C. Palov - Templar's Quest

‘Both of the victims were ritualistically tortured,’ Stackhouse continued. ‘Oh, and did I mention … the killer used your Bowie knife to commit the murders.’

Finn slapped the photos on to the desk. ‘That’s flat-out impossible.’

The Warrant Officer opened his portfolio and removed a third photo. Gleefully smiling, he dangled the glossy photo to-and-fro in front of Finn’s face. ‘Look familiar?’

Clearly annoyed with her partner’s antics, Agent Tonelli snatched the photo from him and handed it to Finn. ‘The knife hilt is made of fossilized ivory and etched in scrimshaw. Nowadays scrimshaw is a little practised art, but two hundred years ago, Boston whalers used scrimshaw to –’

‘I know what scrimshaw is,’ Finn interrupted, staring at the photo in complete disbelief.

‘As you can see, the Gaelic phrase Fé Mhóid Bheith Saor is etched into the ivory,’ she continued. Reaching across his desk, she pointed out the detail with her finger. ‘We looked it up on the Internet: It means “Sworn to be free”. Beneath the inscription are the initials FJM.’

‘And don’t deny that it’s your knife,’ Stackhouse cautioned. ‘We’ve got proof to the contrary.’

‘Look, I don’t know how this happened, but –’ Finn stopped in mid-sentence. The knife in the photo, the same Bowie knife that was used to kill Dixie and Johnny K, was the same Bowie knife he had used four months ago to take out a Syrian combatant on that fubar mission to retrieve the gold medallion. Had it not been for that damned pendant, his trigger finger would still be attached to his right hand.

But he’d left that knife in Al-Qanawat, embedded in the Syrian’s chest.

How did it end up at Fort Bragg?

‘You were about to say something, Sergeant?’

Finn shook his head. Simply put, there was nothing to say. Somehow, someone had managed to take out the last two members of his old Delta squad. Three months ago, Deuce, Lou-Lou and PJ had had their helo blown out of the Iraqi sky by a couple of insurgents.

That meant he was the only member of the Delta squad still drawing breath.

Reaching across the desk, Agent Elizabeth Tonelli took the photo from him. ‘Losing your trigger finger, that had to have been a bitter pill to swallow. Moreover, it must have made you incredibly angry. Angry men have a propensity for violence. Combine that with your specialized training and … well, you get my drift.’

Loud and clear. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. The ever-popular default motive for murder.

Agent Tonelli’s sidekick slipped on a pair of reading glasses and re-opened his leather portfolio. Wearing a studious expression, the Warrant Officer examined a sheet of paper. Several seconds passed before he peered over the top of his metal frames. ‘We did a little background check on you, Sergeant. Hope you don’t mind.’

Ah, shit. Here it comes. The McGuire family laundry. Dirty sheets flapping in a gusty headwind.

‘Seems that your brother Mychal has made quite a name for himself as a top lieutenant in Boston’s Irish mob. According to our dossier, he spent six years in the Federal penitentiary in Lewisburg on an arms trafficking charge.’ One side of the Warrant Officer’s mouth twisted in a nasty sneer. ‘Bet you couldn’t be prouder.’

Finn made no comment. Every security clearance he’d ever been issued had been held up while the Department of Defense verified that Finn no longer had contact with his brother Mickey. Or any other member of the McGuire clan for that matter.

‘Finnegan and Mychal McGuire. Blood brothers. No. Wait .’ The bastard made a big to-do of glancing back at the dossier. ‘ Twin brothers. Meaning that the two of you were cut from the very same bolt.’

‘Let’s get something straight – I’m not my brother’s keeper,’ Finn grated between clenched teeth. As he spoke, he noticed the pop-up box that had suddenly appeared on his computer monitor, alerting him to an incoming email. While the sender’s name, FJ-58, meant nothing to him, the subject line caught his eye, the words ‘UNJUSTLY ACCUSED’ all in caps.

Casually moving his right hand to the mouse, he clicked on the email icon. As he read the missive, he schooled his features into a blank expression.

What price freedom? Unless you wish to ponder the answer from the inside of a military prison, you will immediately leave the building and proceed to the reception at the French Embassy in Washington. Wait by the courtyard doors. You will receive further instructions. If you fail to arrive by 5.00 p.m., irrefutable DNA evidence linking you to the murders in question will be provided to the proper authorities. If you speak of this matter to anyone, they will be targeted for execution.

Finn clicked the delete button, the email instantly disappearing from the computer screen. Leave the building? Were they insane? He was on the verge of being arrested for murder. Not to mention the ‘building’ in question was the freaking Pentagon.

He stared at the blank computer screen. He didn’t know anyone who worked at the French Embassy. Hell, he’d never even been to the French Embassy. But he suspected that someone at the embassy had ordered the hits on Dixie and Johnny K. That same somebody planted his Bowie knife at the murder scene. And they also knew when he’d be questioned by CID. Which meant that the enemy had eyes and ears inside the US military command.

And wasn’t that a scary thought?

‘Sergeant McGuire,’ a voice suddenly boomed from the telephone intercom system. ‘You were supposed to get me a copy of those updates ASAP. Where the hell are they?’

Finn knew the voice all too well. It was his commanding officer, Colonel Benjamin Duckworth, a spit-and-polish career officer who ran the Satellite Analysis Group, SAG, like it was his own private fiefdom.

Hitting the mute button, he glanced apologetically at the two CID agents. ‘Sorry about that. I was supposed to get these satellite photos to the Colonel ten minutes ago. There’s a commander in Kandahar who’s currently on standby. He’s waiting to get this intel downloaded before he sends out his security detail,’ Finn told them, purposefully playing the ‘patriot’ card. ‘Colonel Duckworth’s office is just down the hall. It won’t take but a second for me to deliver the file.’

The Warrant Officer’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at the innocuous manila folder that Finn now held in his right hand. ‘Can’t you have someone else deliver the file?’

‘Actually, I can’t,’ Finn lied. ‘There’s no one in the office with a high enough security clearance to open this file, let alone carry it down the hall to the Colonel.’

‘All right,’ the other man groused irritably. ‘But make it snappy.’

Oh, I intend to.

3

Manila folder in hand, Finn walked down the corridor to the Colonel’s office.

A quick glance over his shoulder proved what he already knew – the two CID agents were watching his every move.

‘What took so long?’ Colonel Duckworth bellowed as Finn stepped into his office. ‘And who are those two suits?’

Finn knew that Duckworth didn’t want the file so much as he wanted to know who had trespassed, unauthorized, into his domain.

‘They’re a couple of CID agents,’ he replied. ‘An incident happened down at Fort Bragg and they’re checking on some background information.’ He held the manila folder aloft as he strode over to the door on the other side of the Colonel’s office. ‘I need to make a quick copy for my files.’

When the Colonel nodded his consent, Finn opened the door and stepped into the administration bay. He’d cut a break. Not a big one, but enough to get him out of the SAG office suite before the two agents caught on to the ruse.