Blaze of Glory (8 page)

“I gotta ask, Boss, who’d ya have to kill to get this ride?” Shaq sat in the seat across the narrow aisle.

“You like this better than flying cargo on a transport plane?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t you?”

“Sure beats commercial airlines.” Moyer’s seat was turned so he faced the back of the modified Gulfstream V. He saw seats for twelve passengers—plush leather seats, some with a simulated wood burl table between them. His team took six of the seats; three of the five flight crew took some of the other seats. Two of those were officers, one was an Airman Fifth Class, or First Class, or Third Class—he never could keep the Air Force’s rank system straight. At any rate, he was an enlisted man.

“I take it the Army has finally realized how valuable we are and has rewarded all our fine and sacrificial efforts.”

Moyer looked at his second in command. “That or they’re picking up some dignitary to bring back.”

Rich tapped his teeth in thought. “Nah, it’s because we’re special.”

The C-37A was one of nine such craft used by the Air Mobility Command in Illinois. Usually reserved for high-ranking government and DOD officials, the C-37A was an unexpected ride. They would be crossing the Atlantic in style. If he had to spend ten hours confined in a metal tube, this was the kind of tube he’d choose.

Ten minutes later the pilot’s voice poured from overhead speakers. “All right, gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude nearly eight miles up. It looks clear ahead so feel free to move around the cabin. Please keep your lap belts fastened while seated in case we encounter clear-air turbulence . . . or I decide to do a few barrel rolls.”

“Funny guy,” Rich said.

“And for our Army passengers, please, no walking on the wings.”

“Oh, this guy should go on the road.” Rich chuckled despite his sarcasm.

The airman approached Moyer. “It’s good to have you and your team aboard, Sergeant Major. I’ve been asked to offer you and your men lunch and something to drink.”

Rich grinned. “Hey, we got a stewardess.”

The airman, who looked barely older than Moyer’s teenage son, studied Rich for a moment, then turned back to Moyer. “Did you choose him or did he choose you?”

“I’m being punished for my misspent youth. Thanks for the offer. We’ll eat whatever you have.”

“Very well, um . . . ”

“What is it, Airman?”

“Six Army men in civilian clothes and a ton of equipment makes me think you’re on a mission. May I ask what it is?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“What kind of mission are you on?”

Moyer looked the kid in the eyes. “It’s a training mission.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that. It seems like all you Army guys are on training missions.”

“That’s why we’re so good, kid,” Rich said. “I’ll take a ginger ale.”

The airman slipped to the back of the craft, stopping at each of Moyer’s team and taking orders.

Before long, a microwaved plate of chicken breast, rice, green beans, and almonds was placed on the small table in front of him. “Man, if this is lunch, I can’t wait to see dinner.”

As he ate, Moyer gazed out the window at the passing world below. From this height he could see roadways and cities, but people were invisible. Six billion people on the planet, most of them good, honest, respectable. But there were the others. Moyer wasn’t good enough at math to work out the percentages, but he knew that a few people could make life horrible for millions of others.

He had to find one such man.

MOYER WAS A YOUNG man at thirty-eight, but he was beginning to feel his age. Not so much physically, he could still bring it when he needed to, but his mind and worldview had aged faster than his body. In his twenties he never worried. The world was a toy. The Army trained him, equipped him, and empowered him to move beyond emotion. Even after he married Stacy, he never worried about dying on the field. She was young and could remarry easily. But when his children came along, Rob and Gina, that began to change. The idea of another man rearing his children ate at him. Still, he learned to live with it. Rob was now seventeen and until a few months ago had been a royal pain in the butt. Like many teenagers, he withdrew, battled his parents about everything, and took an interest in anything that would irritate his father. Moyer had only made things worse. Being an Army brat was no easy thing; being an Army brat to the leader of a Spec Ops team was worse.

Gina, however, remained the jewel in his crown. Smart, supportive, she often saw things more clearly than adults. He hoped that she wouldn’t change as she entered her teenage years. Moyer would be happy if his daughter remained perpetually thirteen.

Early on Moyer showed little concern for the families of his team. Then his own children arrived. Suddenly he saw things differently. He began to invite his team to his house for barbecue. He and his men would watch sports, preferably NASCAR racing, and the women would visit. Those times grew special.

Months ago, before beginning the mission to Venezuela, Moyer had thought he was seriously ill. Not wanting his superiors to know, he first went to a civilian doctor but received a call-up before the doc could run the needed test. The entire time he was in South America, Moyer believed he had colon cancer.

Moyer gazed down the aircraft and looked at his men. Rich Harbison was big, loud, funny, and seemingly impervious to pain or fear, but Moyer knew the man loved his wife more than most men are capable. He might joke about the hardships of marriage, but he would eat glass if Robyn asked him to do so. The highest compliment men like him could receive is, “He’s a good soldier.” Rich was a
great
soldier and an excellent second in command. They didn’t always agree, and Moyer had knocked heads with the big man more than once, but when bullets began to fly, he wanted to be next to Shaq.

