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  “Now, interestingly, the wife and friends all emphatically say that the Marine was not drunk when he left to get the beer. Not even tipsy. They had danced more than drank, so it makes me wonder, too.

  “Anyway, not much of an investigation followed. Country sheriff in the middle of Wisconsin and all. Naval Criminal Investigative Service wrote it off as just another alcohol-related fatality. The lad was put to rest and the books closed on his death. However, the Commandant of the Marine Corps doesn’t like how the case smells and asked us to take a look, especially with the background behind this guy.

  “You read about the security supervisor who sport shot the two Iraqi civilians?”

  Liberty nodded yes. “Taxi driver in Baghdad and later that day near the airport a delivery-van driver.”

  “This Marine staff sergeant had gotten out of the Marine Corps and went to work for Malone-Leyva, knocking down five hundred dollars a day. He’s one of three eyewitnesses who saw the supervisor murder the cab driver and the delivery driver. He and his partner, a former Army Ranger, reported the incident to their boss, Cesare Alosi, and he fired them all, including the supervisor who committed the murders. Swept everything under the rug.

  “So, the Marine and the Ranger launch a wrongful-termination lawsuit against Malone-Leyva. Their only option to bring the murders into the light of day. Iraq isn’t investigating and doesn’t care. State Department won’t touch it, and Defense Department doesn’t want anything to do with it, either. So, the civil lawsuit is their only route to justice for the murders. That drags on, you know the legal-paper drills, and the boy needs a paycheck, so he returns to Marine Corps active duty. He had kept his Marine Corps Reserve options open, you see. Just in case things didn’t work at Malone-Leyva. Smart boy.

  “The Marine also shared the details of all this with a Marine Scout-Sniper officer friend of his, along with a few other Marines in the sniper community. This officer is a close pal of Senator Jim Wells, and brings all this information to the senator’s attention. This raises the hackles of Malone-Leyva, they go after the Marine officer with a few legal endplays in federal court that don’t work. So they illegally tap the Marine officer’s phone lines and data stream and intercept the communications between him and Senator Wells. Private communications between a citizen and a United States Senator. Yes, very illegal. And the Marine officer’s attorney, who successfully defends his client’s privacy against Malone-Leyva, uncovered this skullduggery, informing his client of it, the judge, and Senator Wells, who is livid to this day.

  “At any rate, last month, when the Marine staff sergeant and his wife go home to Wisconsin for some family time, he ends up dead. Likewise, any other witnesses to the purported murders also clam up, and everything goes away, except for the one very pissed-off United States senator who would love to run up and disk Malone-Leyva.”

  Liberty let out a deep breath. “Very convenient accident.”

  “Very convenient indeed,” Kendrick said. “Alosi and Victor Malone are smart, but invariably the bad guys always leave something stupid behind. Some little splinter, and it takes them down. But in the meantime, you need to keep your head on a swivel and take no chances. Like Senator Wells and the commandant, I believe Malone and Alosi iced the staff sergeant, and they will not hesitate to do you, too.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Liberty said. “Alosi’s smart but not that smart, and he’s a bit of a gunslinger, impulsive.”

  “True, Alosi’s careful, but you’re right. He does get a little impulsive when his buttons get pushed.” Kendrick nodded. “Victor Malone, on the other hand, he’s much more cautious and never impulsive. He’d make it look like an accident. I suspect he personally arranged our Marine’s death in Wisconsin. But would they kill you, an FBI agent? Yes. Especially Malone. His wife is Enrique Leyva’s sister.”

  “Enrique Leyva? I’m not familiar with him,” Liberty said.

  “At first glance, a well-respected Mexican businessman on the outside, but behind that front, he heads a drug cartel based in Matamoros, Mexico, that extends along the border to Nuevo Laredo and down to Monterey,” Kendrick said. “Along with far-reaching relationships with powerful Mexican leaders, Leyva has strong ties with the likes of El Chapo Guzman and his Sinaloa organization, and Los Zetas.”

  “I’ve heard my mother talk serious stuff about Sinaloa and Los Zetas both,” Liberty said. “She’s spent nearly all her DEA career at El Paso Intelligence Center. She’s told some really terrible stories about the Zetas, especially in the past few years.”

