CHAPTER THREE

They’d been allotted one hour to get in, get what they could, and get out without crossing paths with the arresting agents or stepping in another pile of stink from unknown origins. Flight and traffic delays had sucked up more than half of their time already.

“Your gun’s loaded, right?” she said, patting hers again as if she didn’t realize she’d touched it.

“Come on, Sunshine.” He ran both hands through his hair again and stuffed them in his trouser pockets. “We’ve been over this. We can’t discharge weapons we’re illegally carrying. Do you have any idea what would happen if we did that?”

“I’m familiar with procedures,” she snapped.

“And you’re familiar with prison sentences, too.”

She seemed unimpressed with his reasoning. “Weston’s made enemies here and around the world. A few have a strong appetite for vengeance.”

Gaspar knew she was worrying about one particular enemy. So was he.

“Unlikely Reacher knows Weston’s here,” he said. “How would he have heard? The man’s far enough off the grid even the Boss can’t find him. Not likely anyone else can.”

Finding Reacher wasn’t the issue, though. The question was whether Reacher would find Weston. Or them—a growing possibility, the longer they went looking for him. Reacher had friends. By now, smart money said at least one of those friends had somehow passed along that they were on his trail.

“Reacher lives to piss on the other guy’s grave,” Otto said. “He’s a highly qualified sniper. The only non-Marine to win the 1000-yard invitational rifle competition.”

“It would be crazy to try to kill Weston here where he’ll be so heavily guarded. A good sniper would choose a highway location. Shoot from a vehicle. Make a clean getaway,” Gaspar said.

Again her hand passed over the lump in her blazer. “I’m saying we need a Plan B. Guns work for me. Unless you’ve got a better plan.”

He didn’t.

They’d arrived at the ceremony site. Setup was completed and the audience was slowly filing in. Gaspar estimated seating for about 1,000 people. A temporary, elevated stage at the front, a center podium flanked by four chairs on either side. He saw flat, open parking lots behind the stage where official vehicles and emergency personnel waited. A dark sedan pulled in from the opposite side of the parking lot. Which meant there was a second means of ingress and egress to the area.

One more entrance or escape route to cover. Not ideal.

He studied the site’s perimeter. Otto was right. Weston’s tenure here at MacDill, and with the Army in general, had produced more enemies than most men accumulated in a lifetime. Yet, today Weston would stand in an open field on an elevated stage surrounded by too many spots for a moderately good shooter to hide.

It felt foolhardy to Gaspar. Weston had to feel the same way.

Any military man would.

Which was one of the things that made the setup feel so profoundly wrong.

Gaspar identified the most likely shelter points for snipers within a seventy yard range. Any military sniper was reliable at five times that distance. There were several good ones and a few more that a sniper as good as Reacher could use to kill and disappear before anyone found his nest. What they had learned about Reacher was that even though he could kill from a distance at any time, he preferred to handle his problems up close and personal. Gaspar had felt like prey every day since he’d received the Reacher assignment. The only reasonable solution was to ignore it and press on.

The base held plenty of weapons and ammo and legitimate personnel who were trained to use them. In theory, all arms were accounted for and all non-security personnel were prohibited from possessing personal weapons on base. In theory.

Like most theories, that one was obviously unreliable. Gaspar knew for sure that at least two people carrying unauthorized weapons were standing in this precise spot already. Seemed to him more than likely there’d be others.

“You know what worries me?” Otto asked.

He laughed. “Everything worries you, Sunshine.”

She glared at him. “Why did Weston agree to attend this ceremony, make himself an easy target?”

“I was just wondering that myself,” Gaspar said. “Maybe he’s got a death wish.”

“Or homicidal intent,” she said.

Gaspar didn’t argue. Either option was possible.

He again checked the potential sniper points he could identify and pointed them out to her. Shooting into a crowd and hitting only the intended target was not a simple thing, but it wasn’t impossible, either. The best locations were in the west, with the sun behind him. Firing out of the sun was every sniper’s basic preference.

“Just stay out of the line of fire,” he told her. “If my partner is shot and killed on a military base, I’ll be buried in paperwork for the rest of my natural lifetime. I’ve got kids to raise.”

“Your concern is touching,” she said, just before she slugged him in the bicep hard enough to knock him off balance. He righted himself and hammed it up a little to conceal how easily she could fell him.

