Templar's Quest

2

The Pentagon

4 months later

‘Master Sergeant Finnegan J. McGuire?’

Hand curled around a styrofoam cup, Finn peered over his shoulder. Seeing two strangers with ‘Pentagon Visitor’ badges pinned to the front of their jackets, he reached for the coffee jug. A few seconds later, steaming cup in hand, he turned to face the pair. ‘Yeah, I’m McGuire. Who’s asking?’

In tandem, the pair snapped open matching black leather wallets as they each thrust an arm in his direction. ‘CID. I’m Warrant Officer Dennis Stackhouse and this is my partner, Special Agent Elizabeth Tonelli.’

The Criminal Investigation Division of the US Army … what did they want with him?

It was well known in the army ranks that CID investigators were a law unto themselves. In that way, they were a lot like the Delta Force. They didn’t have to wear a military uniform, maintain a regulation haircut or follow the normal chain of command. They were cop and soldier rolled into one.

‘Late yesterday evening, sometime between ten and eleven p.m., two murders were committed at Fort Bragg,’ the Warrant Officer announced in a brusque, businesslike tone. ‘We need to know your whereabouts during the time in question.’

Knowing the unspoken implication was that he had been somewhere yesterday that he wasn’t supposed to be, Finn said, ‘I spent last night at home. Alone, I might add. While sitting at home all by my lonesome, I ate leftover Kung Pao Chicken, caught the last half of The Dirty Dozen on a cable station, then turned in for the night.’

Even as he spoke, Finn had the uneasy feeling that this was one of those ‘damned if he did/damned if he didn’t’ scenarios.

Special Agent Tonelli opened her mouth to speak.

‘And before you ask, no, I do not have an alibi,’ Finn volunteered. ‘I also don’t know anything about any murders. I haven’t been to Fort Bragg in a couple of months.’ Fort Bragg was home base to the Delta Force. Three months ago he’d cleared out of the Fayetteville apartment that he’d rented off base. He hadn’t been back since.

Barely repressing a snicker, Finn gestured to the office bay adjacent to the break room. ‘As you can see, I’m now working a desk job at the Pentagon.’

A mind-numbing desk job that was somehow connected to ‘intelligence gathering’ but had everything to do with spending eight hours a day staring at satellite photos. It was as far removed from combat duty as a soldier could get. Not a day passed that Finn didn’t wish someone would take aim and put him out of his misery.

‘I hope that answers all your questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.’ He headed towards his cubbyhole of an office.

‘Actually, we have a few more questions for you,’ the Warrant Officer said to his backside, the twosome trailing behind him.

Finn snatched a chair from an unoccupied desk and rolled it into his office. With his free hand he motioned Agent Tonelli to seat herself on the chair. Finn sat himself behind his metal desk. As though it were a game of musical chairs, the Warrant Officer was left standing.

Agent Tonelli pointedly glanced at his right hand. ‘How’s your, um, finger doing?’

‘Beats me … I left it somewhere in the Middle East.’

‘I apologize. That didn’t come out the way I intended. What I meant to ask is how is your recovery coming along?’

Pegging her for the ‘good cop’, Finn shrugged. ‘I can’t complain.’

What was the point? The army surgeon at Ramstein Airbase had had to amputate the mangled flesh of his right index finger, cutting it just below the second knuckle. Finn didn’t know if it was on account of the original injury or the subsequent surgery, but he’d suffered nerve damage to the digitorum tendon, the connective tissue that flexed and extended the finger. Even though the digit healed faster than expected, the amputation ended his days as a Delta Force ‘shooter’. While he could still fire a weapon, able to pull the trigger with his middle finger, he no longer had the speed and proficiency required of a Special Forces combat soldier.

‘I don’t know about the two of you, but I’ve got work to do,’ Finn said brusquely. ‘So, what do you say we get this interrogation over and done with?’

‘Fine,’ Warrant Officer Stackhouse replied. ‘As we already stated, last night two Delta troopers stationed at Fort Bragg were found murdered.’

His spine instantly straightened. ‘You didn’t tell me that the victims were Delta troopers.’

‘In fact, the two murdered troopers, Corporal Lamar Dixon and Corporal John Kelleher, were former comrades of yours.’

Finn felt like he’d just been sucker-punched, his gut cramping painfully. The two men had not just been comrades, they’d been friends.

Dixie and Johnny K. Dead. Both of them. Christ.

Finn looked the Warrant Officer straight in the eye. ‘And you actually think that I drove down to Fort Bragg yesterday when I got off duty and killed Dixie and Johnny K?’

Openly smirking, Warrant Officer Stackhouse opened a leather portfolio that he’d carried in with him. From it he removed two 8 x 10 crime scene photos, placing them on top of the desk. ‘These should jar your memory.’

Finn carefully examined the photos. What he saw sickened him. Other than the fact that one photo was of a black man and the other a Caucasian, the photos were nearly identical: The two men were naked and secured to O-bolts screwed into the floor, a strap of duct tape over their mouths, both bodies covered in blood. Someone didn’t just murder Dixie and Johnny K; someone butchered them.

‘Both of the victims were ritualistically tortured,’ Stackhouse continued. ‘Oh, and did I mention … the killer used your Bowie knife to commit the murders.’

Finn slapped the photos on to the desk. ‘That’s flat-out impossible.’

The Warrant Officer opened his portfolio and removed a third photo. Gleefully smiling, he dangled the glossy photo to-and-fro in front of Finn’s face. ‘Look familiar?’

