Counterfeit Lies

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jake squeezed the Range Rover into a parking spot on Ventura Boulevard and spied Brian Carter waiting in front of Three Amigos, Jake’s favorite Mexican fast-food spot in the Valley.

“Nice ride,” said Brian. “I meant to ask when we met yesterday. Is that your personal car?”

“Hardly. You probably thought everyone in the FBI drove a Malibu or Ford Fusion.”

Brian nodded.

Jake smiled. “This is why you get into the undercover program, the few, the proud, the ugly: better cars, no ties, and an adrenaline rush hard to beat. We’re blessed on the West Coast with some truly stupid criminals with exotic tastes. When they take a fall we build up our war chests. While you were still at Quantico, this Rover belonged to a Mexican meth dealer with strong cartel ties who’s now doing twenty at the supermax in Florence, Colorado.”

The two agents entered the tiny restaurant and Jake grabbed a table in the back before ordering his standard fare, the Steak Burrito Supreme. Carter followed the experienced agent’s recommendation and soon both were chowing down.

Brian spent the next few minutes discussing his eight years on active duty, including three deployments to Afghanistan, where amenities such as running water and electricity were luxuries. IEDs and gunfights were the norm. In his last tour he was part of a village stabilization project assisting the ALP, the Afghan Local Police. That too consisted of almost daily patrols preparing the Afghan people to stand on their own as the United States transitioned to a support role. Though he was doing what he trained to do, he soon realized the toll his frequent deployments were taking on his new wife.

“Unless you’ve been through it, no one understands the impact a combat deployment has on a marriage,” said Brian. “We were lucky. We didn’t have children. I don’t know how those moms did it, repeatedly playing the single-parent role for months, sometimes up to a year or more at a time.”

Before taking another bite, Jake said, “You’re right. I think it’s much harder on the family. We’re out runnin’ and gunnin’ doing what we signed up to do while those who love us wait at home, fearful every time the phone rings, praying a Marine in ‘Dress Blues’ and a chaplain never ring the doorbell.”

“Yeah, but is it any better when you’re undercover?”

“Undercover work can be extremely dangerous. When you’re downrange in a war zone you expect contact, maybe every day. Undercover work is much more subtle. You’re among them without becoming one of them. I’ve certainly experienced those pucker-factor moments undercover, but not every day like on a combat tour.

“In UC work you don’t worry about getting hit when you’re on patrol or having your troops killed as much as you worry about being discovered. It’s a different kind of concern. It’s not sidestepping IEDs. Typically you’re on your own, no backup in sight and no friendlies in harm’s way. It’s better to be quick with the tongue than the trigger, though every once in a while, accurate shooting is a big plus.”

Jake smiled, then quieted as a customer passed their table, headed to the restroom in the back.

Between bites, Jake asked, “Did most of the guys you served with get out?”

“Maybe a third of the company-grade officers stayed in. With three and sometimes four deployments it was tough on the families. I loved the Corps and would have stayed had I been single.”

“If the Marines had wanted you to have a wife they would have issued you one,” cracked Jake, repeating the legendary “Old Corps” maxim.

“I hear that.”

“Those who got out, where’d they go?”

“Mainly the private sector,” said Brian.

“You mean security work?”

“No, business, sales. A few went into law enforcement. I have one buddy who went into the DEA and another guy, my best friend in the Marines, he and I were at the Basic School together and as second lieutenants were part of a special operations group that did some work in South America. Gabe got out after three deployments in four years and joined the Agency. He was an intel officer and spoke Korean. Gabe Chong, so naturally everyone called him—”

Jake interrupted, “Cheech.”

“Yep. You know how the Marine Corps operates. Gabe is a Korean speaker, so they sent him to South America. At least the Agency is using his skill set. I saw him a month ago as he passed through L.A. heading for points west.”

“The Marines are a lot like the Bu. Different bureaucrats, all singing from the same sheet music,” added Jake.

“Well, Gabe will be a great spook. Sharp guy, went to Berkeley.”

“A Marine at Berkeley? I bet he was popular on campus.”

“And how about you? When did you serve?”

“I went through the PLC program, two summers, then was commissioned when I graduated from college. Spent four years on active duty and got out in 2003. I was a rifle company commander with RCT-3 in the initial invasion of Iraq. A lot of my guys got hurt and killed on the way to Baghdad and later on in Anbar Province… too many. I was wounded in Fallujah by a suicidal bastard using an RPG as a sniper rifle.

“While I was recovering in the hospital and writing too many letters home to the loved ones of the Marines I lost, I decided I couldn’t do that forever. Colonel Newman, our regimental CO, visited me in the hospital and tried to talk me into staying in the Corps. But I needed to move on and told him I wanted to join the FBI. He understood and encouraged me to keep at the rehab so I could pass the Bureau’s physical qualification test. He also wrote a gold-plated fitness report that went in with my application.”

“You talking about Major General Peter Newman?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Gabe and I were with him in Venezuela as part of that special operations group I mentioned. The unit was formed under the Threat Mitigation Commission, which Congress later shut down. We spent the Marine Corps Birthday, 10 November 2007, at the Simón Bolívar International Airport. It hit the fan that night. We lost one of the finest Marines I ever knew… Sergeant Major Amos Skillings… He received a posthumous Medal of Honor. Afterward, it was General Newman who encouraged Gabe to apply to the Agency because of his Korean-language skills and spec-ops background. Peter Newman knew how to lead. Gabe and I would have followed that man barefoot into hell itself.”

“I remember hearing some scuttlebutt about what happened in Venezuela — but not much. It was all very hush-hush, wasn’t it? Russian agents, Iranian nukes.”

“Yeah,” replied Carter, looking clearly uncomfortable. “You have the general outline, Jake, but I really can’t say more — I want to be able to pass my next polygraph. You know what I mean?”

Jake nodded and said, “Sure, but from what little I know about that unit and that operation, it really was hell.” Then quieter, he added, “I’m not sure Gabe is that much safer in his new job. I lost my best friend a few months ago on an OGA mission in Afghanistan. He was my best man when Katie and I got married. He’d found the girl of his dreams. They’d been married less than six months when he was killed. Joe was a MARSOC operator and loved the world of special ops. I’m not sure a day goes by I don’t think about him. When I got the word he’d been killed it was the second-toughest day of my life. Joe had something to come back to. I don’t, at least not anymore.”

“Trey said you’ve had a tough year. I guess he was right,” replied Brian.

Neither said anything for a long moment. Jake choked back his emotions as he changed the subject. “It’ll be a different kind of combat for you now. It’s more mental than physical. You might spend an entire career and never fire your weapon in the heat of battle, yet each day you will be challenged to outthink some of the most sophisticated criminals in our society. I love that type of warfare. And if you get into the undercover program, you will find an indescribable rush. Going face-to-face with somebody playing for the other side and never blinking, that’s what it’s all about. Unlike the Marine Corps, you won’t have fire teams, squads, or platoons to maneuver. It is usually just you, all alone. I can’t get enough.”

Brian nodded without saying a word.