“Enough horsing around. Be serious for the next ninety minutes, will you?” she scolded.

She was tiny, but fierce. He admired that about her.

Not that he’d let her know it.

Movement near the stage caught his attention. “There’s Weston. Let’s go.”

He set off toward the opposite side of the venue at a good clip. Otto struggled to keep pace at first and then strode past him until it was his turn to struggle. They closed the distance to the edge of the stage where Weston stood at ground level, flanked by a military escort and two women. The escort would be Corporal Noah Daniel, according to the Boss’s instructions.

Twenty feet behind Weston stood three bulky civilians wearing navy business suits, white shirts and rep ties, and thick-soled shoes. These could only be private bodyguards. More holes in the “no guns on base” theory, Gaspar figured.

He slowed so Otto reached their target first, allowing Gaspar time to gather quick impressions of the Weston group.

The older woman was Samantha Weston. She was draped in ridiculous fashion garments that probably came from Paris or Milan without benefit of filtering through American good sense.

She was fortyish. Lanky. Lean. Artfully styled hair. Handsomely well-constructed.

Gaspar could spot skilled plastic surgery and haute couture across a dim and crowded Miami ballroom. No detective work required here, though. Mrs. Weston’s familiarity with both was revealed by Tampa’s brutally honest sunlight.

The younger woman standing slightly behind Mrs. Weston was well groomed but plain. Wholesome. Smallish. About thirty, or a couple of years either side, Gaspar guessed. Dark hair. Short, scrubbed fingernails. Everything about her appearance was professionally no-nonsense.

And something else.

She seemed familiar.

A certain lilt to her nose, crinkles around her eyes as she squinted into the sun, dimple in her chin.

Who was she?

Wife of an acquaintance? Ring-less fingers ruled out that option.

Maybe she resembled a celebrity or even a crime victim from a prior case.

He waited a moment for the information to bubble up. No luck. He couldn’t place her.

Next, from behind the aviators he scanned the subject like a full body x-ray machine. Weston’s dark suit covered him from turkey neck to shiny, cap-toed shoes. All visible body parts were pathetic. Gaspar’s scan noted pasty skin, eye pouches, jowls, tremors. Weston was fifty-five, maybe? But he looked every moment of twenty years older.

The expat life in Iraq as a military contractor suspected of murdering local civilians carried its own unhealthy burdens, sure. In Weston’s case, the added pressure of surviving the murder of his wife and children on U.S. soil couldn’t be easy. Guilt might have gnawed his organs, maybe. Whatever the cause, he looked like he was being eaten alive.

Otto presented herself to them. “Corporal Daniel. Colonel Weston. Mrs. Weston.” She hesitated briefly before reaching out to the unidentified younger woman.

“Jennifer Lane,” the woman said, extending her hand for a firm shake with Otto first, then Gaspar. “I’m Mrs. Weston’s lawyer.”

Instantly, Samantha Weston became more concerning. In Gaspar’s experience, only people already in trouble and expecting worse trouble traveled with a lawyer.

“I am FBI Special Agent Kim Otto and this is my partner Special Agent Carlos Gaspar. We’d like to talk to Colonel Weston for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

The expression settling on Weston’s face was something close to satisfaction. He didn’t smile, exactly. More like a smirk. So Weston had expected them. Or someone like them. Which made Gaspar more uneasy than he already was. Why would Weston anticipate that cops would approach him today? The Boss said Weston’s arrest was a sting. Gaspar could dream up a dozen explanations, but none of them were good news.

Corporal Daniel performed as ordered. “Mrs. Weston, Ms. Lane, our base chaplain would like a word with you before we begin,” he said, leading Samantha Weston away by a firm forearm grip.

Attorney Jennifer Lane followed her client like a pit bull on a leash.

Gaspar positioned himself facing Weston, better to observe and avoid the sniper positions he’d previously noted. Otto stood to one side, also out of identifiable firing lines. Weston remained an easy target and had to know it, but didn’t seem to care.

“Sir, we’ll only take a few moments of your time,” Otto said. “We’re hoping you can help us with some background data about the investigating military police officer on your wife’s murder case.”

“Reacher,” Weston said, as though naming an enemy more heinous than Bin Laden. Then, eagerly, “Is he with you?”

