Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  “Harry will handle your latest kill, and the hospital will call when that guy comes around so we can question him. Plus, you can give us your full statement on the way. Chop chop. Let’s go!”

  Chapter 24

  The video from the Adanna shooting that Mia, Beatriz, and Rossi brought to the Norfolk Field Office after spending the better part of the evening working the scene at Virginia Beach—while I was with Franky at the hospital and then the marina—simply doesn’t make any sense.

  But then again, very little has since that day on the mountain when my life turned to shit. Why should this new video be any different?

  NCIS SAC Roy Ledet sits somberly at the head of the conference table, though the man still looks shipshape and fresh in his suit with his perfectly combed silver hair and smooth face. The rest of us look like… well, like we’ve been dragged into a midnight meeting after getting shitted on all day.

  Mia occupies the seat to his immediate right, and I’m next to her. Beatriz and Rossi sit across from us. Franky is upstairs in a secure guest room, and hopefully asleep by now. It took me ten minutes of convincing her to stay there—and only after I solemnly promised I would join her after the meeting.

  Law, I told you I can’t be alone tonight.

  You won’t be. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I wrap up this meeting.

  But I left her there under the watchful eye of two guards. Until we can figure out what the hell is happening, I have decided to play it safe—and so has Ledet, who apparently got an earful from his boss, the deputy director of NCIS up in Quantico, to get in front of this freight train. However, the same powers that be have not yet chosen to let any of us know why Uncle D.’s fingerprints were on that van. Or why he has an NCIS fake ID.

  I guess NCIS isn’t any different from any other federal or military institution. The only thing that floats downstream here apparently is, well, shit. Which is precisely how I currently feel: shitted-on. From every angle.

  So, Ledet called this midnight meeting to brainstorm on the fragmented evidence gathered so far to see if there’s a chance at stringing together at least one plausible theory he could offer to his superiors.

  First, we looked at the video that MCRT techs downloaded from Franky’s DVR into a few USB memory sticks before leaving the house.

  You know, in case it got mysteriously erased.

  After all, we’re dealing with the CIA here, so anything could happen. And by the way, call me paranoid, but I insisted on hanging on to a copy while Mia walked away with the copy we’re using for the midnight meeting. There’s also a copy with MCRT, plus Franky’s DVR, both of which are now locked in the basement evidence room.

  So, good luck, Mr. OGA. You’re not erasing this one.

  Ledet had to see the damn video three times, and each time I felt as if a part of me died. And if I were to be completely honest with myself, I’d admit to wanting to run upstairs this instant and hug Franky. And not just to comfort her. I too am in dire need of the solace that apparently only she can provide.

  But I forced control over my emotions, falling back on my SEAL training to rise above the gut-wrenching feeling of losing another brother-in-arms in a most inhumane and unfair way.

  Ledet then asked to switch to the video of the shooting, which sent my aching heart to the polar extreme, and which we’ve seen now four damn times. It was captured by a street camera on a light post cater-corner from where Adanna was supposed to be meeting with USMC Corporal Juan Fuentes from her platoon outside the Calypso Bar & Grill.

  Only she wasn’t.

  She was meeting with no other than Gregg Hostetter, a.k.a. Linebacker.

  Yeah. Really.

  He was the guy meeting with Adanna when the shooting began; the guy who bled out on the way to the hospital. And also, the guy whose body mysteriously disappeared as it was being transported from the hospital to Yanez’s morgue.

  Yeah. Vanished.

  So, add that to the damn mystery.

  And that’s not even the most shocking part about the video—leaving me wishing that someone would just pinch me and wake me up from this impossibility.

  “So, how long did you say you’ve known him, Commander?” Ledet asks.

  “Met him in country when he was a Delta sniper with the 1st. He eventually signed up for BUD/S and joined my team last year,” I say, finding it difficult to transition from mourning Dix, to seeing the unexpected face of Greg Hostetter, and then to the impossible image of no other than Sergeant Bruno Copeland.

