by Rachel Brune
“Company commander!” Second Lieutenant Marisa Kent called the group to attention. They snapped to it in a parody of military precision.
“Carry on,” said Mabry in mock serious tones. The three soldiers abandoned their strenuously serious positions to crack a grin at their commander. Kent, one of his platoon leaders, had taken a few days off from her job as a patrol officer at one of the local precincts to take care of some of the preparation for the weekend’s training event.
“How are things?” asked Mabry. “We ready to go for tomorrow?”
The familiar smell of motor oil, truck canvas and Simple Green cleaning solution relaxed him. He was back on familiar ground, not worrying that an unexpected misstep would send him to the bottom of his supervisor’s favor.
“The trucks are all ready to go,” said Kent. “Bailey and McD here helped me fuel them up yesterday, and we just finished the last PMCS.”
PMCS, standing for Preventive Maintenance Checks and Services, was the Army’s method for trying to ensure that soldiers took care of their vehicles. Mabry knew that even with published standards, they could be as thorough or as lax as their supervisor asked. He glanced at the stack of papers on Kent’s clipboard. He had no need to worry. She, like most of the other soldiers in the unit, had been downrange and seen for themselves the tragic results of not maintaining your equipment. No weapon in this unit would jam because of dirt or lack of care, and no vehicle would stall or break down for something that was by-the-books preventable. At least that was the theory.
Specialist Lenny Bailey and Staff Sergeant Joe McDaniel took advantage of the momentary transfer of attention to duck out back for a cigarette.
Scott patted the Humvee. It wasn’t an uparmored vehicle like the ones the unit had driven in Iraq and then left for the incoming unit. These were the soft-skin antiques that hadn’t ever made it overseas. Still painted in dark green and brown woodland camouflage, they were almost as old as Scott, but in good condition.
“It’s going to be a cold ride this weekend,” said Mabry.
“It’s going to be a cold everything this weekend, sir,” said Kent.
“Yeah.”
“You get the convoy clearance this time?” Last time, they had had to sneak out in staggered pairs to not violate New Jersey traffic laws.
“XO’s supposed to be bringing it in later today.”
Kent shuffled her short stack of papers, neatening the edges. “So I heard you’re having some trouble with those assholes on the Task Force.”
Scott laughed, then winced as he pulled at the stitches healing around the midsection. His doctor had expressly forbidden him to lead his company on the training mission, but somewhere between the apartment and the Reserve station he had conveniently lost that particular paperwork.
“Nah,” said Mabry. “We’re just having creative differences.”
Kent chuckled.
“So, what do you hear from Alex?” asked Scott.
“He’s got a few months left in Afghanistan,” said Kent. Like many female Army officers, she was married to a fellow servicemember.
“You got any plans for when he gets back?”
“Nothing in particular,” said Kent. “Lots of decompression time. We might head out to the Poconos. Maybe the Shore.”
There was a pause in the conversation.
“I’ve got a lead I’m trying to run down,” said Scott, breaking the silence before it grew uncomfortable.
“Lead?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s a lead…more like an itch.”
“You going to scratch?”
“Already tried.” Scott shook his head. “All I got for my efforts was some shrapnel and a suspension. That’s why I’m here micromanaging you.”
“Huh.” Kent shrugged. “You going to keep at it?”
“Don’t know,” said Scott.
“How bad does it itch?”
Scott smiled.
“That bad, huh?” asked Kent.
“That bad,” said Scott. “Think I’m crazy?”
“Go for it, sir,” said Kent.
“Thanks, LT.” Scott laughed. The company commander authority returned. “I’m going to grab a smoke.”
“Sure thing, sir,” said Kent. “If you see my two minions out there, can you just send them back in here? We’ve got to switch out a few hoses, or whoever’s driving this truck is going to show up at Fort Dix with frostbite.”
The smoke shack was outside the chain link fence surrounding the motor pool. On his way out, Mabry returned the salute of Kent’s soldiers returning from the shack. He shook his head. It was cold outside, but he only felt it in his fingers when he fumbled for a light.
Mabry smoked the cigarette almost down to the filter. When he reached the end, he stubbed the cherry out on his boot. Rolling the butt between his fingers, he forced out the last bit of tobacco and put the filter in his pocket. Field-stripping the smoke was an ingrained habit. His ex-wife used to catch him smoking after the fact, finding the butts in the various pockets on his uniform.
His cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and debated answering. Mark Granger.
Mabry wasn’t done with the Task Force—wanted to get back on it, especially since his efforts to find another deployment had been stymied thus far. But his instinct, that curious subconscious mix of observation and experience, told him that he had been—was still—on to something that this reporter had brought him. And that something remained a threat, to be faced by the very people who should be supporting him in his rundown.
