items in the house.
The first one showed two boys, roughly the same age as Karen and Danny. They were all smiles, natural charmers. Afghan, probably, judging by their clothes and skin tone. In the second, which seemed to have been snapped only moments later, the same two boys were wide-eyed and wailing, terrified by something that must have just happened. The focus was slightly blurred, as if the photographer, too, had been taken by surprise. The effect was stunning, a yin-yang pairing that seemed to perfectly sum up the chaotic and unpredictable way of life in that part of the world. Leaning closer, he noticed that in the second photo the boys’ clothes were spattered with dark droplets. He reached up to touch them, as if they might still be wet.
“Blood.”
Barb’s voice made him jump.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“They’re amazing,” he said.
“Fort1’s handiwork.”
“
He
took them?”
“I took them. He provided the backdrop, so to speak. The motivating drama. Or so I found out later. It’s why I’m on this story. Eight killed. And two of them were standing ten feet away, right next to where I was taking those pictures. I turned around and there they were, an old man and his wife, bleeding out at my feet. I never could get the stains out of that pair of shoes. Blood and viscera. Brain matter, probably. The shoes are upstairs in my closet if you want a look.”
“No thanks.”
“I hung up those photos the day we set up shop. For motivation.”
“I keep mine up here.” He tapped a finger to his forehead.
“So I’ve heard. Sounds like Owen Bickell was worth the journey.”
Presumably Steve had told them all about the meeting in New Hampshire, which was a little unnerving. Cole wasn’t accustomed to a culture where people played so fast and loose with privileged information. The Air Force always kept things within the tightest possible circle. Op-sec, compartmentalization, need-to-know. Tough habits to break.
“Yeah, he was. I probably could’ve gotten more. First-timer. I was kind of fumbling around.”
“Sounds like Steve got after you,” she said.
“Not really. Or nothing he said, anyway.”
“Oh, he’d never say it. It’s that look he gives you. All of us do. All of us like to think we could’ve squeezed more juice from the fruit than the next guy. Most of the time we’re full of it. The point is, this guy Bickell knew you, trusted you. He wouldn’t have said shit to any of us. Besides, you’ll have another chance to prove yourself soon enough. Steve’s got a little mission planned. A recon of that taco joint where Mansur was last seen.”
“Great. Might as well get to it.”
She smiled for the first time since he’d arrived, then turned back toward the kitchen.
“Soup’s on in ten minutes.”
From upstairs he heard the soft burble of Keira’s voice, filtering down the stairwell as she laughed with some source on the phone, or maybe just a friend. Charming his socks off, no doubt. For some reason, Cole was almost certain it was a he.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN THE DESKBOUND WORLD of Captain Trip Riggleman there was a time, not so long ago, when the opportunity to bring down a target like Darwin Cole would have been the best possible motivation for getting up in the morning. Being an Air Force man, Riggleman would have preferred to go after Cole the old-fashioned way—by shooting him out of the sky. A fireball in the clouds, the enemy vanquished in an instant. Now
that
would have been perfect, not to mention cathartic.
Alas, any chances for that brand of satisfaction had gone by the board years ago, when Riggleman washed out of flight school. Poor vision and vertigo. He remained in the Air Force, but forever after was marked as a penguin among eagles, a mortal among gods.
Yet even within the cumbersome workings of military bureaucracy, the oddest cogs sometimes tumble into exactly the right openings, snug fittings where they not only
The first one showed two boys, roughly the same age as Karen and Danny. They were all smiles, natural charmers. Afghan, probably, judging by their clothes and skin tone. In the second, which seemed to have been snapped only moments later, the same two boys were wide-eyed and wailing, terrified by something that must have just happened. The focus was slightly blurred, as if the photographer, too, had been taken by surprise. The effect was stunning, a yin-yang pairing that seemed to perfectly sum up the chaotic and unpredictable way of life in that part of the world. Leaning closer, he noticed that in the second photo the boys’ clothes were spattered with dark droplets. He reached up to touch them, as if they might still be wet.
“Blood.”
Barb’s voice made him jump.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“They’re amazing,” he said.
“Fort1’s handiwork.”
“
He
took them?”
“I took them. He provided the backdrop, so to speak. The motivating drama. Or so I found out later. It’s why I’m on this story. Eight killed. And two of them were standing ten feet away, right next to where I was taking those pictures. I turned around and there they were, an old man and his wife, bleeding out at my feet. I never could get the stains out of that pair of shoes. Blood and viscera. Brain matter, probably. The shoes are upstairs in my closet if you want a look.”
“No thanks.”
“I hung up those photos the day we set up shop. For motivation.”
“I keep mine up here.” He tapped a finger to his forehead.
“So I’ve heard. Sounds like Owen Bickell was worth the journey.”
Presumably Steve had told them all about the meeting in New Hampshire, which was a little unnerving. Cole wasn’t accustomed to a culture where people played so fast and loose with privileged information. The Air Force always kept things within the tightest possible circle. Op-sec, compartmentalization, need-to-know. Tough habits to break.
“Yeah, he was. I probably could’ve gotten more. First-timer. I was kind of fumbling around.”
“Sounds like Steve got after you,” she said.
“Not really. Or nothing he said, anyway.”
“Oh, he’d never say it. It’s that look he gives you. All of us do. All of us like to think we could’ve squeezed more juice from the fruit than the next guy. Most of the time we’re full of it. The point is, this guy Bickell knew you, trusted you. He wouldn’t have said shit to any of us. Besides, you’ll have another chance to prove yourself soon enough. Steve’s got a little mission planned. A recon of that taco joint where Mansur was last seen.”
“Great. Might as well get to it.”
She smiled for the first time since he’d arrived, then turned back toward the kitchen.
“Soup’s on in ten minutes.”
From upstairs he heard the soft burble of Keira’s voice, filtering down the stairwell as she laughed with some source on the phone, or maybe just a friend. Charming his socks off, no doubt. For some reason, Cole was almost certain it was a he.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN THE DESKBOUND WORLD of Captain Trip Riggleman there was a time, not so long ago, when the opportunity to bring down a target like Darwin Cole would have been the best possible motivation for getting up in the morning. Being an Air Force man, Riggleman would have preferred to go after Cole the old-fashioned way—by shooting him out of the sky. A fireball in the clouds, the enemy vanquished in an instant. Now
that
would have been perfect, not to mention cathartic.
Alas, any chances for that brand of satisfaction had gone by the board years ago, when Riggleman washed out of flight school. Poor vision and vertigo. He remained in the Air Force, but forever after was marked as a penguin among eagles, a mortal among gods.
Yet even within the cumbersome workings of military bureaucracy, the oddest cogs sometimes tumble into exactly the right openings, snug fittings where they not only
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