  Yes, fucking Cope.

  The man has suddenly returned to the living to take down the third shooter before he could pump more rounds into Adanna and Hostetter.

  How’s that for a kick in the balls?

  Cope, whose only surviving body part from that day was supposed to be his damn left foot, was alive and well, expertly taking down that third assassin, before vanishing along with the crowd stampeding from the establishment.

  “We all thought he bought the farm that day,” I add through the knot forming in my throat while staring at his image on that screen. Yet, there he is, standing tall, his bearded face impassive, looking just like he did that morning in country.

  The Army poster sniper.

  Back from the dead.

  So, yeah. Definitely getting shitted on from every angle.

  “But why would he choose to disappear?” Mia presses.

  “Remind me to ask the man that when I see him, as well as why he didn’t help us get down that mountain along with Adanna, Brooks, and the other Marines. Why make us think he died? It doesn’t make any sense. And now he shows up out of the blue?”

  “Like Rourke,” Rossi says.

  I’m at a complete loss.

  At this juncture, my head’s starting to hurt because, for the life of me, I can’t grasp the thought of Cope being alive any more than Uncle D. being associated with that Yuri bastard. I mean, what in the world is happening?

  Ledet claps his hands to get our attention.

  “Alright, people, here’s how I see it: we have this Russian—Yuri, as Dix called him and whom Commander Pacheco claims he saw on that mountain alongside Jonesy, Hostetter, and Kessler—killing an Air Force captain and forcing Dix to commit suicide. We believe Yuri is also responsible for the death of Captain Kearns, and he’s probably behind the Russians attacking Special Agent Adanna Johnson and Greg Hostetter. Also, there’s a connection somewhere between Dan Pacheco and Yuri since we lifted two prints from the former off that van outside Kerns’ home. And don’t forget what Dix said before he died about abductions and kidnappings, and also clinical trials at Guantanamo. So, there’s a possible Cuban connection in there somewhere as well as something possibly related to pharmaceuticals. And that connects with the strange comment made by this Yuri fellow about Zilopronol being,” he pauses to look at his notes, “and I quote, ‘the source of all our problems.’”

  I frown internally, remembering that comment, especially since I’ve taken the damn drug for the better part of six months and—

  “From what I can tell,” Ledet continues, “it also looks like Yuri was cleaning house to clear the way for his boss to make some sort of deal, though it’s unclear what kind of deal and with whom. And on top of all that, we have Sergeant Copeland magically coming back from—”

  “Cope,” I say.

  Ledet looks my way. “Cope… back from the dead to show up unannounced at the Calypso bar. Anybody want to take a crack at what that could be all about? And while you’re at it, why would Jonesy and Kessler call Dix a traitor? And what the hell happened to Hostetter’s body? He never made it to Harry’s morgue.”

  “Three letters, Roy,” Mia says. “CIA.”

  Ledet sighs. “That might be true. But remember people, you are detectives, investigators. Don’t focus on each piece of evidence. Focus on the string that stitches them together
.”

  Well, that last statement was brilliant, and I almost want to write it down.

  I look over as Rossi covers an ill-timed yawn with a hand, drawing a glance from Ledet. The young agent looks under the weather from working all day, then driving to Virginia Beach to work the scene, then to the marina to deal with the mess I made, and returning here just thirty minutes ago with us to make this meeting. Gone is the coat and tie. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows.

  Ledet looks over at Beatriz. “How long before we get an ID on the Russian at the hospital, the two in Harry’s morgue, and the one Commander Pacheco just killed at the marina? And what’s the word on the unconscious one?”

  “Their prints are not in our databases and facial recognition turned out negative,” Beatriz responds.

  “So, we’re checking with Interpol now,” adds Rossi.

  “All we know is that they’re Spetznas,” Beatriz continues. “Like the driver of the van. And the guy Law wounded is in surgery now.”

  I sit back while trying to connect all of these seemingly-insane loose threads, struggling to knit some semblance of a story.

