Hackett continued, “Captain Mercer was held for over two years by a ruthless and sadistic enemy, undoubtedly subjected to physical and psychological torture. It is remarkable that he was able to escape, and this speaks to his considerable abilities. It goes without saying that this man is dangerous, and unlikely to be taken into custody willingly.”

  That, thought Brodie, may be an understatement.

  Brodie understood something about the stress of war. Before joining the CIC, he’d served as a rifleman in the 2nd Infantry Division in Iraq and taken part in the successful drive to retake Fallujah from the insurgents in Operation Phantom Fury. He fought along dusty alleyways and sunbaked roofs and houses blown open by mortar shells. He saw people ripped apart by bullets and bombs and artillery. Most were the enemy. Some were civilians. A couple were his friends. He’d seen action before that, and he would again, but that battle had changed him.

  He wondered what the war had done to Kyle Mercer, not to mention the years of captivity and torture. The Army had turned a kid from San Diego into a trained killer. But what was it that had turned him into a deserter who would abandon his own men? And what had he become when he not only killed his captors, but whacked off their heads and mounted them like trophies? Whatever it was, he must have known he’d crossed a threshold from which he could not come back.

  Hackett stood, and they all followed suit. He looked between Brodie, Taylor, and Dombroski and said, “If you have any questions, Colonel Dombroski will answer them.” He added, “This meeting never took place.”

  Brodie wished that were true.

  CHAPTER 5

  Maggie Taylor was typing on her laptop. “Looks like we can get a cute Airbnb right in downtown Caracas for twelve bucks a night.”

  Brodie still couldn’t tell when his new partner was joking, though he hoped this was a skill he’d pick up over time.

  They were sitting in their small shared office on the second floor of an administrative building about a ten-minute walk from Hackett’s office. Quantico was their permanent duty station, though they were hardly ever there. Their office walls were bare except for a bulletin board thick with layers of official notices and takeout menus. Brodie’s gray metal desk was covered in piles of dusty incident reports that were supposed to be filed somewhere, and the whole place smelled stale. Brodie’s last partner, a humorless guy named Spencer from Chicago, was constantly annoyed with the state of Brodie’s side of the office. Dave Spencer was a former infantry NCO, but he had spent all of his time stateside, and Brodie suspected he put more care and attention into folding the perfect military corners on his bedsheets than he did into getting his soldiers battle-ready. Scott Brodie had no patience for the finer points of military discipline and etiquette, and he’d noticed that some of the most useless guys in his old infantry battalion had the crispest uniforms, while many of the bravest soldiers he’d ever known couldn’t even keep their footlockers organized. So the CID suited him well. He could be an officer without worrying about being a gentleman.

  When Dave Spencer was promoted to Warrant Officer Four, he’d jumped at the opportunity to get a new office and find his own lower-ranking partner to boss around, leaving Brodie alone with more room to spread his mess. Then Maggie Taylor came along, fresh off a six-month stint with the CID at Fort Bragg, and as far as Brodie could tell she hadn’t even noticed the mess, or the smell. She tended to become manically focused on whatever she was doing, oblivious to everything else. At the moment, her task was making arrangements with the travel office, and Brodie decided he ought to clarify the objective before she found them a room share in the Caracas slums.

  “We need a modern hotel. Preferably one that employs private security.” He added, “Cost is no object.”

  Taylor didn’t reply, and Brodie took a look at Captain Kyle Mercer’s confidential file, which Dombroski had handed him after their meeting with Hackett. Mercer was thirty-three years old, born and raised in San Diego. Mercer’s father, Peter, was an accountant, and his late mother, Betty, had managed a clothing store. Kyle Mercer did well in school and earned a scholarship to UCLA. After college he enlisted, and after basic and advanced infantry training he attended Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he excelled and graduated at the top of his class. Afterward he received airborne training at Benning, then applied for and was accepted into the Special Forces Qualification Course. He trained at the Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg, where he was ultimately recruited into Delta Force. At this point the specifics of his file became murky, with mission reports full of redactions. What Brodie did see was the impressive pedigree of an elite solider and no red flags prior to his desertion. Among his many listed skills was fluency in Spanish, which he’d studied in high school and college. Kyle Mercer also spoke Pashto, the result of a three-month stint at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. That skill, thought Brodie, must have come in handy during his captivity, and probably kept him alive.

