“What was Phillips like in the field?”
“What was he like?” Spooner repeats, his voice a little raspy. “He was a lot of things. Depended on the time of day and what kind of mood he was in. But one thing was for sure. He was a stone-cold killer.”
I’ve got the phone on speaker and I’m tapping notes into my laptop as we talk. “Can you give me any examples?”
Spooner coughs. Sounds like a smoker. “Sorry. Those missions are still classified.”
“Okay. How about examples of something that isnotmission-related.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Then it starts coming out in a flood.
“Okay. This one time, we were in the mountains, high up and isolated. The Taliban were up there too, harassing us and any villagers they thought were loyal to the Kabul government. We had local scouts and informers feeding us intelligence. But we heard through our interpreters that the adversary thought we were weak, too in love with our creature comforts. They didn’t think we had true killer instincts.”
I’m typing as fast as I can, trying to get everything down verbatim. My spelling sucks, but I’ll fix that later. “Keep going. I’m listening.”
“Phillips resented the shit about how soft we were. One night he said he was going out to check the perimeter. Then he just disappeared. No radio contact. After a few hours, we sent out a search team, but we couldn’t find any trace of him.
“Two nights later, a bunch of us were sitting around a campfire when Phillips showed up. He was holding a cloth bag. He tossed the bag in front of the Afghans on our team and headed back to his hooch.”
“What was in the bag?” I ask.
“One of the scouts picked it up and turned it upside down. A guy’s head fell out.”
I stop typing. “Jesus!Whosehead?”
“The Taliban leader from up in the mountains, the guy in charge of the crew that had been giving us trouble.”
“So what happened then? Did you report it?”
“Nah. Nobody reported shit. We burned the head in the fire and buried the skull. After that, things quieted right down. And the Afghans on our team started showing us mad respect.”
I start typing again. I’m still catching up when Spooner puts a button on the story.
“Say what you want about Phillips. He got the job done.”
CHAPTER 75
Cross
ALEX CROSS CROUCHES BEHIND a wall in a sheltered area across the street from the Bracken Motel. He’s been there for hours, ever since the sheriff sent him on his way.
He watches as a compact sedan rolls into the parking lot and stops in front of room 101. A young man in a baseball cap gets out of the driver’s side. He stumbles around the front of the car as the passenger door opens, and a young woman in tight jeans, halter top, bare midriff slides out. They start kissing and pawing at each other as they head toward the motel room, then disappear inside.
Over in room 105, somebody has wrestled the busted door back into place. Alex can see movement through the windows.
Finally, the damaged door swings open, and the five men file out, laughing and shoving one another as they head for their vehicles. Their body language suggests that they all have a couple beers on board—probably more than a couple.
The sheriff is the first to leave. Larry is carrying the duffels. He tosses them in the back of a Jeep and leaves next. Then the two other guys drive off, swerving as they go.
Brett, the one in the NRA T-shirt, is the last one left. He leans against his pickup and polishes off a beer, then walks back to the rear tire, unzips his jeans, and pisses on the pavement. His buddies are long gone when he opens the door and starts the car.
By then, Alex has moved across the road and is crouched down below the open passenger window. He’s holding the SIG nine-millimeter mini he retrieved from his glove compartment. Sampson calls it a popgun, but at close range, it might as well be a howitzer.
The second Brett turns his headlights on, Alex yanks open the door of the truck and slides in. Brett turns his head and finds the short barrel of Alex’s gun pointing at his mouth.
“Sit on your hands,” says Alex.
Brett mumbles, “Okay, okay.” He jams his hands under his substantial ass. He’s breathing heavy through his nose.