  But I have nothing besides the obvious that there’s definite agency involvement here.

  Then I remember what Franky told me over dinner at the Catalina about Dix’s work having something to do with taking mentally ill people off the streets to bring them for some sort of treatment. And how harrowing the work was that it made him quit and sign up for the teams.

  I tell them, and it gets a round of frowns because it only adds to the mystery. Nothing is supposed to be worse than SEAL duty, reserved for the toughest warriors on the planet. And yet, according to Dix and now Franky, it was easier than whatever it was that my former buddy was working on with Jonesy and his crew.

  “Well, commander,” Ledet offers. “Maybe those crazy Talis you saw on that mountain are the mentally ill Dix was referring to.”

  “Looks that way, but why are they crazy? And why does it require some extreme black ops group to handle them?”

  The room goes silent.

  “And there’s something else that doesn’t make sense,” I add, drawing all eyes to me again .

  “The albino Russian that Dix called Yuri… when I saw him in Afghanistan, he seemed to be part of Jonesy’s crew. Now it looks as if he’s turned and killed at least one of them in that Escalade, Rourke. And, technically, also Dix.”

  “All because of creative differences,” Mia points out while making air quotes. “And then the bastard went after you and Franky outside her house, and again at the marina.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I guess Franky and I are also loose ends now, like Adanna.”

  “Any news on the yacht that Yuri used to get away?”

  Mia shakes her head. “Portsmouth PD found it abandoned on a pier two miles from the marina. It was stolen the day before from a marina up in Norfolk. So, no leads there so far, but we’re going through it for prints and DNA.”

  We sit there in silence for a moment trying to conjure an answer, but nothing comes to mind that can string this into a story.

  “So, what did Jonesy and Kessler mean by putting a lid on things?” asks Beatriz, before sipping more coffee and adding, “And who’s this boss they were referring to? It wouldn’t be the same boss that Yuri mentioned? The one who’s about to make some deal?”

  Mia nods. “It sounds like there may be two bosses now, Yuri’s and Jonesy’s.”

  For some reason, the word ‘boss’ gets me thinking about Granite. Leaning forward on my chair, I shift my gaze around the table before finding Ledet’s eyes and saying, “Okay, look, back at KAF, Colonel Granite, my CO, told me that this Jonesy guy was some big shot from Langley reporting to the DCI. Perhaps it’s really time we contact the Agency. See what they have to say. That seems like a path to reach one of these damn bosses.”

  “I agree,” Mia says, also looking at Ledet. “This business has gotten way out of hand, and it has Langley’s fingerprints all over it. Time for the spooks to answer a few questions, including why the hell they are operating inside U.S. borders and what their connection is with these Russians. According to that video, it looks as if the Russians are no longer working with the Agency on whatever it is they were working on.”

  “And while you’re at it,” Beatriz adds, “maybe you can make an inquiry about the clinical trials they mentioned in Guantanamo. What was that all about? Is it related to Yuri mentioning Zilopronol, the PTSD med?”

  “Yeah,” I say, staring at her for a moment while thinking about the last Zilopronol-B pill I took with my coffee yesterday afternoon in my boat. “Somehow there’s a connection between that and what I saw outside compound 35, from those hajis acting crazy to the biohazard crates and Hostetter’s comment about ‘that shit really working.’ And there’s now enough evidence to link it all to the work that Harry is doing with Franklin, Dawson, and Rourke, and also the missing files.”

  “Yep,” Rossi concurs. “It’s gotta be all connected, including the snatching of this Hostetter fellow.”

  “The problem is that all we’re seeing are the goddamned trees,” Mia says. “But we can’t see the fucking forest.”

  The room falls silent for a moment as we’re all apparently thinking this through again.

  “And, Roy,” Mia adds, “you have to press Quantico for answers about Dan Pacheco and his undercover work. I get the feeling we’re being very inefficient at the moment with all the secrecy.”