Otto’s expression, betraying equal parts horror and astonishment at the very thought, was quickly squelched.

Gaspar hid his grin behind a cough. One mystery solved. Weston meant to lure Reacher here today.

And maybe he had. Gaspar didn’t find that option comforting in the least.

“We haven’t seen him recently,” Gaspar said, truthfully enough. He slouched a little and settled his hands into his trouser pockets because it made him seem friendlier. Gaspar knew many successful interrogation techniques, but none of them worked unless the subject wanted to talk. Most of the problem was making them want to. Once they wanted to tell him everything, witnesses were nearly impossible to shut up.

Disappointed that they hadn’t served up his quarry, Weston became more suspicious. “Why are you collecting background on Reacher?”

The half-truth rolled more easily off Otto’s tongue after weeks of practice, “We’re completing a routine investigation.”

“Why?”

“He’s being considered for a special assignment.”

“Cannon fodder? Road kill?” Weston’s sharp retorts came fast. “Those are the only jobs Reacher’s fit for.”

“Meaning what?” Otto asked, unintimidated.

Weston said, “My wife and children were executed. By cowards. While I was serving my country.”

“Nothing to do with Reacher, right?” Otto asked.

Weston’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “Reacher accused me. He arrested me. I wasn’t there to see my children buried. I wasn’t there to see my wife buried. I sat in a jail cell instead.” He clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “This is the first memorial service I’ve ever been able to attend for my slain family. You call that nothing? I sure as hell don’t.”

“Not unreasonable of Reacher, though,” Otto said, detached, cool. “Most people are murdered by someone close to them. Anybody who watches television knows that. Reacher wasn’t out of line when he considered you a prime suspect.”

Weston’s chest heaved. He shifted his slight weight and leaned closer to Otto, towering unsteadily over her. She didn’t flinch. She remained the polar opposite of cowed. Gaspar figured Weston wasn’t used to having any woman stand her ground with him, much less one nearly half his size.

Weston lowered his voice to a mighty pianissimo and still Otto didn’t budge even half an inch. “When Reacher found out he was wrong about me? What did he do?”

Otto lifted her shoulders and opened her palms, unimpressed. “I give up.”

Otto’s behavior enraged Weston a bit more. He leaned in and all but engulfed her like a vulture’s shadow. She didn’t move and said nothing.

Then, as if he’d flipped some sort of internal switch, he released the stranglehold on his fists and relaxed his posture. Regular breathing resumed. Sweat beads on his forehead and above his upper lip glistened in the sunlight. A breeze had kicked up, carrying floral scents from the tropical plants in and around the base. A breeze that any good sniper could easily accommodate.

When Weston spoke again, he sounded almost civil, as if Otto had asked him about nothing more personal than last night’s dinner menu.

The guy was a sociopath, Gaspar thought. Clearly. Total nut-job. All the signs were there. He’d seen it too many times before.

“It’s unfortunate that Reacher’s still alive. If I see him before you do, he won’t be. Please tell him that for me.” His tone reflected the controlled calm Gaspar recognized as subdued rage. A hallmark of stone cold killers, crazy or not.

Gaspar asked, “Why did Reacher think you killed your family? We haven’t seen the whole file. Was there some evidence against you?”

“Ask him next time you see him.” Weston folded his hands in front of his scrawny abdomen, miming that he had all the patience in the world to do nothing but humor them.

“Right now I’m asking you.”

Attendees had been filing in steadily as they talked and now filled the chairs in the audience as well as on the stage. Again, Gaspar noticed a significant number of disabled men and women. Many of them were young. Too young.

Not much time left.

Weston’s satisfied smirk turned up a notch. “You work for Cooper, don’t you?”

Hearing him utter the Boss’s name was a sharp jab, but Gaspar recognized a classic deflection and refused the bait. Whatever happened after Reacher left the Army, he’d been a good cop. After twenty minutes with Weston, Gaspar was ready to believe anything Reacher reported about Weston on Reacher’s word alone.

“Why did Reacher think you’d killed your own family?” Gaspar asked again.

Weston said nothing.

Otto stepped in. “Have you communicated with Reacher since you left the army, Colonel?”

“I’ve been living abroad.”

Otto said, “The globe is a lot smaller than it used to be. People travel.”

