“Copy.”
Evans headed around back as Brodie and Finley approached the front door. Brodie noticed there was no doorbell. He could hear something playing loudly on the TV—explosions, gunfire, demonic screams. Probably a video game.
Brodie waited a moment to give Evans time to get to the back door, then he knocked loudly and dialed up his Virginia accent. “Delivery! Need y’all to sign.”
They waited. After a few seconds the sound from the TV cut out. They heard footsteps approaching the door. Brodie put his thumb over the door’s peephole as he pulled his M9 from its holster and held it at his side.
The footsteps stopped.
Brodie said, “Need a signature or I can’t leave it.”
All was quiet for a moment; then a face peeked out from behind the window curtains, and disappeared.
Finley shoved the crowbar into the doorjamb and began to pry it open.
The door splintered and Brodie kicked it open as he raised his M9 and caught sight of a male figure running toward the back of the house.
“CID! Halt!” Which is military for “Stop, asshole.”
But the asshole kept running.
Brodie took off after him, and the guy ran into a small kitchen, kicked open a metal storm door, and sprinted through the doorway, where he collided with Brad Evans, who didn’t seem ready for what was coming and got knocked on his ass.
The guy bolted across the backyard and Brodie chased after him, past a scrawny black Lab that was barking and howling and pulling on the end of a chain.
Brodie cut wide of the dog and headed for the man he assumed was PFC Hinckley, a pasty young guy with a military buzz cut in a tank top and jeans running barefoot. Hinckley was a few yards from a high chain-link fence that marked the edge of his property. Brodie yelled, “Halt! Or I shoot!”
The guy knew that was bullshit and jumped onto the fence and started to scramble up. Brodie holstered his pistol as he caught up to him, grabbed him by his belt, and threw him face down onto the lawn. Hinckley, possibly recalling his Basic Training hand-to-hand combat class, tried to flip, but Brodie jumped on the guy’s back and pressed his face into a patch of snow. “Say uncle, asshole!” Hinckley didn’t, but he stopped resisting. Brodie grabbed the man’s wrists and cuffed his hands behind his back.
“Private Eric Hinckley, I presume?”
“Fuck you.”
“I will take that as an affirmative response.”
Evans had recovered from his knockdown and was rushing toward them. “Guy came out of nowhere.”
“Actually, he came out of the house. Get in there and check for other occupants.”
Evans muttered something as he jogged toward the open storm door, gun at his side.
Brodie pulled Hinckley to his feet and spun him around. He flashed his badge and said, “I’m Warrant Officer Scott Brodie, a Special Agent in the U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Command. I am investigating the alleged offense of larceny, of which you are suspected. I advise you that under the provisions of Article Thirty-One of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, you have the right to remain silent.”
Hinckley looked at Brodie, and they made eye contact.
“Yes, sir, I was—”
“Shut up.”
Hinckley shut up.
Brodie continued, “Any statements you make, oral or written, may be used as evidence against you in a trial by court-martial or in other judicial or administrative proceedings.” He continued to inform Hinckley of his Article 31 rights, essentially the military version of Miranda rights. Brodie had rattled this off hundreds of times over the course of his career, and most suspects were too scared, stupid, or belligerent to absorb what you were saying. But the inevitable lawyers sure as hell wanted to know that you said the magic words.
Brodie wrapped up his spiel with, “Do you understand your rights?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now listen closely and answer yes or no. Do you want a lawyer? Do you want to see my search warrant? Do you want a kick in the balls?”
