clasping Dare’s hand again.
Dare gave a general nod to the group, then turned away and caught up with some of the guys on the other side of the room. A few minutes later they all left together, once again reminding Beckett of how vital the Ravens’ assistance truly was. Their protection made it possible for the team to conduct their investigation the way it needed to be conducted.
As the Ravens left, Jeremy and Charlie crossed the gym and joined the group behind Marz.
“What’s up?” Jer asked.
“Kat got us some new files to work with,” Marz said. He pointed to the monitor. “This document is Seneka’s phone records. Friggin’ huge.”
Beckett followed Jeremy’s gaze as it landed on his sister. Her face was a careful neutral.
“It goes back about eighteen months,” Kat said. “So, it’s definitely not a light read.”
“Which means a better approach than just reading would be to search for specific phone numbers,” Marz said. “So, let’s start with that contact phone number Frank left us on the chip.”
Beckett stepped closer as Marz opened up a search function and typed in the number. The results returned quickly, marking dozens of instances of the appearance of that number making and receiving calls.
“Well, that’s moderately better, I guess,” Marz said. He clicked Next to scroll through all the results and sighed. “Hey, wait a minute. We know this contact number isn’t in service any longer because we called it, but look at this.” He pointed to the number’s last appearance. “The last time it was used—and, I’m guessing, about the time it went out of service—was less than a week after our team was ambushed.”
“Less than a week after Merritt died,” Beckett said, rubbing his jaw. “So the line of communication to his contact at WCE, whose number is a Seneka extension, dies with him.”
“Pretty much,” Nick said, looking from the monitor to Beckett to Kat. “Already useful.” He winked at her, and she gave him a small smile. Nothing that made Beckett think that mask wasn’t still in place, though.
“Let’s do a reverse look-up on some of the other numbers calling or being called by the contact number,” Charlie said, waking up the screen beside him and pulling up a website.
“My thoughts exactly,” Marz said, doing the same.
As the two men entered numbers, Nick grabbed a legal pad and wrote down the identifying information the search results returned. Many of the numbers connected to the kinds of results you’d expect from a defense contractor and security services provider—government agencies, military bases, some of Seneka’s subsidiary businesses.
Marz’s fingers froze on the keyboard. “Whoa. This goes to the switchboard at Chapman.”
Beckett, Nick, and Shane exchanged loaded looks from behind Marz. Chapman had been the forward operating base in Afghanistan, FOB in Army-speak, out of which they’d been running missions at the time of the ambush that ended their careers. Located in Khost, an Afghan province that bordered Pakistan, it was important for controlling trade routes out of the country and policing the still-Taliban-infested Paktia province to the north-northwest.
“Guess Merritt’s request to be transferred to SAD makes sense now,” Shane said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Nick said, raking his hand through his dark hair. FOB Chapman was also the headquarters for the CIA in Afghanistan. Merritt had requested a transfer to their paramilitary unit called, in typical CIA understated euphemism, the Special Activities Division. It appeared their commander had been trying to get clear of his team before his cover got blown. He hadn’t made it. And that shit had exploded in the faces of a lot of damn good men.
“Question is,” Beckett said, “whether calls to Chapman represent a call to Merritt, legit calls to the base for contract-related services, or calls to contractors stationed there.”
“Yeah,” Marz said. “But brick-by-brick the
Dare gave a general nod to the group, then turned away and caught up with some of the guys on the other side of the room. A few minutes later they all left together, once again reminding Beckett of how vital the Ravens’ assistance truly was. Their protection made it possible for the team to conduct their investigation the way it needed to be conducted.
As the Ravens left, Jeremy and Charlie crossed the gym and joined the group behind Marz.
“What’s up?” Jer asked.
“Kat got us some new files to work with,” Marz said. He pointed to the monitor. “This document is Seneka’s phone records. Friggin’ huge.”
Beckett followed Jeremy’s gaze as it landed on his sister. Her face was a careful neutral.
“It goes back about eighteen months,” Kat said. “So, it’s definitely not a light read.”
“Which means a better approach than just reading would be to search for specific phone numbers,” Marz said. “So, let’s start with that contact phone number Frank left us on the chip.”
Beckett stepped closer as Marz opened up a search function and typed in the number. The results returned quickly, marking dozens of instances of the appearance of that number making and receiving calls.
“Well, that’s moderately better, I guess,” Marz said. He clicked Next to scroll through all the results and sighed. “Hey, wait a minute. We know this contact number isn’t in service any longer because we called it, but look at this.” He pointed to the number’s last appearance. “The last time it was used—and, I’m guessing, about the time it went out of service—was less than a week after our team was ambushed.”
“Less than a week after Merritt died,” Beckett said, rubbing his jaw. “So the line of communication to his contact at WCE, whose number is a Seneka extension, dies with him.”
“Pretty much,” Nick said, looking from the monitor to Beckett to Kat. “Already useful.” He winked at her, and she gave him a small smile. Nothing that made Beckett think that mask wasn’t still in place, though.
“Let’s do a reverse look-up on some of the other numbers calling or being called by the contact number,” Charlie said, waking up the screen beside him and pulling up a website.
“My thoughts exactly,” Marz said, doing the same.
As the two men entered numbers, Nick grabbed a legal pad and wrote down the identifying information the search results returned. Many of the numbers connected to the kinds of results you’d expect from a defense contractor and security services provider—government agencies, military bases, some of Seneka’s subsidiary businesses.
Marz’s fingers froze on the keyboard. “Whoa. This goes to the switchboard at Chapman.”
Beckett, Nick, and Shane exchanged loaded looks from behind Marz. Chapman had been the forward operating base in Afghanistan, FOB in Army-speak, out of which they’d been running missions at the time of the ambush that ended their careers. Located in Khost, an Afghan province that bordered Pakistan, it was important for controlling trade routes out of the country and policing the still-Taliban-infested Paktia province to the north-northwest.
“Guess Merritt’s request to be transferred to SAD makes sense now,” Shane said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Nick said, raking his hand through his dark hair. FOB Chapman was also the headquarters for the CIA in Afghanistan. Merritt had requested a transfer to their paramilitary unit called, in typical CIA understated euphemism, the Special Activities Division. It appeared their commander had been trying to get clear of his team before his cover got blown. He hadn’t made it. And that shit had exploded in the faces of a lot of damn good men.
“Question is,” Beckett said, “whether calls to Chapman represent a call to Merritt, legit calls to the base for contract-related services, or calls to contractors stationed there.”
“Yeah,” Marz said. “But brick-by-brick the
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