  Brodie recalled an old joke: “Join the Army, see the world, meet new people, and kill them.”

  He returned his attention to the report, which included testimonials from Mercer’s Delta teammates. To a man, they described Captain Mercer as a capable, competent, and brave commanding officer. No one remarked on behavior that was out of the ordinary in the days or hours preceding his desertion. The only thing of note about the testimonials was that the names of every man interviewed, and the names of any other person or place they mentioned, were redacted.

  Brodie also looked over the report of the Fort Dix CID’s interview with Simpson, which was brief and mostly useless. The only new details he learned were that Simpson had had a productive and lucrative meeting with the Venezuelan state oil execs before getting sloshed on rum, and that Simpson was sure it was Mercer because of a distinctive tattoo on Mercer’s arm of an ouroboros—the ancient symbol of a snake eating its own tail. Also, according to Simpson, Mercer had a trimmed beard and appeared to have gained about thirty pounds, mostly muscle, since his infamous hostage video seen by most of America on the nightly news.

  Brodie asked his partner, “Why does a guy who’s in hiding, and whose face has been on TV, sit in a high-traffic hotel bar frequented by Americans who might recognize him?”

  “There aren’t too many Americans in Caracas these days,” replied Taylor.

  “Right, but the few that are there, like Simpson, are almost guaranteed to be at a place like the Marriott.”

  “You think Simpson is lying?”

  Brodie opened his laptop and pulled up pictures of the Caracas Marriott’s lobby lounge. It was a comfortable-looking, no-frills modern hotel bar with lounge seating located on a mezzanine level above the check-in desks. A wide stairway led up to the lounge, and the bar ran along the left wall as you entered. The bar, notably, had no mirrors along its back wall.

  “Simpson said Mercer was sitting at the bar, while he was sitting in the lounge area with his Venezuelan oil company pals. Simpson noticed the tattoo first, which is on Mercer’s right biceps, and only positively IDed Mercer when Simpson said his name and Mercer turned around.” Brodie spun his laptop around to show Taylor a picture of the bar and lounge.

  “No way,” said Taylor.

  “Right.”

  “Situational awareness” is a familiar concept to anyone in the military, and second nature to a well-trained officer. In short, it means not having your head up your ass in a given situation—be aware of your physical surroundings, the context in which you are existing in them, and the multitude of potential consequences of your actions or the possible actions of others. No officer—let alone one in Delta Force—who was a fugitive from military justice would sit at that bar with an entire room full of people at his back.

  Brodie’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked it and saw a text from Dombroski: Meet me at the O Club in 15. Alone.

  The Officers’ Club at Quantico was Colonel Dombroski’s preferred venue for conducting business. It was also his favorite place to drink. These two activities often occurred at the same time.

  Brodie got up from his desk. “I need to take care of some personal business; then we’ll pay Mr. Simpson another visit. Get us the last flight out of Newark tonight, and adjoining rooms at the Marriott.”

  Taylor clicked on something, furrowed her brow. “Looks like gunmen shot up the Marriott lobby two days ago. How about the El Dorado?”

  “When’s the scheduled shoot-out there?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  Brodie left the office.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Officers’ Club at Quantico was a nice enough place. Large windows admitted the morning sun, and it had an elegant bar with high-backed stools and a couple dozen tables with comfortable chairs. Mounted above the bar were plaques for military units stationed at Quantico as well as an old wooden propeller that maybe came off the plane of the guy who shot down the Red Baron.

