Jack in the Green (2 page)

The security staffer took three steps back from the SUV in front of them and the vehicle passed through. Gaspar raised his foot off the brake and allowed the sedan to roll forward until his window was even with the security officer.

Gaspar’s window remained closed, following the Boss’s explicit instructions.

He held up his photo VA card between his left index and middle fingers, almost like a salute. The card had a bar code on it. If the security guard followed procedure, she’d scan the card. He waited. She did, and waved him through without hassle. The scan was routine. The data should get lost in the mountain of data collected every day. As long as Gaspar did nothing to draw attention to himself, his presence here today should remain undiscovered by the wrong people. He hoped.

He let the sedan roll on through the checkpoint, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. If they’d been required to offer FBI badges or answer questions, or if security had searched the sedan, everything would have become a lot more complicated. His life was already complicated enough.

As much as they relied upon the Boss’s promise of lax security in their case, he felt Otto’s disapproval emitting like sonar waves. How many other VA cards had been waved through today? Was Reacher’s one of them? And who checked the civilians required only to show their drivers’ licenses for this special event?

But they’d passed the first hurdle. They were on base. Unidentified. So far, so good.

2

The Boss had said their movements would be unrestricted inside the gate. Except for certain areas where armed guards were posted. It would be easy enough to avoid those.

“Notice anything worrisome since you were here last?” Otto asked.

He glanced her way. She had her head turned to look out her window, scanning for threats, probably. Especially from behind, she looked like a tiny Asian doll. The top of her deceptively fragile-looking shoulder rested well below the bottom edge of the big sedan’s window. If she hadn’t put that alligator clamp on her seatbelt at the retractor, it could have sliced her head off her neck in an accident.

“Well?” she said, more insistent this time, scanning through the front windshield now. When he still didn’t reply, she glanced his way.

He shrugged, combed his hair with splayed fingers, turned his head and made a show of looking around.

MacDill Air Force Base was both a country club for military families and a war zone. A strange combination of all-inclusive resort and weaponized death star. It boasted a beach and golf course and a full-featured campground for veterans dubbed “Famcamp,” where his last trip here had ended in disaster. Inside the buildings you’d find standard Government Issue everything.

Then there were the heavily armed guards protecting the strategic commands that earned the base its lofty importance to national defense and control over state-of-the-art killing machines around the world.

Before his injury, Gaspar brought his kids to the annual MacDill AirFest. He’d been here on special assignments while he was in the army, and once or twice since he’d been assigned to the FBI’s Miami Field Office. He hoped today’s arrest would go more smoothly than his last one here.

“It’s a simple question, Chico,” Otto said, continuing her recon.

“Wish I had a simple answer.” He took in the view through the glass again—right, left, front and in the rear view mirror—seeking any unfamiliar additions to the geography.

The base consumed every inch of the small peninsula jutting out into Tampa Bay. The last time he’d been here it was to attend a retirement dinner in the officers’ club, which had since been demolished. Nothing abnormal in that. When new facilities were required, it generally meant old stuff was demolished and replaced.

Today’s event was a perfect example. Hundreds of civilians were expected at a temporary outdoor stage like it had always been there. The chosen site was close to the Strategic Operations Command Memorial Wall honoring the fallen. Nearby, multiple command centers for war. Death and life combined in paradise, to jarring effect.

“What time is Weston scheduled to be arrested?” he asked.

“After the service,” she said, checking her Seiko. “Maybe three hours from now. Plenty of time to get what we came for and get out before the arresting agents move.”

“Plenty of time for all sorts of things to happen.” He shrugged as if unconcerned, but figured she knew better.

Building a current file on Jack Reacher—filling in the blanks after he’d left the Army’s 110th Special Investigations Unit—had seemed routine initially. Until they read the background file, which was thin. Too thin. Since, they’d been pulling the scabs off old wounds Reacher had caused. It meant infiltrating enemy territory every time. Both Gaspar and Otto had fresh scars to prove it.

No reason to believe Weston would be an easier interview subject than the others had been. In fact, from what they’d learned about the man, there was every reason to believe he’d be worse.

They’d been warned to watch out for Reacher, who came, destroyed and departed like a liger. Neither he nor Otto needed to be reminded to watch for him, but Gaspar wanted to believe it unlikely Reacher would try to get Weston today. Their feud was sixteen years old and surely even Reacher might have lost track of Weston in all that time.

“Weston has stayed out of Reacher’s way all this time,” Otto said. “So why is Weston sticking his neck out by attending this particular memorial ceremony? He could have come any time. The base holds these generic memorials for military family members to pay their respects every year. Weston contacted them a month ago and said he wanted to attend this particular service. It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“Not to me,” Gaspar replied. “So we do what we do.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we stay alert. We’re missing something important, Sunshine.”

Her tone was hard in reply. “So what else is new?”

Gaspar parked the sedan an assured clear distance from civilian traffic around the memorial site, which seemed to have a disproportionate number of handicapped parking spaces, and they stepped out into the warm November sunshine.

Gaspar stretched like a lizard. After the past few weeks in frigid cold, he’d forgotten how good Florida sunshine could feel a few days before Thanksgiving.

Otto watched him from just over the hood of the sedan, but said nothing.

When he stepped around the car, they began walking toward the memorial site, keeping a few yards’ distance from other early arrivals. Some were in wheelchairs. Some moved jerkily on new prosthetic limbs. One mystery solved: the excess of handicapped spaces. The memorial service was an annual event to honor fallen members of military families. Many attendees were wounded veterans themselves.

Gaspar’s limp was pronounced at first, but eased with exercise, as it usually did.

