three other SEALs.” He exhales the smoke he had been holding and adds, “I’m so sorry.”
I’m trying to process everything, but the answers are just not coming fast enough.
It’s now my turn to press my fingertips against my eyes while I try to gather my thoughts, then ask, “Why, Captain? What was the reason given to you by Jones and Smith?”
“That’s the thing,” he replies, drawing on the cigarette and exhaling toward the ceiling, which is already turning hazy. “The order, which Sally and I read twice, stated in no uncertain terms that hitting that village was critical to our national security.”
“What a load of crap,” Mia says under her breath, flicking the cigarette over the ashtray to deposit her ashes.
“Utter and complete bullshit,” Adanna concurs.
The two women look at each other, nod slightly, and then land their dual gazes on Kerns, who says, “I’m truly sorry, guys. In hindsight, Sally and I should have refused… should have risked the court martial. As it turned out, the moment we returned to base, we were ordered back to Hurlburt.” He looks at Adanna and adds, “You contacted me right as this was happening, which is why I couldn’t talk to you. But you never called back.”
“I was having the bottoms of my legs removed courtesy of the Taliban.”
Kerns takes another drag and nods sympathetically. “Very sorry.”
“Why were you and Major Norman sent back to Hurlburt?” asks Murph.
“All we were told was that there was a group of newly-minted pilots in need of advanced tactical training. So, forty-eight hours later, we’re back home after only three months in country. Sally’s family was ecstatic of course. I was also glad to be back. And there was indeed a group of new sticks in need of advanced training, but there were other experienced crews at Hurlburt that could have done the job. But we dove into our new assignment nonetheless. However, neither Sally nor I could shake the images of those villagers. It really screwed us up, Sally more than me. You should have seen those poor people, man. They looked like… monkeys, jumping over walls, leaping from rooftop to rooftop like long-distance jumpers. It was some crazy shit, as if the whole village was on drugs. Almost reminded me of one of those damned zombie movies—you know the one with Brad Pitt, where they’re huddling and leaping in the air like animals?”
The comment makes me think of Cope’s final words on that mountain.
But the hajis are now going bat-shit crazy inside that village, crawling up the walls like goddamned monkeys on steroids.
“Yeah,” Adanna says. “Bastards were also coming at us from all angles, like some crazed mob. Never seen such shit, straight out of a zombie movie indeed.”
“Then Sally had enough,” Kerns continues. “He just couldn’t cope with what we did, and he threatened to go public. He was dead two days later.”
We sit in silence for a moment, then Kerns looks at Mia and says, “So, you see, Agent Patel. I’m the worst form of bastard. I killed American warriors and Afghan non-combatants. And all because I lacked the balls to stand up to those assholes.”
For the second time since we got here Mia opens her mouth but says nothing. Instead, she settles for a quick pull on her Marlboro before looking away. And I get it. Murph, Adanna, and I have had plenty of time to reflect, ponder, and process what went down. This is all new to Mia.
“Anything else, Captain?” Adanna asks.
Kerns takes a final draw, puts out his Camel on the ashtray, adding to the pile, and stands, his hands fidgeting with the silver-and-gold lighter, lips pursed as he apparently considers the—
Glass shatters.
I automatically hit the floor, and so does Murph as Kerns drops the lighter. It clangs loudly
on the cocktail table followed by blood spattering all over it.
I glance up and see him holding his neck.
“Get down!” I shout, as I scramble towards the front door with Murph already in tow, keeping our profile below the windows, though I doubt the shooter, who punched that hole through the window pane from somewhere out on the street, is interested in us.
Adanna and Mia react a second later, while Kerns just stands there, hands on his neck, in obvious shock.
Mia reaches up for the man’s waist to try to bring him down when a follow-up suppressed round breaks through the same window and smacks him in the face. The impact pushes him back and over the sofa, where he lands on the floor with a loud thump.
But Murph and I are already by the door, and together we draw our trusty Sig P220s. I pull the door open and rush outside, taking a defensive position on the right side of the walkway. Murph grabs the left side.
“Clear right,” I say, scanning the street.
“Clear left,” Murph declares.
It’s taken us less than ten seconds since the first shot, and now I hear an engine gunning.
A gray van at our two o’clock.
I catch it just in time to get a glimpse of a man with very pale skin and ash-blond hair holding a rifle in his gloved hands and climbing aboard through a side door, which he proceeds to slide shut.
He looks just like… Casper?
It can’t be.
But we’re already running toward it as the driver pulls off the curb, tires spinning, the engine rumbling.
I open up on the driver-side window, smashing it, the reports cracking along the quiet street like Fourth of July fireworks. Murph goes low, quickly blowing out the driver-side tires.
We drop our spent magazines in near synchronization and reload while running, before unloading again. I continue focusing on that driver-side window, cutting loose the second magazine. These bastards are not getting away.
Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 18