  “Bloody sons of bitches, excuse my French,” Kendrick said. “They contract out to other cartels as enforcer death squads from Juarez to the Gulf Coast.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Liberty said.

  “At any rate,” Kendrick said, “Victor Malone lives in a castle outside McAllen, Texas. I mean it is literally a castle. They say he’s got a full body mount of an African bull elephant in his den, along with mounts of every other kind of dangerous or exotic animal. Polar bears, cheetahs, you name it. Literally a castle filled with dead animals. I’m a hunter, but I was taught to kill for food. To shoot a living creature to make a wall decoration? I’m sorry, but that takes a very inadequately equipped human being, if you get my drift.”

  Liberty laughed. “Oh, yes, sir. The guy with the big truck and little boots.”

  Kendrick laughed. “Well, yeah. Then I do drive a big black Ford Super Duty diesel four-by-four.”

  “Sir, you’ve got some very big boots.” Liberty smiled. “We do have exceptions.”

  “Yes we do.” Kendrick smiled. “However, my point about Victor Malone stands. He’s a very dangerous, very wealthy man who holds no boundaries and zero ethics. And he has some extremely dangerous in-laws south of the border.”

  “Then, sir. If you don’t mind me asking. How did he land a government security contract?” Liberty asked.

  “Like the rest of these scumbag mercenary contractors,” Kendrick said. “Victor Malone makes big campaign contributions to members of Congress, and even the president. For too many politicians, all money’s green.”

  “I better get my laundry done,” Liberty said, leaving her coffee cup on the side table and checking her watch. “Back here for a 1400 launch?”

  “Yes, but I want to see you and your team at 1330,” Kendrick said. “I’ve got your guys drawing your weapons and gear right now. You just need to get yourself back here pronto, ready to travel.”

  “Yes, sir,” Liberty said, heading for the door.

  “By the way, Agent Cruz. That boyfriend of yours, Gunnery Sergeant Jack Valentine,” Kendrick said.

  Liberty stopped. “I didn’t think you were watching me.”

  Kendrick shrugged. “I do keep tabs on my people. Are you surprised, or offended?”

  Liberty smiled. “No, sir. Neither surprised nor offended. Very much expected. I’d do the same thing. It’s nice to be loved, sir.”

  Kendrick smiled back. “Well, I do honestly care about you and every agent in my command. However, let’s keep any mission talk out of your conversations with Gunny Valentine or anyone else outside your team. For the Gunny’s protection, more than anything. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about you. And I sure as hell don’t want him mixing it up with people should you get your, ah, shirttail in a wringer.”

  “My tit in a wringer, you mean?” Liberty laughed.

  “Your Marine Corps influence is telling.” Kendrick chuckled. “At any rate, when you get to Baghdad, act normal. See your gunny when mission allows. Stick to your cover story at all costs. You’re there on an administrative audit. Let him and anyone else there believe this is purely a rookie jaunt for an up-and-coming agent to test her wings. Nothing tactical or special operations. Make out like you won a trip to Baghdad as a prize for doing so well in school. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Liberty said, and left.

&nb
sp; —

  Afternoon sun cut long shadows across the Baghdad airfield as Gunnery Sergeant Jack Valentine and seven of his MARSOC operators trailed out to mount a waiting US Army Black Hawk. The chopper would fly the patrol from LZ Victory to a no-name crop-of-rocks insertion point known only by grid coordinates in the al-Anbar wastelands, north of Hit.

  Two local cops and a clutch of Iraqi security force soldiers, gaggling within smelling distance by their trucks, gawked at the unholy tribe, festooned with long guns and made up for war. The Iraqis’ surly looks told what their minds said. None of it good.

  Each Marine sported his own devil’s face, painted with different menacing designs of brown, tan, and black camouflage. Bold dark stripes slanted evilly across their foreheads, tilting above their eyes. Accent lines off the sides and under their eyes joined wide streaks of black and brown that angled down their cheeks. Some men had totally blackened circles covering their eyes, and black-smudged triangles in the hollows under the ridges of their cheeks. They also drew teethlike lines over their lips, so that their war-painted faces resembled the classic death’s-head. Other faces, like Jack’s, resembled a demonic tiger.