  Brodie and Dombroski sat at the mostly empty bar. Since it was just past ten, they showed restraint and ordered pilsners.

  Dombroski looked around. “This place looks like a goddamn Applebee’s.”

  Brodie had heard this complaint before from his superior, and he hoped it wasn’t a warm-up to another lengthy diatribe about the changing culture of the military. The O Clubs where Dombroski had caroused and drunk to excess in his misspent youth had been housed in grand buildings containing ballrooms and dining rooms staffed by uniformed stewards. The reason for the decline in these magnificent old facilities was partly economic and partly social. The Army was trying to “deglamorize” alcohol, and didn’t want the liability of an officer leaving a club and plowing into a family in a station wagon. But Brodie had seen Dombroski drive, and a couple of beers could only improve his performance.

  Dombroski raised his glass to Brodie. “I stopped believing in luck or God, so I’ll just say watch your ass and come home safe. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They drank.

  Dombroski said, “I’m in touch with a Defense Intelligence guy who’s posted at our embassy in Caracas, Colonel Brendan Worley. He’ll be your logistical support on the ground. He’s an Army attaché, been in country a few years so he knows the place well. He’s aware of the broad details of your mission, that you’re there to track down and apprehend Captain Mercer. You can share additional details with him as necessary, on a need-to-know basis. He’ll meet you in your hotel lobby when you check in, and he’ll give you your kit.”

  Brodie nodded. He was glad to hear they’d have some support on the ground. And some tools of the trade they’d never be able to get past Caracas airport security.

  Dombroski added, “He’ll also supply you with paper currency. It’s hard to bring in cash without getting a shakedown at the airport, and your plastic will be no good there. He’s sending a car and driver to meet you and take you to your hotel.”

  “We’ll take a taxi. Less conspicuous.”

  Dombroski shrugged. “That’s what I thought too. He said you’ll stick out just by virtue of being Americans these days. His driver knows the ropes, he’ll be armed and make sure you don’t get robbed or kidnapped on the way to the hotel.”

  “I feel safer already,” said Brodie. “What about getting Mercer out?”

  “Colonel Worley will be able to help with those arrangements too.”

  Taylor was booking them round-trip tickets for the sake of appearances, but once Mercer was in custody their flight home would be via private charter. Brodie wasn’t too worried about this part of the mission. Over the decades, America’s intelligence agencies had gained a lot of relevant experience in how to sneak people in and out of Latin America.

  Dombroski pulled an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Brodie. “Your tourist travel visas. They’re legit, with your real names and to be used to travel under your regular civilian passports, so if they are entered into a central database at Caracas passport control you’ll be fine. Normally takes months to get these and you have to send in your passport book, but it looks like Hackett’s people have a guy at the Venezuelan Embassy in their pocket and he expedited them yesterday. On paper, you’ve been vaccinated for yellow fever, though you’ll want to do that for real if you end up needing to head to the interior of the country. Also, although you have different last names, you’re married to each other—good luck with that—and you both work as life insurance agents in Alexandria.”

  “Do we share a room?”

  “That’s up to you and Ms. Taylor. But you’ll book two rooms.”

  “Right. And why are we visiting Venezuela?”

  “Because you’re stupid.”

  Brodie opened the envelope and looked at their visas. They used the same photos that Brodie and Taylor had on their military IDs, but with a combination of cropping and photoshopping to obscure their uniforms. He closed the envelope and slipped it into the pocket of his faux Armani sports coat.

  On that subject, Dombroski said, “You’re supposed to be in uniform when reporting to a general in his office.”

  Maybe, Brodie thought, he should have worn his uniform to remind General Hackett—and Dombroski—that he’d been an infantryman before this gig, and that he’d been awarded the Bronze Star for valor, the Purple Heart for too much valor, and the Combat Infantry Badge for being there. Even generals showed you a bit more respect when they saw the CIB on your uniform—which neither Hackett nor Dombroski was authorized to wear.

