The Summer House
- Автор: Паттерсон Джеймс, Дюбуа Брендан
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-53955-5
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Summer House». Краткое содержание книги:
To ensure that justice is done, the Army sends Major Jeremiah Cook, a veteran and former NYPD cop, to investigate. But the major and his elite team arrive in sweltering Georgia with no idea their grim jobs will be made exponentially more challenging by local law enforcement, who resists the Army’s intrusion and stonewall them at every turn.
As Cook and his squad struggle to uncover the truth behind the condemning evidence, the pieces just won’t fit — and forces are rallying to make certain damning secrets die alongside the victims in the murder house. With his own people in the cross-hairs, Cook takes a desperate gamble to find answers — even if it means returning to a hell of his own worst nightmares...
“Too bad... well, good, I suppose. But I was thinking if they were players, and they were involved in something to do with opiates, and Afghanistan being the leading cultivator of the same, with a lot of flights going back to the States, there could be some sort of connection.”
“Not with that group,” I say. “Do you have any additional information on Major Frank Moore, the Fourth Battalion’s executive officer?”
West shakes her head. “He was supposed to have been deployed a couple of days back when the Fourth Battalion left Hunter Army Airfield, but he was unable to be located. Then Savannah cops pulled him out of the local river back there, bullet round right to the face. They’re running the investigation, but I was able to learn that he was probably killed after meeting with Staff Sergeant Jefferson, who’s being held in a local jail, yes?”
“Ralston,” I say. “He’s in a jail in Ralston.”
“And you tell me he’s planning to plead guilty to those shootings?”
I check my watch, run the difference in time in my mind and say, “In about eight hours, yeah.”
“Hell of a thing to do if he’s not guilty, but he’s taking the rap anyway.”
“He’s doing that, but the two surviving members of his team will go free. That’s the deal. They don’t face a trial, and he pleads guilty, takes whatever sentence comes his way.” West ponders this before I add, “You Ranger guys are tough. And loyal.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she says.
“You think Staff Sergeant Jefferson would plead guilty to something he didn’t do to see his guys get cut loose?”
“He’d have to have one hell of a good reason,” she says.
Something comes to me and I say, “Hold on. This alleged massacre in Pendahar. I heard that was the reason they were sent home ahead of schedule. But you’ve told me that it was pretty suspicious right from the start.”
West carefully says, “It was.”
“But why send them home on such flimsy evidence?”
“Good question.”
She doesn’t say any more, and I quickly realize how to fill in the blanks. “They weren’t assigned to a local Ranger company. They were sheep-dipped, borrowed by the CIA.”
Her words are even more careful. “That’s what I heard.”
“What did they do for the CIA?”
“High-value target raids, I’m sure,” she says. “Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team were quite experienced in those types of raids. The CIA has a paramilitary unit, the Special Activities Division — I have a Ranger friend who’s worked with them — but they don’t have as much field experience as some Ranger units.”
“The CIA was controlling them,” I say. “Why did the CIA send them home ahead of their deployment schedule? This house raid, the killing of civilians, it was just an excuse. A cover story.”
“Maybe,” she says. “You’ll have to talk to the CIA about that.”
“All right, where are they?” I ask. “I’ll go ahead and do just that.”
West says, “It’ll be a waste of time. You’d want to talk to the field officer handling those raids, and he’s been transferred.”
“Who’s the officer?”
“Fellow named Kurtz, though God knows if that’s his real name. He’s at Observation Post Conrad.”
“Where’s that?”
West points to her door. “About ten klicks that way, up in the mountains between here and Pakistan. Only way up there is by helicopter.”
“Can you get me there?”
Her phone rings and she holds up a finger. She takes the call — “West” — and seems to listen for a minute, then says, “Thanks for the heads-up, Sergeant Major.”
West hangs up the phone, shakes her head. “You know better than that, Major Cook. We don’t have any air assets. We get assigned them for a planned and specific mission, and I’m not in a position to do that. Sorry.”
“Major West,” I say, “the answer to whatever the hell is going on with those Rangers is up there with that CIA officer. One Ranger is dead. Another is facing life imprisonment for murders he might not have committed. Are you going to let that staff sergeant go to prison for life, probably face execution? Is that what you’re saying?”
Her brown eyes flash at me with anger. “What I’m saying is that I can’t make up a manifest and put your name on it, Major Cook, because I’ve just been told that there’s an MP unit about twenty minutes out, coming here, looking for you.”
Shit, I think. Shit, shit.
“Sorry,” I say.
Her face calms down. “You’re former NYPD, right?”
“That’s right,” I say. “Nineteen years in.”
She nods and says, “Go up two compounds. That’s where the Night Stalkers hang out. There’s a warrant officer there named Cellucci. You might have some luck with him... but no guarantees. I’ll walk you over, see that you get in.”
I stand up, grab my rucksack. “Thanks, Major.”
“Good luck, Major Cook,” she says as she, too, stands, “because you’re certainly going to need it.”
The sirens start up again, and the steady, calm male voice of the recording comes back.
“Rocket attack, rocket attack, rocket attack.”
Chapter 83
Afghanistan
The night stalkers is the nickname of the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, probably pound for pound the bravest and craziest helicopter pilots in the world. Responsible for operations in Panama, Yemen, Iraq, and Afghanistan, along with the raid that took out Osama bin Laden, they’re the Army aviators called upon to perform the most hazardous and nearly impossible missions.
Their compound is just a short walk from Major West’s, and while some of the soldiers and civilian personnel seem a bit jumpy after the two recent mortar attacks, the same isn’t true for the Night Stalkers, some of whom I find outdoors after Major West escorts me there. I come upon a rest area for these aviators, set outside three one-story metal-and-wood shacks. Beyond a concrete-block wall and coils of razor wire, their modified and exceptional helicopters of choice are lined up: two rotor transport MH-47s with extended fuel booms up front, Black Hawks for a variety of missions, and the much smaller two-crew Little Birds, used for reconnaissance and close combat and support.
Nearby is a gravel-covered area with weight-lifting equipment, punching bags, and half a dozen wooden picnic tables, where laughing and confident men are having late morning coffee and sausage, eggs, and pancakes on Styrofoam plates. They’re dressed in jeans, cut-off sweatshirts, hoodies, and vests, most wearing ball caps. The wind is steady, meaning they have to hold on tight to their food and drink.
As I approach the nearest table, I’m given a quick look by the men, and then they go back to their stories and breakfasts. I can see why I got the quick look: I might be an Army officer, but I’m not one of them, so I don’t count.
About then I’m ready to believe them.
I say, “I’m looking for a guy named Cellucci. Is he around?”
One of the aviators, with a close-cropped black beard and wearing sunglasses, a tattered Red Sox baseball cap on his head, says, “What’s up, Major?”
“I just need to talk to him,” I say. “Can you point him out?”
The aviator says, “Over there on the left. The laughing asshole wearing the Yankees cap.”
“Thanks.”
I go over to the table where he’s sitting, laughing indeed, wearing the offending black-and-white Yankees cap and a black fleece jacket. Cellucci looks to be in his early thirties, muscular, with a happy-looking, red face that can probably go from joy to deadly anger in seconds.
“Excuse me,” I ask. “Cellucci?”
The other three guys laugh, and Cellucci says, “The same, Major. Chief Warrant Officer Carmine Cellucci. What can I do for you?”