  Each of the Marines wore an embroidered black ace-of-spades patch with a Punisher skull in its center, trimmed in red, and a pair of black-and-white dice showing snake eyes on the fronts of their Kevlar operator’s vests. The team logo that Jack had designed. He had a Jacksonville ball cap and T-shirt shop crank out three hundred of the embroidered patches along with a five-foot flag of the same logo design that now adorned the HOG Wallow wall behind his desk. On the men’s backs, they each had painted a red-trimmed black crusader’s Templar cross. Another Jack Valentine novelty to set his tribe of Spartan warriors apart.

  Jack heard one cop gag out in a disgusted Arabic voice, “Shayatin mukali.”

  He recognized the colloquial Arabic phrase for “painted devils,” a name the Hajis had given American snipers, so he stopped his crew and smiled at the men. His black-over-brown tiger-striped face, slanting bold lines above and around his eyes and down his cheeks, evil and dark beneath the shade of his flop hat, contrasted by his flashing white teeth, startled the Iraqi security crew.

  Then a soldier wearing two gold stars on green epaulettes, the lieutenant in charge of the Iraqi detail, pointed at Valentine, recognizing him, and said, “Ash’abah al-Anbar! Ash’abah al-Anbar!”

  The other men mumbled the words, too, eyes glaring, faces frowning, as if they had just seen old Iblis himself.

  “Yeah, baby, I’m back! The Ghost of Anbar,” Jack bellowed out, and let go a wicked laugh. “Old Shabah the bogeyman himself has returned to haunt your bloody lands. Beware! Beware! My shayatin and me, we’re out there in the darkness, killing your cousins and devouring their souls.”

  “Dude.” Cotton Martin laughed. “So much for winning the affections of our local hosts.”

  “I know,” Jack said, striding to the helicopter. “Elmore will be proud of us when he hears about it.”

  “Yeah, Gunny V. That’s what I’m afraid of. Just like the spades and skulls you got going on in the hooch. And that freaking black wall,” Sergeant Clarence “Cochise” Quinlan said, stepping fast behind them. His old pal from Ninth Marines, Sergeant Sammy LaSage, marched with him.

  “Don’t forget the Templar cross, Cochise.” Jack smiled.

  “Oh, Heaven forbid!” Quinlan let out. “It’s like we painted these big-ass targets on our backs. First we piss off the Hajis like we’re back for round two of the Crusades, then we all wear massive indicators to give them something to aim at.”

  “You worry too much, Cochise,” Jaws said, hot on his heels with Bronco Starr.

  Corporal Randy Powell, whom Jack had named Chico because he considered Randy a name for a male cheerleader, and Corporal Petey Preston brought up the rear.

  When they reached the Black Hawk, Jack shook hands with the crew chief and machine gunner, both Army sergeants. They still had the rotor tied down, and the front seats sat empty.

  “You two hard chargers going to drive this ship?” Jack asked with a grin.

  “Naw,” the crew chief grumbled, “Captain Foulks is still in the ready room doing chalk talk, and I think Lieutenant Snyderman’s in the latrine changing her tampon or taking a shit.”

  Gunny Valentine took a gander back at the buildings that sat at the edge of the flight line and thought for a moment.

  “So we’ve got a female copilot?” he asked.

  “And pilot,” the crew chief said, and licked the load of Copenhagen out of his lower lip and spit it to the side, careful not to splatter the brown suede on Jack’s Desert RAT boots or his own.

  “Women drivers,” Valentine said, feeling the guy out.

  “Good pilots,” the crew chief came back. “Can’t fault their flying or lack of balls. They’ll dust you in a hot LZ and not blink. But they are a royal pain in the ass.”

  “Attention to orders, and micromanaging the shit out of everything we do,” the door gunner chimed in.

  “Them against the male-dominated world,” the crew chief concluded. “Busting the shit out of the glass ceiling.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind when we meet them,” Jack said, and looked around at his crew. “Don’t be fucking around with your wise shit. Got it? We’re just going to ride and jump off. That’s all.”

  All seven of his team nodded.

  Jack reached in his cargo pocket, took out a clear-vinyl-covered tactical map section, and unfolded it.

