Dan Fesperman - Unmanned

“Shouldn’t Castle have noticed that?”

“Maybe, but I can see where he might have missed it. The last time he’d seen the truck, at least on one of our missions, was a full six weeks earlier. Besides, this was a beacon operation, or that’s what Bickell thought. One of the magic dimes had been activated.”

“Then who was supposed to be in the house, waiting to meet him? Or who did Castle think was there?”

“No idea, but it turned out to be mostly women and children. And whoever was in that truck, we know for sure it wasn’t Mansur.”

“Then who placed the beacon, if there was one? Mansur wouldn’t have activated it inside his own damn house.”

“Another excellent question.”

The timeline was creeping ever closer to the moment of truth. Cole knew by his own words on the audio, plus the dialogue on chat, that the firing of the missile was only seconds away. Sharpe could probably tell as well. The tension in everyone’s voices was evident. Everything had the unmistakable feel of a lethal mission building to its climax.

“You don’t have to watch the rest of this, you know,” Sharpe said.

“I know.”

But he watched anyway, and listened as the voice of Zach, his old friend and wingman, the very fellow who’d sent him these transcripts, spoke up in an excited tone.

“The dart is away! Fifty-five seconds to impact.”

Sharpe reached toward the laptop to click the video to a halt, but Cole placed a hand on Sharpe’s arm. Still leaning forward, they waited while fifty seconds passed. The black crosshairs quivered on the rooftop. Zach began his countdown.

And then out the door they came.

First the girl.

Then the boys.

“What the fuck! Can you—?”

“Too late.”

The house exploded. A flash of white turning to orange. Boiling smoke. Falling debris. Bodies on the ground. The two boys, limp and still. The girl trying to rise on her elbow, the severed arm only a foot or so away. Exactly as he’d seen it in his memory, hundreds of times before.

The time signature read 3:50.

“Okay,” Cole said. “Turn it off.”

The screen went blank. Sharpe eased back on the couch with a long sigh and placed a comforting hand on Cole’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t you.”

“You’re right. It was all of us. You included. Might as well get used to that.”

Sharpe nodded, either too tired to respond or unwilling to upset him further.

“I should eat,” Sharpe said finally. “You should, too. Christ almighty, it’s practically dark out. I guess flying’s out of the question.”

“My heart wouldn’t be in it, anyway. Not today.”

Sharped stood, stretched with a groan, and walked to a window.

“Here comes a car. Your woman’s back. In a damn hurry about something, too.”

They heard a car door slam, then the door of the house, followed by an outburst of excited voices ending with a shout from Steve.

“Guys! You need to get in here!”

Cole rose to his feet and followed Sharpe to the kitchen, where Keira was taking glossy photos from her satchel.

“The FBI’s taken over the case,” she said. “Or somebody at a federal level, not sure what they’re calling themselves. The local cops won’t let me anywhere near them, but I saw three vehicles with government tags pulling into the lot. The good news is that the state medical examiner’s office is so pissed off at the way Washington has horned in on everything that they were pretty chatty. Cause of death was two gunshot wounds. One to the chest from maybe twenty, thirty yards, another to the head from up close. Probably to make sure. Two hollow-point 175-grain rounds, most likely from an M24 sniper rifle, or something comparable.”

“See?” Steve said.

“What do you mean, ‘See’?” Barb said. “This was the killer’s gun, not Castle’s.”

“Whatever.”

Keira, ignoring them, continued.

“Castle wasn’t carrying any identification—”

“Typical,” Steve said. “For an Agency guy, I mean.”

“Apparently they can’t even get the feds to cooperate on a positive ID, so when I told them that you”—she nodded at Cole—“had worked with him before, they gave me a couple of photos in hopes you could verify it.”

“Sharpe knows him, too—or knew him, I mean. So, yeah, we could do that.”

“Here you go.”

She turned the photos around.

A quick glance was all he needed before turning to Sharpe, who was already shaking his big bony head.

“You want to tell them, Captain Cole?”

“Tell us what?” Barb said. The room was silent.

“It’s not Wade Castle. Not even close.”

“Then who is it?”

Cole looked back over at Sharpe, who again shook his head.

“No idea.”

“Me, neither,” Cole said. “Never seen him.”

“What the hell?” Steve said, looking irritable and betrayed.

“Your goddamn source,” Barb said. “Good to the last drop.”

“One other thing,” Keira said. “This Air Force guy, Riggleman. His weapon was all wrong for it, and none of the other forensics matched—footprints, fingerprints, none of it. They questioned him all night, but they’ve got nothing on him but maybe a trespassing rap, or an illegal weapons charge, so they’re letting him go. It’s probably going to end up as an Air Force matter.”

“Meaning they still don’t know who did it?” Barb said.

“Correct,” Keira said. “The shooter, whoever he is, is still at large.”

“Wonderful.”

“The county guys said they’d post a car at the head of the drive for us overnight.”

“Andy and Barney,” Steve said. “That’ll make me feel safe.”

“Maybe we should decamp to some other location for a while,” Barb said. “Somewhere a little less vulnerable.”

“Not a chance,” Sharpe said. “Not for me, anyway. Or for you, either, Captain Cole. We’re flying tomorrow.”

Cole nodded. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Besides, with the Air Force probably alerted by now to his whereabouts, he might not have long before another Riggleman came after him, and with two cops posted at the head of the driveway, inept or not, he might at least get a few minutes’ warning.

“Then I guess I’m in, too,” Steve said.

“Me, three.” Keira added.

Barb shrugged.

“Majority rules. But I’m moving my bed away from the window.”

They stood there looking at one another, wondering what to do next.

TRIP RIGGLEMAN’S SENSE OF relief lasted about five minutes. He walked into the amber sunlight of dusk, breathed in the fresh air of freedom, then slumped back into his worries. Did he still have a job, his rank, his status? And if General Hagan wouldn’t take his phone call last night, in his hour of greatest need, would he take one now, or ever?

He was still hurt and disappointed by the way the Air Force had deserted him in the wake of his arrest, although he supposed he should have known better. Hagan had explicitly warned him that this would happen. It was like in the movies, the ones patterned after that old TV show Mission Impossible , where they ran the tape that said, “Should you be caught or killed, we will disavow any knowledge of your actions.” Or something like that. Which he supposed should make him feel like a big-time operative but instead made him feel like a chump, a fool in over his head—out in the woods on a cold night in December, miles from home, in completely unfamiliar territory. And stupid enough to be carrying a sidearm that he wasn’t even supposed to have.

Damn idiot.

The worst part was that the whole experience had scared the shit out of him, convincing him that he wasn’t cut out for any sort of work in covert ops. Do the digging? You bet. Man of action? Only if the action was online.