When Scott Mabry thought of the sergeants who had stood by his side through countless missions as first a squad leader and then a platoon leader, he thought of men and women with whom he had trusted his life and had in turn been entrusted. A man—a civilian—like Mark Granger was not who immediately came to mind. He didn’t know him, didn’t trust him, hadn’t trained with him, and didn’t know how he would react in a bad situation. Or rather, he thought he already knew how the man would react, and it involved cameras and intrusive questions.
But the reporter was what he had. He answered the call.
The woman’s face looked like half of a grotesque floppy balloon. The shot that killed her had caught her at an awkward angle, blasting away half her head and leaving the other flattened in its Halloween mask contours.
Mark saw something of what the lady’s beauty had been in the small, unformed features of the twin girls laying next to the body. They had been killed by a smaller caliber shot to the chest, not instantaneously, judging by the frozen gasps of something that looked like disbelief on their faces. That disbelief was reflected in the faces of the officers gathered around the shrunken form of the husband, sitting on the five-thousand-dollar sofa, trying to hold himself together as they fired polite questions regarding his whereabouts and access to firearms.
The reporter felt the bile rise in his throat. He had been allowed surreptitious access to the scene, greased inside the perimeter by a hefty donation to one of his source’s beer funds. Unable to bear looking, he pulled out a small handheld video recorder and pressed the red button. Viewing the destruction through the LCD screen helped him settle.
“Got what you need?” The sardonic voice in Mark’s ear startled him. He looked up to see a woman with a digital camera. He hoped she was mistaking him for someone else.
“Yes. Yes, thank you,” said Mark. He tucked the camera in his pocket. Walking as slowly as he could force himself, he exited the house, walked across the yard, and ducked back under the perimeter tape. He stood for minute, walked deliberately across the street, bent over a bush, and vomited.
“Granger!” The news van pulled up behind him. He turned to see his cameraman half-hanging out of the door. “You got the tape?”
“Yeah.” Mark pulled the camera out and handed it to the cameraman, who handed it to the mobile editor inside the van and proceeded to set up for the location feed. He wiped his mouth. “Do you have a bottle of water in there?”
“This is Mark Granger, reporting live from the Hamptons, where the family of New York State Senator Jacob Schuyler was found brutally murdered in what the police believe may have been an aborted murder-suicide pact.” It wasn’t necessarily true, and hadn’t been confirmed by any of the on-scene officers, but the network was used to revising the news during the course of the reporting cycle. Usually they didn’t even need to make an apology. They simply covered themselves by reporting what new events had revealed.
“We need to warn our viewers that they may find some of these images graphic and disturbing.” Mark needed to give the standard disclaimer. In his ear, he heard his producer directing the cut to the footage he had taken in the house, calling the station for the current newscaster to take over from where Mark left off.
This story was Mark’s big break, his reward for the spike in ratings following the attack outside the Brooklyn mosque. His hopes that he could translate that opportunity into a chance to continue pursuing the lead had been dashed when Taggert handed off the follow-up to that story to a junior reporter and told Mark to head to the Hamptons with a news van. He was the network’s rising star reporter, and now he could act like one. The thought simultaneously pleased him, with its implied flattery of position, and annoyed him. There was a long way left to go with the first story, and he had the access and the knowledge to exploit it fully. Still, he couldn’t deny that he was good at getting the sorts of stories, this story, that other reporters had to work much longer to get a crack at.
Mark’s cameraman was signaling for his attention. Mark turned around to see a large, pissed-off cop coming his way.
“Keep filming,” said Mark. He sighed. He wished that being Taggert’s star reporter didn’t involve violence to his person on a regular basis.
“Hey!” The cop planted his feet about three feet away from Mark and folded his arms. He had seen the camera and wasn’t going to get anywhere in range if he could help it. “Did I just see you inside the perimeter of an active crime scene?”
“Are you accusing me of something?” asked Mark. He wasn’t about to self-incriminate, even if he did own the tape that would prove it. He didn’t put it past Taggert not to use it to his disadvantage.
The cop glared at him, glared at the camera. Tempting as it was to push the issue, he wasn’t about to feed the beast by pushing around some reporter on live television. “I’m here to inform you that the senior detective on scene will be making a statement in ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Mark. He backed up another step. “I’m sorry, did you want to say something to me?”
“You already started lying to the public.” The cop shook his head. “We’re just trying to give you a clue.”
Mark doubted they would use much of the official statement, marred as it would be by the jostling of the other cameras and the fact that the police spokesperson would probably be telling something approximating the truth, with what little information could be released. The footage they had, even jumpy, handheld quality footage, trumped uniformed talking heads every time. He sent his cameraman to feed at the trough and pulled out his cell. He dialed Mabry’s number.
Mabry picked up on the last ring before the call went to voicemail.
“What?”
“It’s Mark.” The reporter paused. “Mark Granger.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Scott. “Your number showed up on the little screen.”
“Oh.” Now that he had the detective on the phone, Mark was unsure how to proceed.
“You there?” asked Scott.
“Yeah … yeah, I’m here.” Mark turned his face away from the wind. “How are you feeling?”