  “Brodie?”

  “This is my uniform.”

  “You make me look bad.”

  “If I come back with Mercer in cuffs, you’ll look fine, Colonel.”

  Dombroski changed the subject. “You and Taylor worked well together in Kentucky.”

  Brodie couldn’t tell if this was a statement or a question. “We did.”

  “Except for shooting the mule. But I think we can all agree that was entirely your fault.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know Taylor was CA in Afghanistan.”

  CA meant Civil Affairs, specifically the 95th Civil Affairs Brigade out of Fort Bragg. Civil Affairs was the Army’s soft power on the ground, interfacing with the local populace, overseeing public works projects, and, in the case of Afghanistan, navigating the delicate and often messy business of tribal politics. It was tough, dangerous work, and confirmed the old adage that it is harder to build than to destroy.

  Brodie, of course, knew Taylor’s history. He wished his superior would get to the point.

  “Sometimes,” said Dombroski, “these Stability Ops people get recruited by the Company.”

  That was the point. The CIA. That perennial bogeyman of the military and civilian worlds alike. The CIA was everything the Army was not—nebulous and nimble, with a loose command structure and a murky code of ethics. Not to mention a purposely confusing mission statement. This engendered a natural distrust and, in Brodie’s opinion, a lot of unhelpful scapegoating.

  Brodie asked, “Are you questioning her loyalty?”

  “Of course not. But there were rumors going around about her down at Bragg. About certain entanglements.”

  “Like?”

  “Like she was screwing a spook.”

  Well, thought Brodie, a young unmarried woman ought to be able to screw whoever she wants. But the truth was, while the various military branches and intelligence services were all working toward a common purpose, each of them operated in its own insular world with its own culture, traditions, and prejudices—and when you engaged in extracurricular activities with a member of another tribe, people always noticed, and often judged.

  Still, this innuendo was a bit disturbing.

  “Colonel, I’m about to fly to a country that might not be a country when I land. I need someone I can count on. You want to assign me a new partner?”

  Dombroski shook his head. “She’s fluent in Spanish and she’ll never sleep with you. We better keep her.”

  Brodie downed the rest of his beer. “I should be hitting the road. It’s a long drive.”

  “It’s less than an hour to Dulles.”

  “We’re going to New Jersey to interview Al Simpson.”

  “Someone already did that.”

  “Not very well,” said Brodie.

  Dombroski gave him a long look. Brodie didn’t exactly have a reputation for double-checking his parachute before he jumped.

  “This one’s going to be a bitch,” said Dombroski.

  “You picked the right man, Colonel.”

  “Everybody else turned it down.”

  “Anything further, Colonel?”

  “Stay in touch with me.”

  “I always do.”

  “You never do.” He reminded Brodie, “Encrypted communication only. And keep in mind this case is a hot potato.”

  “Right.”

  “Captain Mercer is a U.S. citizen with constitutional rights, including the right to remain silent and to be represented by legal counsel.”

  “I’ll inform him of that before I kick him in the nuts.”

  Dombroski smiled, then continued, “Could be that he’s left the country after Simpson spotted him. Or he was just passing through.”

  “Could be.”

  “Or maybe he feels safe there. Maybe he has a business. Drugs. Arms. Maybe he’s a hit man for the government or the opposition.”

  Brodie had thought about all this, and concluded that speculating without a clue was a waste of time. “I’ll let you know.”

  “My point is, if Mercer has a business there, he’s got bodyguards like everyone else in Venezuela who has a few bucks.”

  Brodie didn’t reply.

  “Mercer by himself is a one-man army. Mercer with armed hombres is not going to be easy to apprehend.”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Just so you understand… you need to make every effort to take him alive… but you are authorized to use deadly force if necessary.”

  Brodie nodded, wondering if he understood the subtext.

  “And don’t forget that the Venezuelan government is hostile to U.S. interests.”