Дэвид Балдаччи - King and Maxwell

“It doesn’t really matter if you’re guilty or not. You royally screwed up your mission and disobeyed direct orders. Any way you cut it you’re ending up in the stockade for a long time.”

At these words Wingo rested his head against the stone wall of the old building he was standing next to. His heart sank right down to the Afghan dirt.

Military prison for the rest of my life?

“I need you to contact my son and tell him I’m all right,” said Wingo. “I don’t want him to worry.”

Wingo heard South clear his throat. “That’s not possible,” said South.

“Why not? He was told I was MIA. [4] MIA – missing in action. Just tell him I’ve been found. I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“He doesn’t think you’re MIA.” South paused. “He was told you were KIA.”

Wingo didn’t say anything for five beats. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said in a deadly whisper.

“The chances were very high you would not come back alive, Wingo.”

“I’m not dead yet.”

“It’s done. It can’t be undone without doing huge damage to the mission. Even more damage,” he added.

“I can’t believe this. My son thinks I’m dead? What idiot authorized that?” Wingo barked.

“You have no one to blame but yourself. We thought you were dead. You didn’t report in.”

“I couldn’t report in. I had no way to report in until just now.”

“Well, you have a lot more to worry about than that, soldier,” South said. “Are you still in country? I can send a chopper or a Humvee depending on where you are.”

“I’m not in country,” lied Wingo, his head still spinning.

South spoke slowly and with great deliberation. “Tell me exactly where you are and I will send people to pick you up.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Wingo!”

“Next time I call I would appreciate some real answers, instead of bullshit. And if anything happens to my son, anything, because of this, I will hold you personally responsible.”

“Wingo!”

But Wingo had already clicked off. And then he turned off his phone. He’d already disabled the GPS chip in it. He knew that South had been stationed in Kabul, so the good colonel was probably within fifteen minutes by car from him. But Wingo was not hanging around Kabul. Or Afghanistan.

He started walking. It was clear from what South had said and what he had left unspoken that Wingo was being set up as the fall guy on this.

But what felt like a dozen AR-15 [5] AR-15 – the ArmaLite AR-15: a selective fire, air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed rifle manufactured in the United States between 1959 and 1964. Its military version was adopted by the United States Armed Forces as the M16 rifle. rounds penetrating his body was the thought of Tyler believing his dad was dead.

He tightened his knapsack strap and picked up his pace. Inside the knapsack was everything he had. But South knew about the IDs he’d been given, which meant he couldn’t use them or the next thing he’d be facing was a court-martial. He had to get out of Afghanistan, through Pakistan and into India. He could lose himself in New Delhi or Mumbai and then figure out a new course of action. It would also give him time to change his appearance and construct a new ID, because he wasn’t planning on staying in India. His ultimate destination was home. He was going to make this right somehow.

He looked down at his phone and turned it on. Should he call his son? He hesitated, trying to think through what such an action might do. Finally, he compromised with himself. He thumbed in a carefully worded email and hit send.

Then he hurried off.

Thousands of miles away Tyler Wingo’s phone buzzed. And a hand reached for the phone.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

THE OARS CUT CLEANLY THROUGH the murky water.

The rains had passed and the sky was cloudless. The winds that had beaten off the storm system had come up from the warmer southwest, but it was still cold enough to see your breath.

Michelle worked the oars with a polished motion built up over many years of piloting narrow vessels with barely a foot-deep draft through water. She didn’t have to think about what she was doing. She just had to pull and recoil, pull and recoil, moving in a precise straight line because getting off-course cost precious seconds. Every muscle in her body was engaged at some point, particularly the core and the lower body where a person’s real strength was housed. She would take oblique mass and corded thighs over tank-top beach muscle.

The Potomac was empty of boats except for a police vessel that was slowly chugging its way south toward Memorial Bridge. Michelle was heading the other way, following a route to the old boathouses that hugged the shore near Georgetown.

Perched on the hood of his Lexus, Sean watched his partner methodically make her way back to her starting point. He was glad to see that she had taken his advice and put her shell in the water even if it was cold outside. She was at peace there, he knew, one of the few places she was likely to find it. He only took his gaze off her once, when a mass of gulls started swirling in the air, pivoting, dropping, and then swooping upward.

That was real freedom, thought Sean. Must be nice.

He settled his gaze back on his partner. They had been intimate on one occasion and never again after that. He had thought about the reasons behind this. They were many and varied. The sex had been great. The morning after had been confused, as though they had both been culpable in stepping over a sacred boundary and had nearly ruined a perfectly good partnership by doing so.

She pulled up at the ramp to one of the boathouses painted yellow and green. Sean pushed himself off the Lexus’s hood and came forward to help her. She wore a dark blue one-piece wet suit with booties that allowed free range of motion and protected her against the chill. It revealed not an ounce of fat on her tall body. But it also showcased how thin she was.

Together they tied the shell to the top of her Land Cruiser, and Michelle angled her oars through the truck’s back window. They were long enough to reach into the front seats.

Sean gazed inside her car. It was full of trash, most of which should have been tossed a long time ago.

She noted him staring and said, “Don’t go there. I’ll clean it out at some point.”

“Right. When you can no longer reach the steering wheel?”

“That’s very funny, Sean. And you always claim not to be a morning person.”

Sean snagged two coffees from his car and handed her one. She took a sip.

“You looked good out there,” he said.

“BS [6] BS – bullshit. I can do without.”

“What do you mean?”

She stretched out her shoulder until she was rewarded with a pop. “I’m slower than I’ve ever been. I couldn’t make a high school team right now.”

“We all get old.”

“Not all of us. Not Tyler’s dad.”

Sean drank his coffee and looked off toward the water. “We’re officially pulling out of Afghanistan. But we still have casualties. Dying for what?”

“You could ask that question in just about every war.”

“I didn’t see the trigger was missing from the Mauser,” he admitted, glancing at her.

“I probably had a better angle than you did. He was on my side of the road. If we’d been in England, you would’ve spotted it instead of me.”

“You still lie really well.”

“Comes in handy in our line of work.”

“I know I said we needed to get back on casework, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe, instead, we should take some of the money and go somewhere.”