Clearly annoyed with her partner’s antics, Agent Tonelli snatched the photo from him and handed it to Finn. ‘The knife hilt is made of fossilized ivory and etched in scrimshaw. Nowadays scrimshaw is a little practised art, but two hundred years ago, Boston whalers used scrimshaw to –’

‘I know what scrimshaw is,’ Finn interrupted, staring at the photo in complete disbelief.

‘As you can see, the Gaelic phrase Fé Mhóid Bheith Saor is etched into the ivory,’ she continued. Reaching across his desk, she pointed out the detail with her finger. ‘We looked it up on the Internet: It means “Sworn to be free”. Beneath the inscription are the initials FJM.’

‘And don’t deny that it’s your knife,’ Stackhouse cautioned. ‘We’ve got proof to the contrary.’

‘Look, I don’t know how this happened, but –’ Finn stopped in mid-sentence. The knife in the photo, the same Bowie knife that was used to kill Dixie and Johnny K, was the same Bowie knife he had used four months ago to take out a Syrian combatant on that fubar mission to retrieve the gold medallion. Had it not been for that damned pendant, his trigger finger would still be attached to his right hand.

But he’d left that knife in Al-Qanawat, embedded in the Syrian’s chest.

How did it end up at Fort Bragg?

‘You were about to say something, Sergeant?’

Finn shook his head. Simply put, there was nothing to say. Somehow, someone had managed to take out the last two members of his old Delta squad. Three months ago, Deuce, Lou-Lou and PJ had had their helo blown out of the Iraqi sky by a couple of insurgents.

That meant he was the only member of the Delta squad still drawing breath.

Reaching across the desk, Agent Elizabeth Tonelli took the photo from him. ‘Losing your trigger finger, that had to have been a bitter pill to swallow. Moreover, it must have made you incredibly angry. Angry men have a propensity for violence. Combine that with your specialized training and … well, you get my drift.’

Loud and clear. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. The ever-popular default motive for murder.

Agent Tonelli’s sidekick slipped on a pair of reading glasses and re-opened his leather portfolio. Wearing a studious expression, the Warrant Officer examined a sheet of paper. Several seconds passed before he peered over the top of his metal frames. ‘We did a little background check on you, Sergeant. Hope you don’t mind.’

Ah, shit. Here it comes. The McGuire family laundry. Dirty sheets flapping in a gusty headwind.

‘Seems that your brother Mychal has made quite a name for himself as a top lieutenant in Boston’s Irish mob. According to our dossier, he spent six years in the Federal penitentiary in Lewisburg on an arms trafficking charge.’ One side of the Warrant Officer’s mouth twisted in a nasty sneer. ‘Bet you couldn’t be prouder.’

Finn made no comment. Every security clearance he’d ever been issued had been held up while the Department of Defense verified that Finn no longer had contact with his brother Mickey. Or any other member of the McGuire clan for that matter.

‘Finnegan and Mychal McGuire. Blood brothers. No. Wait.’ The bastard made a big to-do of glancing back at the dossier. ‘Twin brothers. Meaning that the two of you were cut from the very same bolt.’

‘Let’s get something straight – I’m not my brother’s keeper,’ Finn grated between clenched teeth. As he spoke, he noticed the pop-up box that had suddenly appeared on his computer monitor, alerting him to an incoming email. While the sender’s name, FJ-58, meant nothing to him, the subject line caught his eye, the words ‘UNJUSTLY ACCUSED’ all in caps.

Casually moving his right hand to the mouse, he clicked on the email icon. As he read the missive, he schooled his features into a blank expression.

What price freedom? Unless you wish to ponder the answer from the inside of a military prison, you will immediately leave the building and proceed to the reception at the French Embassy in Washington. Wait by the courtyard doors. You will receive further instructions. If you fail to arrive by 5.00 p.m., irrefutable DNA evidence linking you to the murders in question will be provided to the proper authorities. If you speak of this matter to anyone, they will be targeted for execution.

Finn clicked the delete button, the email instantly disappearing from the computer screen. Leave the building? Were they insane? He was on the verge of being arrested for murder. Not to mention the ‘building’ in question was the freaking Pentagon.

He stared at the blank computer screen. He didn’t know anyone who worked at the French Embassy. Hell, he’d never even been to the French Embassy. But he suspected that someone at the embassy had ordered the hits on Dixie and Johnny K. That same somebody planted his Bowie knife at the murder scene. And they also knew when he’d be questioned by CID. Which meant that the enemy had eyes and ears inside the US military command.

And wasn’t that a scary thought?

‘Sergeant McGuire,’ a voice suddenly boomed from the telephone intercom system. ‘You were supposed to get me a copy of those updates ASAP. Where the hell are they?’

Finn knew the voice all too well. It was his commanding officer, Colonel Benjamin Duckworth, a spit-and-polish career officer who ran the Satellite Analysis Group, SAG, like it was his own private fiefdom.

Hitting the mute button, he glanced apologetically at the two CID agents. ‘Sorry about that. I was supposed to get these satellite photos to the Colonel ten minutes ago. There’s a commander in Kandahar who’s currently on standby. He’s waiting to get this intel downloaded before he sends out his security detail,’ Finn told them, purposefully playing the ‘patriot’ card. ‘Colonel Duckworth’s office is just down the hall. It won’t take but a second for me to deliver the file.’

The Warrant Officer’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at the innocuous manila folder that Finn now held in his right hand. ‘Can’t you have someone else deliver the file?’

‘Actually, I can’t,’ Finn lied. ‘There’s no one in the office with a high enough security clearance to open this file, let alone carry it down the hall to the Colonel.’

‘All right,’ the other man groused irritably. ‘But make it snappy.’

Oh, I intend to.