“Too bad Reacher hasn’t been to Iraq.” And like that, Weston’s control again seemed to snap. “I’d happily kill the bastard. Cooper, too, given the chance.”

“What’s your beef with the Boss?” Gaspar asked. The guy was crazy, but whatever he thought about the Boss, it was better to find out than get caught napping.

“We all wore the green back then. We were brothers in arms. We were supposed to be taking care of each other. The Army’s family, man,” Weston said. “You served, didn’t you? You’ve got the bearing. I can smell the green on you. You’ve gotta know what I mean.”

Gaspar did know. He was tempted to make a sarcastic remark about simply surviving being a better outcome than what had happened to Weston’s real family. Not to mention the dead and disabled who served under Weston’s command. But instead Gaspar said, “Right.”

Weston stopped a second to wipe the spittle from the corner of his mouth, to gather himself. When he spoke again, the switch had again been tripped. The controlled calm had returned. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Otto asked.

“You can’t be that stupid.” Weston’s lip curled up. The kind of smirk that made Gaspar want to break his face. “Cooper’s the biggest snake alive. Always has been. Turn your back and he’ll bite you in the ass. Reacher was Cooper’s go-to guy. The two of them were behind everything that happened to me.”

Gaspar shook his head exaggeratedly, like he’d heard better tales from the Brothers Grimm. “You think Reacher killed your family? On Cooper’s orders? Then blamed you?”

“I’ve had a lot of years to think this through. Cooper and Reacher had a vendetta going against me. It had to be them.” He paused, smiling like a demented circus clown. “That’s the only possible answer.”

Otto intervened. “The hit man said you hired him. He testified you wanted your family killed.”

Once again, Weston’s agitation resurfaced. The man was like a carnival ride. His face reddened. His eyes narrowed. His lips pressed hard together and he stuck out his chin. “Lies!” he shouted, loud enough for members of the crowd filtering in nearby to hear and turn to stare.

“Close enough for government work,” Otto replied without flinching. “You’d been threatened by the gang you tried to rip off. You were told what would happen to your family. You failed to deliver their money. Reacher had nothing to do with any of that.”

She didn’t mention the Boss had reached out by sending them here today and probably by sending Reacher back then, too. Gaspar wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Weston rocked closer and loomed over Otto again. “Little girl, if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d have stopped believing Cooper’s fairy tales long ago.” He lifted balled fists and unclenched his hands, reaching toward her. He looked like he wanted to shake her by her slender neck until she stopped breathing.

Gaspar hoped he’d try. Otto would knock Weston on his ass the second he touched her. But all this talk about Reacher had heightened his tension, too. On the way through security, Gaspar had been concerned. Now, he felt wired tight, ready to snap.

Before Weston had a chance to complete his move, Samantha Weston appeared by her husband’s side like a defending Valkyrie from nowhere.

When Weston didn’t back down, his wife placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Tom, darling. It’s time.”

Otto had yet to move so much as an eyelash. She said in her normal voice, “We’ll finish our questions after the service, Colonel.”

Weston didn’t flinch for another full second. Then he shook off his wife’s hand, turned, marched toward the stage, climbed the steps and stood, waiting for Samantha to catch up.

Gaspar and Otto watched in silence until both Westons reached their positions on the stage with the other honorees of the day’s service, and then continued to watch them.

The breeze had whipped up to gusty bursts. Unpredictable. Which would make a sniper’s job harder. Not impossible. Some would consider the wind a worthy challenge. Reacher was probably one of them.

Eyes still forward, Gaspar said, “I’m okay with staying a while. We’ve got a few hours before our flight. But what do you think he’ll say later that he wouldn’t say now?”

“Weston’s the first person we’ve met who is willing to tell us anything at all about Reacher. I’m not leaving until I hear every last word I can wring out of him.” After a full second or so, she asked, “You think the Boss sent us here to see if Weston could actually pin anything on him and Reacher?”

“I gave up trying to guess the Boss’s motives years ago.” Gaspar nodded in the direction of the entrance, where two males dressed in FBI-normal stood to one side. “More importantly, what are you planning to tell those guys when they ask who we are and what the hell we’re doing here?”

“You’ll think of something,” she replied, focused now on the tableau playing out on the stage. “Who is that reporter talking to Weston?”