John Gilstrap - Damage Control

Sergeant Nazario drove their Sandcat, and Palma could tell from his posture alone that the man was uncomfortable. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Sergeant,” Palma said.

The driver’s ears reddened. He hesitated.

“You may speak freely,” Palma said.

The sergeant settled himself with a deep breath. “Sir, the men are concerned about the killings.” He spoke softly, despite the noise from the engine, which would drown out any possibility of being heard by the soldiers in the back.

“I’m concerned about them, too,” Palma said.

“That’s not what I mean. Nothing has gone right in this mission. It has the feel of being cursed.”

Palma shot his driver a disgusted look. “Are you believing in ghosts and goblins now, Sergeant?”

Nazario laughed without humor. “Not me, sir. But some of the boys. Not ghosts and goblins perhaps, but you have to agree that the corpses are stacking up.”

Indeed they were. And Palma knew how susceptible soldiers could be to superstitious nonsense. The mere suggestion of a curse could make perceptions of bad luck become self-fulfilling.

“The killing of those soldiers was a terrible thing,” Palma said. “But the kidnappers? Their deaths speak of good luck, not bad.”

“I understand, sir. And I agree with you. But even the ambush went bad.”

“They have only themselves to blame for that. I’m still considering a posthumous court-martial for Private Prado.”

“He misunderstood his orders,” Nazario said. “If you’re going to court-martial anyone, court-martial me. I’m the one who didn’t make myself clear.”

Palma smiled. He admired non-commissioned officers who defended their troops. It spoke of integrity and inspired respect from subordinates. “Don’t think I’m not considering that, as well,” he said.

Nazario knew better, yet he shifted uneasily in his seat. “I have another question, sir, but it is certainly out of line.”

Palma waited for it.

“It’s about the ambush,” he said. “How did we know that the mercenaries would be there? How did we know where their vehicles would be?”

Palma stared straight ahead as he tried to form an answer. According to Felix, the CIA had been feeding them satellite tracking information, and as outlandish as it sounded, Palma believed it to be true. To invoke the CIA, however, would only make the troops more uncomfortable. He chose to say nothing.

After a moment of silence, Nazario got the message. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Dom D’Angelo nearly ran as he crossed the lawn from the St. Katherine’s rectory to the sidewalk that would lead down the hill to the converted firehouse. Going to Scottsdale would wait. Everything would wait. If what Venice told him was true, the world had been knocked off its axis.

“Director Rivers’s office,” a voice answered. Even calls on Irene Rivers’s secure personal line were screened.

“This is Father D’Angelo,” Dom said. “I need to speak to Irene, please. It’s urgent.” He imagined that he was one of a very small handful of people who asked for the director by her first name. By doing so, he hoped that the gatekeeper would be less apt to ask questions.

Dom slowed his pace as he waited to be connected. He’d nearly made it to the firehouse when the line clicked.

“Hello, Father,” Irene answered. “Look, unless it’s really important, I am swamped with-”

“Venice says that Gail is dead.”

“Oh, my God.”

“She was shot in the Crystal Palace Cathedral about twenty minutes ago. We need to get police there, but we can’t call without revealing why she was there.”

“The Crystal Palace is in Scottsdale, isn’t it? Is Venice sure?”

“She sounded sure on the phone. I don’t know how she knows. I’m on my way to her now. But if it’s true-if Gail has been shot, irrespective of whether or not she’s dead-time is of the essence. I thought you could pull a few strings to get the police out there.”

He could almost hear the FBI director’s brain whirring. She had to have a thousand questions-he had at least that many-but she also had to know that they could wait. “I’ll do it,” she said. Then she hung up.

He assumed she would reestablish contact if she got anything.

Pulling open the street-level door to the office, Dom tore up the stairs two and three at a time, startling Rick Hare, the armed security officer who stood guard outside the door to Security Solutions.

“Father Dom,” he said. “Are you all right?”

Dom didn’t pause to acknowledge him. Instead, he swiped his key card and punched in the entry code with the forefingers of both hands.

Rick grabbed the priest’s biceps. “Father, I know you’re a friend of Mr. G’s, but I can’t let you in if you’re this agitated. What’s going on?”

Dom paused. Despite his early years in the Army, cloak and dagger was not his business. Secrecy, however, was his business, and Venice had been clear about not sharing the news. He steeled himself with a breath. “Mr. Hare, you’re going to have to make a decision. I’m going in there. If you feel the need to shoot me, then may your soul be spared.”

Clearly, it was not what the guard had been expecting, and the look in his face nearly made Dom laugh. He used the awkward silence as an invitation to enter the office suite.

A second armed security guard, this one named Charlie Keeling, stood at the entrance to The Cave, and judging from the way he touched his ear, Rick had just told him about the nutjob priest who was on his way in. Rather than trying to stop him, though, Charlie used his own card to buzz him in.

“Thank you, Mr. Keeling,” Dom said as he passed.

“Rick said it was important, Father.” That was it; no further inquiry. If ever there was a place of business where need-to-know was the mantra, Security Solutions was it.

Venice sat on the far side of her desk, tears streaming down her face as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Dom had been telling himself that maybe he’d heard her wrong, but now that he saw her face, he knew that the worst fears were true.

Venice made no notice of him until he appeared in her doorway, and when she made eye contact, she melted entirely. She rose from her chair and hurried around the desk, her arms out and her wrists drooping, ready for a hug. As soon as Dom folded her in his arms, she started to sob.

“It’s my fault,” she cried. “She asked me for help and I couldn’t give it to her.” Her words were barely audible through the choking sobs.

Dom held her tightly as she pressed her face into his black shirt and let the emotion pour out. He felt the wetness in the fabric, and he just let her go. He stroked her hair and patted it. As he did, he tried to wrap his mind around the enormity of it.

Gail has been killed.

Articulating the words, even in his head, made it sound impossible. Gail was too alive to be dead. His head reeled with questions, but until Venice regained control, they would remain unasked.

It took her five full minutes to calm herself to the point where she could speak, and even then, her voice quavered. Her eyes burned red.

“Oh, Dom, what’s Digger going to do? After he lost Ellen, Gail was all he-” Her voice caught and she abandoned the thought.

She pushed away from Dom and stomped her foot once against the floor. “No,” she commanded, though Dom wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself or to him. “We are not doing this. We are not getting emotional. Not now. There’s plenty of time for that later.” She turned her back and headed to her computer.

Dom followed. “You’re absolutely sure that she’s dead?”

“I heard it happen,” she said. “On the phone.” She made a show of pounding the computer keys.