  Ledet is leaning back now, fingers crossed under his chin, as if he were praying. Nodding, he says, “Alright. Alright. I’ll make a few calls.” Then looking at his watch, he adds, “Damn… I need to go. Okay, let’s pick this up at… six, but call me ASAP if Harry has a breakthrough on our mystery Russians—or if anything else comes up, especially when that guy Commander Pacheco shot regains consciousness.”

  With that, he gets up and walks out of the room.

  “I need a smoke,” Mia says to no one in particular.

  Although I want to head upstairs and check in on Franky, and hopefully even continue our conversation, I notice Beatriz and Rossi following Mia toward the double doors at the end of the hallway leading to the parking lot in the back of the building. There’s just too many questions floating in my head, and those three are probably going to do a little impromptu brainstorming out there that I don’t want to miss.

  But before we get anywhere near the double doors, Mia gets a text.

  She looks at it and says, “It’s Harry. He’s back at the morgue and wants us over there ASAP.”

  The three of them start for the parking lot again, but I pause. Franky is upstairs, and I promised her I would go be with her as soon as I was finished with the meeting.

  Mia, who by now is getting pretty damn good at reading me says, “Let her sleep, Law. We’ve got work to do. Chop chop.”

  Chapter 25

  “Okay, Harry, make it worth my while,” Mia says, fidgeting with her ever-present pack of Marlboros.

  I’m standing between her and Beatriz facing the large flat screen next to the body coolers while Rossi and Yanez flank the TV. The pathologist is dressed in blue scrubs and a matching cap as he works the remote control. Purplehair Jerry is in the back of the room plugged to a computer.

  It’s a busy night at the ME’s Tidewater District office even though it’s past one in the morning. All three pedestal tables are occupied with dead Russians, two courtesy of Adanna, the one missing most of his noodle courtesy of yours truly, and the other I just killed at the marina.

  But dead Russians aren’t the reason the good forensic doctor summoned us here at this hour. He has already processed them and is waiting for any ID match from international databases.

  “I have three interesting… observations,” Yanez offers in a tone that makes him sound as if he’s addressing a class. “The first has
to do with the files from those thirteen dead Marines. All of them died indeed by suicide, but there’s a commonality: all thirteen have been on Zilopronol-B for at least four years.”

  I don’t think I like where this might be going.

  “So, what, Harry?” Mia says. “That’s one of the most common drugs for PTSD. You said so yourself yesterday.”

  “I know that,” Yanez says. “But here’s the thing: although all thirteen Marines died from suicide, six of them died from suicide by cop. They were shooters, Mia. One in LA, one in Detroit, one in Atlanta, one in New Orleans, and two in Chicago.”

  “Like Franklin?” I ask, powering through the revelation that now carries personal implications. But no one knows I take the damn thing besides Murph, and I intend to keep it that way. The moment word gets out that you’re on PTSD meds, everyone starts looking at you like you’re nuts, and that’s the last thing I need.

  “Two of them yes. One fired into a church in LA and the other opened fire at a homeless shelter in Chicago. The other four were put down while in the middle of armed robberies, but police reports indicate that they refused to lay down their weapons. They wanted to die, thus the suicide stamps on their files. And get this: none of them had any priors in their files. All thirteen retired from the Corps with enough medals to fill a bookcase.”

  “And then they went bat-shit crazy,” Beatriz comments.

  I lock eyes with her and slowly nod while also remembering what Franky told me about the mentally-ill people Dix claimed to be sequestering when he worked for Jonesy.

  “And all of them were on Zilopronol-B for extended periods of time after their respective honorable discharges,” Yanez says.

  Oh, boy.

  “That’s the first observation,” he adds.

  “Interesting, Harry,” Mia says. “But not very actionable.”

  “True,” Yanez says. “There really isn’t enough to make a forensic statement beyond what’s already been concluded by my ME colleagues across the country: suicide.”

  “But it does get you thinking,” I say.