“I know you’re running through it again in your head,” Gaspar said with a grin to distract her from his limping. “Just verbalize for me while you’re at it. Another run-through never hurts.”

She scowled as if he’d falsely accused her. He hadn’t. She never stopped thinking, analyzing, crunching data in her head, even if it was the same data, over and over. He didn’t complain. Her odd habits had already saved his ass more than once.

“The subject is retired Army Lieut. Col. Alfred Weston.” She rattled off the few important facts they’d received in the Boss’s materials: “Sixteen-plus years ago, Weston was posted here on a classified assignment. No details in the file. Weston’s wife and three children were murdered. Reacher somehow became the lead Army investigator on the case. He thought Weston was the killer.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?” she said, as if she was slightly irritated at Reacher’s unfathomable behavior. Which she probably was.

“But Reacher couldn’t prove Weston did it,” Gaspar continued for her, “and it turned out the real shooter was arrested quickly by the locals.” He fingered the Tylenol in his pocket. He’d swallow another one when she wasn’t watching. His doctors prescribed narcotic pain medication, but he couldn’t risk taking it. Tylenol was the strongest thing he’d allow himself while they were working.

She said, “After the killer’s arrest, the official investigation of Weston ended.”

“Unofficially, Reacher wouldn’t let it go,” Gaspar went on. Reacher never let anything go once he had his teeth into it. Otto was the same way. For sheer bulldog tenacity, Reacher and Otto were as alike as bookends.

“Weston’s been living abroad,” Otto said, “Middle East mostly, since he left the Army under a cloud of Reacher’s making.” She stopped talking abruptly, as if she didn’t want to mention the rest.

Gaspar’s right leg was feeling stronger. The cramping easing. Limp nearly under control. Pain ever-present, sure, but he could handle pain. He’d been handling it a good long while.

“And now,” Otto said, “Weston’s accused of major crimes against the U.S. Government. Various forms of corruption, mostly, related to the private security company he operates. A few allegations of using unauthorized force and excessive force. Suspected manslaughter of civilians is at the center of it. A lot of conflicting evidence. Nothing actually proved so far, but plenty to support an arrest and interrogation.” She hesitated half a breath. “This is the first time Weston’s been on American soil in the past sixteen years.”

Same facts he’d memorized on the plane. He hadn’t missed anything. He still didn’t like it.

Gaspar mulled for a couple more steps before he asked, “Why come back at all? He’s got nothing here. Why not just stay offshore and make Uncle Sam send covert operations after him if we wanted him badly enough?”

She shrugged as if the answer didn’t matter, when Gaspar knew it did.

“Once they snatch him,” she said, “he’ll be locked up and off limits to us. We need to get to him today.” She took another breath and glanced again at the plain Seiko on her narrow wrist. “We’ve got less than an hour before the service starts.”

Gaspar felt his eyebrows knitting together. Their mission still wouldn’t make sense. “Why should Weston tell us anything useful?”

“The Boss says Weston blames Reacher for his troubles and wants to even the score. We’re supposed to give Weston that chance and strongly encourage him to take it.” Unconsciously, perhaps, she patted her gun under her blazer.

“We’re striking out with Reacher’s friends so we’ll squeeze his enemies instead?” A harsh, dry chuckle escaped Gaspar’s lips. “Sounds a little like sticking your head in the mouth of a hungry carnivore doesn’t it?”

Otto said nothing.

3

They’d been allotted one hour to get in, get what they could, and get out without crossing paths with the arresting agents or stepping in another pile of stink from unknown origins. Flight and traffic delays had sucked up more than half of their time already.

“Your gun’s loaded, right?” she said, patting hers again as if she didn’t realize she’d touched it.

“Come on, Sunshine.” He ran both hands through his hair again and stuffed them in his trouser pockets. “We’ve been over this. We can’t discharge weapons we’re illegally carrying. Do you have any idea what would happen if we did that?”

“I’m familiar with procedures,” she snapped.

“And you’re familiar with prison sentences, too.”

She seemed unimpressed with his reasoning. “Weston’s made enemies here and around the world. A few have a strong appetite for vengeance.”

Gaspar knew she was worrying about one particular enemy. So was he.

“Unlikely Reacher knows Weston’s here,” he said. “How would he have heard? The man’s far enough off the grid even the Boss can’t find him. Not likely anyone else can.”

Finding Reacher wasn’t the issue, though. The question was whether Reacher would find Weston. Or them—a growing possibility, the longer they went looking for him. Reacher had friends. By now, smart money said at least one of those friends had somehow passed along that they were on his trail.

“Reacher lives to piss on the other guy’s grave,” Otto said. “He’s a highly qualified sniper. The only non-Marine to win the 1000-yard invitational rifle competition.”

“It would be crazy to try to kill Weston here where he’ll be so heavily guarded. A good sniper would choose a highway location. Shoot from a vehicle. Make a clean getaway,” Gaspar said.

Again her hand passed over the lump in her blazer. “I’m saying we need a Plan B. Guns work for me. Unless you’ve got a better plan.”

He didn’t.

They’d arrived at the ceremony site. Setup was completed and the audience was slowly filing in. Gaspar estimated seating for about 1,000 people. A temporary, elevated stage at the front, a center podium flanked by four chairs on either side. He saw flat, open parking lots behind the stage where official vehicles and emergency personnel waited. A dark sedan pulled in from the opposite side of the parking lot. Which meant there was a second means of ingress and egress to the area.

One more entrance or escape route to cover. Not ideal.

He studied the site’s perimeter. Otto was right. Weston’s tenure here at MacDill, and with the Army in general, had produced more enemies than most men accumulated in a lifetime. Yet, today Weston would stand in an open field on an elevated stage surrounded by too many spots for a moderately good shooter to hide.