Rosaria watches the two soldiers walk up to a group of civilians, who start applauding and cheering as they approach. The civilians are holding balloons and handmade signs with bright markings.
She says, “Major, as previously noted, this investigation is in its preliminary stages here in the states, but I have no doubt how this case goes will get lots of attention, both within the Army and without, as we proceed. Do you understand what I’m saying, sir?”
“I think so,” comes the cautious reply.
“So far, the section of my report concerning the cooperation I’m receiving from senior officers is blank. How and when I fill out this section, and what I will say about you and Colonel Denton, well, that remains to be seen.”
The major doesn’t reply.
The two soldiers are being surrounded by their family members, their loved ones.
Rosaria says, “Are you sure you can’t come up with a name?”
“Lieutenant Baker,” he says. “Lieutenant Preston Baker. He was with her during her entire deployment in Afghanistan. If you give me your email address, I’ll send you his contact information within the hour.”
She gives him her email address and says, “Thank you so much, Major, for your cooperation.”
He hangs up without another word.
So what? she thinks. She’s got another lead.
Rosaria should feel good, should feel triumphant, but she doesn’t.
The sight of those two soldiers over there being welcomed back by their families is gnawing at her. Ever since she enlisted in the Army, she has always considered the Army her family, the ones who would back her up, who would befriend her, and who would even love her.
Now those thoughts are like old dust in her mouth.
Over there, in that happy little crowd, that is a true family.
Her Army?
Her phone chimes and she brings up the device. Her boss, Senior Warrant Officer Fred McCarthy, is calling her.
She brings the phone up and checks the departure board. Her flight leaves in under an hour. Time to get through the checkpoints and to her gate.
“Special Agent Vasquez,” she says. “What’s up, sir?”
“Where are you?”
“At the Nashville Airport.”
“What the hell are you doing in Nashville?”
“Looking for Graceland.”
“That’s in Memphis,” he says.
“I was misinformed, boss,” she says. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m working on the Amy Cornwall case.”
“What’s your current plan?”
“Heading back to Reagan International, on the way to return to Fort Belvoir.”
“You’ve got a lead?”
“I do, boss.”
“At Fort Belvoir?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad,” he says. “You’re not going back there.”
CHAPTER 34
I’M WIRED and ready for whatever comes my way, but I’m also trying not to get sick to my stomach. The polite and impressive-looking state trooper has come back to my parked Wrangler, has passed over my paperwork, engaged in a bit of idle chitchat, and I’m hoping that he’s about to send me along. Each minute delayed here means another mile lost in my travel to Texas.
Then the trooper starts asking me questions.
“Mind telling me where you’re going, ma’am?”
Excellent question, and recalling a highway sign I had seen ten minutes back, I say, “Chattanooga.”
“Really? I didn’t know there was an Army base in Chattanooga.”
“There isn’t,” I say, trying to sound calm and relaxed. “I’m taking a few days’ leave, meeting up with an old girlfriend of mine from school. Going to spend a few days relaxing and pampering ourselves at a hotel.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, and I think, Great, just say so long and we’ll both be on our way.
Then it goes straight to hell.
The trooper steps back, brings up his service pistol from his holster, and says, “Ma’am, show me your hands. And then exit the vehicle.”
Ah, shit, I think.
“Ma’am?”
No, no, no, I think, my eyes tearing up again.
“For God’s sake,” I say, “don’t do this.”
“What?” the trooper asks. “Hands up. Get out of your vehicle. Now!”
My hand is near the butt of the .357 Ruger. If I bring it up and try to shoot him through the open Jeep window, that’ll give him plenty of time to cut me down before I can even pull the trigger.
Which leaves the side of the Jeep. It’s a thin-skinned vehicle, and if I bring the Ruger back around my lap and shoot to the side and the rear, then the rounds will go through the thin metal and hit him.
Hit the police officer. A representative of the State of Tennessee, a defender of law and order, and I’m about to put a bullet in him.
My stomach is roiling, my mouth is dry.
I have no choice.
I think one more time.
I reach out and grab what I need.
Trooper Clay Hancock takes one more step back, because this situation is going to the shits real quick now, and then, thankfully and to his surprise, the driver does just what he asked, sticking out both hands through the open window. One hand is holding her driver’s license and registration.
All right, he thinks, progress.
“Driver, lower your left hand, open your door from the outside. Now.”
The woman’s left hand moves down, fumbles some with the outside door handle, and she pulls it open.
“Now, slowly step out, and face toward the front of your vehicle.”
The door swings open and she steps out, and then steps back, both arms up in the air, and he’s confident now that he’s onto something, because she’s lifted her arms without being ordered to do so.
Which means she’s hiding something.
“Driver, slowly step—”
She starts coming back and then her driver’s license and registration drop from her right hand, and she says, “Oh, let me get that.”
The driver bends down to pick up the two slips of identification, and then—
It happens in so few seconds.
The woman is on her hands, and then she lifts up both legs, and propels herself back with her arms, and her legs open up in a V shape, and Hancock tries to step back, lifts up his pistol, but the woman is too damn fast!
Her strong legs wrap around his own lower legs, she twists her legs and he falls, hitting his head on the pavement, and his pistol is out of his hand, and he’s trying to fight back, but the woman tugs at his utility belt and he yelps as he’s struck in his eyes with his own pepper spray.
CHAPTER 35
IN AFGHANISTAN, I learned how to take down a gunman or a disguised cop at a government checkpoint, to ensure my not getting kidnapped by the Taliban, and I’m stunned that it actually works. The trooper falls heavy on his head and side, I grab his pistol and toss it into the grass, and I find his pepper spray canister and give him a good jolt in his eyes. He cries out and I move as quickly as I can because all I need now is a Tennessee driver who’s an NRA member slowing down and seeing me handcuffing this trooper.