“The others who knew about your little business operation in Pakistan.”
Perkins turns to Walsh. “Tom, what the hell is he talking about?”
“Quiet,” says Phillips, shutting him down. “While you were sitting stateside with your cushy desk job, me and Walsh and Polermo were in the thick of it over there. We all had our little side projects. But only Walsh violated title eighteen, paragraph twenty-three eighty-one.”
Perkins sits up straight. “Treason?”
“Good for you,” says Phillips. “You know your criminal codes.”
On the other end of the sofa, Walsh is turning red. “Phillips. Shut the fuck up.”
But I can tell that Aiden is just getting started. “Before we pulled out of Afghanistan,” he says, “our people destroyed a lot of equipment so the Taliban couldn’t use it. We disabled tons of Humvees and helicopters. And when the Taliban located our advanced missile-defense systems, they figured out that the hardware was useless without the software and codes.”
Walsh is squirming now. “Phillips! We can talk about this! You and me.”
Phillips leans toward him. “No. I’ve waited a long time for this. I prefer an audience.” He turns back to Perkins. “The Taliban tried to find the software on the black market, but it was all outdated or corrupted. So they came looking for an inside source. They learned that the classified software and codes were being held in a secret base in Pakistan near Guldara Baghicha. The base was run by the army, but the CIA was in charge of classified military materials. One paramilitary officer in particular.”
Perkins looks at Walsh.
“Bullshit,” says Walsh. “I didn’t have access to those codes.”
“Of course not,” says Phillips. “You couldn’t do it alone. Those systems required multilevel authorization. It took four other people. Four enlisted soldiers who must have suspected that you were doing business with the Taliban. J. T. Polermo was one of them.”
Walsh jabs a finger at Phillips. “You’re out of your mind, son!” He turns to Perkins. “You’ve seen this guy’s file! You know what Sampson found out about him. He’s a loose cannon! He should be in a psych ward!”
Phillips stays calm. “So what happened, Walsh? Did you get nervous? Did you worry that one of them would talk? Is that why you hired Polermo as your cleanup man?” Phillips pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and walks toward Perkins. “You want the other names? I’ve got ’em right here—”
Walsh stands up and grabs for the paper. Perkins jumps in front of him and snatches it first.
I hear a loud pop.
It’s the sound of Perkins’s head exploding.
CHAPTER 105
I HIT THE FLOOR, belly-first. “Shooter! Twelve o’clock!”
Roland Perkins is lying on the carpet a few feet away, skull splintered, brains and gore oozing out in a gleaming wet mass. I grab the blood-spattered paper and stick it in my pocket. Phillips is on the floor too, covering Walsh with his body. He looks over at me. “It’s Polermo!”
Phillips reaches over and yanks the desk lamp down by its cord. The bulb shatters when it hits the floor. The room goes dark except for the glow of the streetlamps through the windows.
I crawl toward Phillips. “Give me a gun! You’re in no shape for this!”
He reaches into his rear waistband and pulls out my Glock. He tosses it to me. “Full clip.”
Walsh lifts his head and shouts, “Polermo! It’s Walsh! Don’t shoot!”
Phillips rams Walsh’s head into the floor, stunning him. He pulls a few long black zip ties from under his belt and slides them over to me. “Get him secured and under cover!” He stands up and limps to the front window, pistol raised, hiding himself behind the thick curtain.
Walsh is half conscious, bleeding from the nose. I pull off his necktie and put it between his teeth, then tie the ends tight behind his neck. I zip-tie his ankles, then his wrists. I grab him by the belt and drag him past Perkins’s bloody body and under the desk. He starts mumbling through the gag. I point the pistol at his forehead.
“Keep quiet and don’t move or I’ll shoot you myself!”
I’m still not clear on what the whole story is, but I don’t have time to find out. What I know for sure is that there’s a trained vet with a high-powered rifle outside. The second he spots a helicopter or hears a siren, he’ll be gone again. Maybe for good.
I can’t call for help. And I can’t hide.
All I can do is fight.