“Impatient,” said Scott.
“What?”
“Like I want you to get to the point of this call.”
“Oh.” Mark took a breath. “I want to keep following my story.”
“Uh huh.”
“I need you to help me.”
“You do.” It was a statement bordering on a question.
“Yes.”
“Sorry, man,” said Scott. “I just don’t know anything about broccoli.”
“That was a cauliflower,” said Mark, who had seriously underestimated the law enforcement profession’s capacity for laughing at jokes long after they weren’t funny anymore. “I’m talking about my terrorist e-mail.”
“Aren’t you getting a big story out of it already?” asked Scott.
“No,” said Mark. “My producer handed it off to some jerk who never checked a fact in his life. It’s already filed and forgotten.”
“Uh huh.”
“Listen, I know what you think of me, but I need to keep doing this story.”
“How badly do you need my help?”
“Pretty badly,” said Mark. “I’m going to do the story either way, but if I’m going to get anywhere, I need your help.”
“Every time I help you, I end up in front of a camera or in the hospital,” said Mabry.
“That’s why we have to keep following this story,” said Mark. “That explosion just proved we were getting somewhere.”
“How’s that?” asked Mabry. “You have proof?”
“No,” said Mark. “But that’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Scott was silent. Mark tried a different tack.
“Listen, I know you’re a soldier, and a cop, and you’re supposed to protect people.”
“I’m a Reservist, and I’m also on suspension thanks to you,” said Mabry.
“Sorry about that.” Mark actually did sound somewhat contrite. “I really am, but I need your help.”
“You really don’t have any shame, do you?”
“Listen, I just snuck into a man’s house to take video of his murdered wife and daughters so my network could accuse him of the crime for the ratings,” said Mark. “So no, I don’t have any shame anymore, especially not when it comes to asking for help with something I know is important. You know it is too, and you are a cop and a soldier, no matter what’s going on, and you know you need to finish this thing.”
Mark held his breath, hoping he hadn’t stepped over a line.
“You working tomorrow?” asked Scott.
The change of subject threw Mark off guard. He responded hopefully. “I’m not scheduled to cover anything…”
“Good,” said Scott. “My company is heading down to New Jersey for training. We need someone to play a pain-in-the-ass reporter. Here’s my deal—you help me out this weekend, and I’ll help you with your story.”
“What?” asked Mark.
“You heard me,” said Scott. “A favor for a favor. My soldiers need to learn how to deal with the media, especially hot-shot star reporters, and you happen to be one.”
“You’re serious.”
“Damn straight.”
“And then we can get started again?”
“Sure.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Good.”
“What time do I have to be there?”
“Convoy leaves tomorrow morning at zero five,” said Scott. “Bring a sleeping bag.”
“You mean five in the morning?” asked Mark.
“See you then.”
A click, and Mark’s cell screen read: Call ended. He put the phone back in his pocket. There was just enough time to tape the press conference, then it would be time to get back to the station to let the evening news crew pick up where they had left off. He also wanted to leave the area before one of the cops picked up on the broadcast and stormed over demanding an explanation.
The cameraman elected to drive back with the news van, so Mark made the trip back alone. He was halfway back to the station when he began to suspect that Mabry had played him. The cop had neve
r intended to drop the lead.
“Son of a bitch,” said Mark out loud.
Chapter Thirteen
When Alan dreamed, it was a dream of being a respected man. He saw himself the leader of a quiet, honorable neighborhood, where the men sat in cafes and talked of politics and the world. Somewhere behind quiet shutters, women would keep their household worlds running smoothly, venturing out properly clothed and escorted when necessary. With the organization, he would arrange services for those who needed them, care for the sick, provide utilities and education for his neighbors. He saw himself playing soccer with the neighborhood children, the father of some of the boys who would run after the ball. It was a small life, but it was the life he dreamed of.
This life, however, was not the life chosen for him. He recognized that even as he dreamed otherwise. Sometimes he worried that this small dissatisfaction meant that he wasn’t worthy of the path before him, but he shook that off. Surely, his actions in the face of his doubts would vouch for his worthiness.
But before he could continue on that path, he needed to fix what was broken in his house. He thought of himself as a leader of men, but Alan could see that the fractured discontent of the men in the house threatened that role. Since his vicious beating, Eddie had been obedient but sullen. Dodger had fallen silent and furtive, and Marcus had disappeared. Alan was desperately tempted to beat the truth out of one of the men to find out where Marcus was, but realized that as personally satisfying as that course of action would be, it would be completely ineffective. The Americans’ mood could swing them out of his influence, and then he would have to start over.
The past week had been fruitless. Every time Alan and his partners sought out the detective or the reporter, they had disappeared from the city. Either that, or the duo was surrounded by too many witnesses. They could not chance the premature exposure of Alan’s organization. There was nothing to do but wait for the two men to resume their normal routines. In the meantime, the atmosphere in the apartment stagnated and fermented in Alan’s impatience.