“Everyone understands why you’re here.”
“That’s good. I hope he sees the irony.”
“We all accept our responsibility. We’d like to help you.”
Mercer laughed.
Haggerty took a deep breath. “Captain… Kyle…”
The two men made eye contact. Mercer said, “We are all beyond help, Ted. You, me, Worley, the bastards in JSOC who made my warriors into murderers—we, like my new comrades here, are beyond help… beyond salvation… We are killers. So we kill.” Mercer looked at Haggerty. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To kill me?”
“I’m here to find you.” He added, “Worley will kill you.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Ted. No more bullshit about helping me. Nobullshit about turning myself in for a fair trial. Because if I go on trial, everyone goes on trial. So thank me for keeping this a private affair. Just between us killers. We’ll work it out.”
Haggerty didn’t respond to that.
Mercer asked, “What was your role in Flagstaff?”
“I… knew about it. But I had no role.”
“Of course you did. That’s why you were sent here. To tidy up the loose ends. You and Worley—unindicted co-conspirators, on a mission to silence a witness.”
Haggerty looked at Mercer and said in a surprisingly strong voice, “You should more closely examine your own role in Flagstaff. Accept your responsibility, Captain.”
“Captain Mercer is dead. You and your friends killed him.”
Haggerty did not reply.
Mercer looked at Ted Haggerty. This conversation could go on for hours, days, but there was nothing left to say, and nothing more Kyle Mercer needed or wanted to know. Ted Haggerty would make a good hostage, or a valuable bargaining chip, or good bait to draw Worley out. But sometimes the best strategy in war and in life was to burn your bridges behind you, to signal to your friends and enemies—and to yourself—that there was no going back. He said, “Your colleague Robert Crenshaw was very brave. I had to torture him for hours before he told me where Worley was.”
Haggerty had no reply.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to torture you. And now, as promised, I give you your freedom.”
Haggerty closed his eyes and nodded. He understood.
Mercer stood, drew his knife from his belt, and moved behind Haggerty, quickly so that the man didn’t have to wait for death. Mercer cupped Haggerty’s chin in his left hand and with his right hand he drew the blade across Haggerty’s throat.
Mercer didn’t bother to look at the dying man as he walked out of the hut, his knife still dripping blood. He said to Emilio, “You are relieved. Go to dinner.”
Emilio glanced at Señor Kyle’s knife, and replied, “Gracias,” and moved off down the trail.
Mercer stood there a moment and listened to the night sounds of the jungle.
They were coming for him, as he knew they would. He understood and never underestimated the long arm of American power. He was one of them, and had been part of that power. What had started in Afghanistan was coming to an end here, and it was coming soon.
CHAPTER 38
Kyle Mercer entered the long, open-sided structure draped in mosquito netting. Coleman lanterns hung from the bamboo rafters illuminating four long tables, at which sat about thirty of his men, eating and talking. There was a lull in the conversations as he entered, and, if he’d still been in the U.S. Army, he’d have shouted, “Carry on!” but there were no such protocols in his own army, and the men would carry on with their talk as soon as they were sure he had nothing to say to them, which he didn’t.
One protocol he did observe was having his own table—the officers’ table—and since he was the only officer at Camp Tombstone, he sat alone, though usually he invited one or two of his team leaders to join him. Sometimes he would also invite one of the men he wanted to congratulate for something he had accomplished or learned. Tonight, however, he wanted to dine alone. Tonight he had just killed a man—an American—and by now, everyone in the camp knew about it from Emilio. They also knew that Señor Kyle had spoken to a man from the outside, whom they had seen before. They didn’t know that this man was an army general, but they knew he was an important man. So to avoid any questions on these subjects, Señor Kyle sat by himself. The women in the camp—the prostitutes, including Rosalita—ate in the women’s hut.
A Pemón man hurried over with a bowl of beans and rice, and a freshly caught and fried catfish. Also on the menu was a piece of cassava root flatbread, brought in by Pemón women from the nearby native village.
As in the U.S. Army, where officers ate only what their men ate—and sometimes less, because officers in the field were served last—Kyle Mercer made sure that the orderlies, the Pemón men, did not give him anything special. His men noted this and, coming as most of them did from societies where rank had extravagant privileges, were impressed by Señor Kyle’s show of shared hardships and brotherhood.
The beverage of the day was bottled water, which the Pemón brought from Kavak. Dysentery and other waterborne diseases had destroyed more armies than artillery. The men wanted cerveza, of course, or more potent beverages, but alcohol—and drugs—were available at Camp Tombstone only when Señor Kyle distributed one or the other. Anyone caught using drugs or alcohol at other times spent a week in the Chapel—the hut where Ted Haggerty now lay.