  “Gather round, children,” he said, and put his finger at their insertion point. “You should have this down pat, so tell me where I have my finger, and don’t say up my ass or on the end of my hand.”

  Bronco said, “Departure point. From there we spread the two teams in a line and work our way toward the road, then move parallel to it north.”

  “Roger,” Jack said, and looked at LaSage. “Sage, what’s our intervals?”

  “Team one and team two spaced by seven hundred meters, and each interior two-man team split by two hundred meters,” LaSage answered.

  “Coordination, Jaws?” Valentine asked the strong silent one.

  “We’re up on covered net, we’ll have visual reference by infrared and night optics, and our reporting points,” Alex answered.

  “Be sure we know where each team is at any given moment. Vital to survival and success,” Gunny Valentine stressed. “Staff Sergeant Martin will ride the inboard flank for team one. I will ride the inboard flank of team two, across that seven-hundred-meter divide, opposite him.”

  “Why such a big gap down the middle?” Bronco asked. “I never understood that part of it. Why not two hundred meters like between the two-man teams?”

  “What happens if team one somehow gets seen, or engages enemy fire?” Jack asked. “Hajis will move on them, without likely seeing us, too, or vice versa. When they go after Cotton, Sage, Chico, and Petey, then we can pivot on their flank and light ’em up, just like an ambush.”

  It still didn’t make any sense to Jesse Cortez, so he just smiled like he bought it.

  “What is our final objective, Cochise?” Gunny Valentine asked.

  “Besides hopefully snatching a prisoner or two we can take home to grill? Personally, I like mine smoked with sweet barbecue sauce,” Quinlan said with a chuckle, but bought nothing but groans from the team.

  “After our night of sweeping north,” he continued, “we end up establishing blocking positions at both ends of the trestle over the Euphrates about a klick and a half south of Haqlaniyah. On the east side, half of us set up at the railway crossing with Alternate Supply Route Phoenix, also known as Iraqi Highway 19. Our other half sets up at the railroad crossing on Main Supply Route Bronze, known locally as Iraqi Highway 12, on the west side of the river.

  “We shoot anything with guns coming up any roads anyplace or trying to sneak up the river.
We definitely take out anybody running ahead of the sweep that one-five’s commencing up MSR Bronze along the west side of the river, and ASR Phoenix on the east side of the river at first light. We remain in position until relieved at about 0900, if we’re lucky, early enough that we can make it to Al Asad Air Base for one-five’s command brief of Two MEF, and get hot noon air-winger chow if we play our cards right.”

  “Right. Good job, Cochise.” Jack nodded and looked at his team. “Any questions?”

  No one said anything.

  “Double-check your gear, one last time,” Jack said, then he looked at Cotton Martin. “Us eight on the final lift leaves three back at the fort to cover what comes in the door. Billy-C in the saddle, and he’s got our number.”

  Cotton nodded. “Too bad we couldn’t bring him along and employ a rear-echelon commando to cover the phones.”

  “Lame as Billy is? He’d just be deadweight,” Jack said, and took a bite out of a Snickers bar he had melting in his pocket, and went to sucking chocolate off his fingers. “Claybaugh limping around with his ass in a sling. Think about it. Besides, Billy or not, I want Drzewiecki and Rasputin with us, fixing guns. The entire crew aboard on this operation, there’s absolutely no reason to leave any capable man at the rear. Smedley excluded.”

  “Goes without saying,” Cotton said. “By the way, Sergeant Romyantsev doesn’t like you calling him Rasputin.”

  “He tell you that?” Jack asked, licking more chocolate and finishing the messy candy bar.

  Cotton shook his head. “No, Drzewiecki did.”

  “He serious?” Jack said. “I rather like Rasputin. If he doesn’t want to be called Rasputin, then you guys can call me Rasputin. Rasputin the fucking He-Devil. It fits right in. Hell of a lot better name than Romyantsev. How did we end up with alphabet soup as our armorers anyway?”

  “You got a point,” Cotton said, and checked the setting sun. “Getting late. The other teams should already be deployed. Mob Squad up at the lake, and Sergeant Durant, Hub, Hot Sauce, Jewfro, and Ironhead running rear guard behind one-five headquarters element for now.”