Pete Rasor sat at a window over the wing, something he did every time he flew. He said it was a smoother ride. Pete was the youngest of the bunch, a fact that earned him the nickname, “Junior.” He was smart, and like many young men his age, he loved anything tech. He was an early adopter. If anything tech came out that had a high “cool factor,” Pete bought it. Even as Moyer watched him, Junior was playing a video game on his iPhone. When J. J. announced his engagement, Pete did the least of the teasing.

J. J. sat on the other side of the aisle from Pete, earbuds crammed into his ears. His eyes were closed as if asleep, but every few moments the Sergeant First Class bobbed his head. Moyer assumed the man was listening to music, but with J. J. it could be a sermon. He was an enigma Moyer had yet to fathom. Several of his team believed in God. It didn’t mean they were churchgoers, Bible-thumpers, or goody-goody.

J. J. should fit those descriptions, but in many ways he didn’t. He never preached to the others; never used guilt to make a point; never meddled. Still, he never kept his faith secret, would answer questions when asked, and provided a needed balance to the team. Although he was devout, no one could claim the young man wasn’t a soldier. No one trained harder, and no one had shown more courage when the chips were down. Compared to the other team members, J. J. seemed the least likely to be the weapons and demolition guy. But he was and he excelled at it. His love of guns earned him the nickname, “Colt.”

Sergeant First Class Jose Medina sat behind J. J. and across from Zinsser reading a newsmagazine. He looked Hispanic in every way: dark hair, rugged brown skin, and dark eyes that released glimpses of his intelligence. Considered one of the top medics in the Army, Medina had been approached by nearly every team leader in the country. Moyer had to threaten to break the thumbs of those trying to steal Medina away. He had four children at home. He used to boast that a man couldn’t have enough children. That changed last year when his wife Lucy’s pregnancy nearly cost her life.

Moyer let his eyes shift to Jerry Zinsser. New Guy sat in the back. Unlike the other team members, he passed the time staring straight ahead or out one of the small windows. Something about him gave Moyer pause. The man was a hero; he’d shown bravery in the worst of situations—the kind that usually left soldiers bleeding to death on the ground. Zinsser deserved every honor he received, but Moyer sensed there was something more. Looking at Zinsser, Moyer found one thought repeating in his head:
Some heroes came home whole and healthy; others came home broken. Fractured in ways that couldn’t be seen.

He could only hope Zinsser was in the former category. If not . . . Moyer didn’t want to think about it

THE ROAR OF THE luxury jet’s engine vibrated through the hull and bored into Zinsser’s brain. He took a deep breath then let it out, releasing the air in a slow, steady stream. He repeated the action. His heart tumbled in his chest. His stomach twisted. The sound of automatic fire echoed in his skull. He pressed his eyes shut as if squeezing his lids hard enough would exorcise the images from his mind.

If only the jet would go down. That would end it.

It would end it all forever.

CHAPTER 9

DELARAM SAT AT THE outdoor coffee shop sipping espresso and gazing down the street. The late Rome night remained warm and the air carried a perfume of warm bread, rich sauces from the restaurant a half block down the narrow street—a street so narrow only foot traffic could travel its length. It was her favorite spot, the place she retired to when the day became too stressful—and every day was stressful.

Her attention flitted from a person at a nearby table to a man walking down the street. A young couple brushed past her. An elderly man with gray whiskers gazed at her from a second-floor window in a building across the lane. They were there; she knew it. Several people looked familiar, but she couldn’t be certain they had watched her before.

They always watched her, and she had no doubt they had tapped her phone. Even now, as she sat under a darkening sky, she imagined men rummaging through her small apartment nestled in a complex of apartments a ten-minute walk away.

Let them look. Let them search all they wanted. She had done all they asked, provided no resistance, kept the police out of the matter. She had done it all. They would find nothing to fault her with. Not that it mattered.

Delaram looked into the small cup she held as if she could read the future in the black fluid; as if wisdom waited for her just below the surface. No amount of wisdom would save her. Her life ended two weeks ago with a hand-delivered letter containing photos.

She set the cup down. Holding it made her hand shake.

Locals spoke in soft Italian. Tourists strolled the uneven surface of the walkway, drawing in the ambiance of the quaint and quiet part of Rome. Delaram knew how they felt. Once she had been captivated by the charm of the neighborhood. She had traveled the world with her parents, and this had been one of her favorite spots to visit. Her mother loved Paris; her father London; both loved Mexico.

Water brimmed her eyes and she forced her mind away from those thoughts.

“He wishes to see you.”

Delaram didn’t bother looking up. She knew the voice. Knew it too well.

She rose and walked from the coffee shop, the dark-skinned man by her side.