Allies: The Gulf

By Wolf Riedel

In Ocala, Florida, two Army National Guard members are brutally murdered and their pre-teen daughters abducted. Local investigators believe the murders to be incidental to the abduction and concentrate their efforts on sex offenders in local the area. For the young apprentice hitman, however, the abduction was the last thing he wanted and the girls continued existence is more a complication to his life than anything else.

Chief Warrant Officer 2 Mark Winters of the US Army Criminal Investigation Command (CID) in Lakeland Florida and his team, on the other hand, while equally haunted by the fate of the girls, comes to believe that the murders are part of string of continuing murders in a war between opposing drug cartels and the smugglers of automatic weapons operating within Florida. Their investigation leads them to the heart of the cartels’ operations in Mexico.

Meanwhile General Phil Sambrook’s has to focus on the investigations involving the potential misconduct of two separate special operations teams in Afghanistan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Riedel
• Release date: Jan 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781926521015

Wolf Riedel

WOLF RIEDEL is a lawyer and retired army officer with service in the artillery, infantry and with the Judge Advocate General. He and his wife live on the shores of Lake Erie and in Florida.

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Allies: The Gulf is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.

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Text, cover, cover photo, maps, Copyright © 2016 by Wolf Riedel – All rights reserved.

Excerpt from Allies: The Coast Copyright © 2016 by Wolf Riedel – All rights reserved.

Excerpt from Dawn Flight Copyright © 2014 by Wolf Riedel – All rights reserved.

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CONTENTS

Copyright

Also By Wolf Riedel

Glossary

Map 1 - West Central Florida

Map 2 - Tampa Bay Region

Map 3 - Southwest Zabul

Map 4 - Northeast Mexico

Map 5 - Reynosa Mexico

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Epilogue

Excerpt from Allies: The Coast

Excerpt from Dawn Flight

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also By Wolf Riedel

Allies: Anaconda – A Novella

Allies: The Inquiry

Allies: The Trial

Allies: The Rivers

Allies: The Bay

Allies: The Gulf

Allies: The Coast (Coming 2016)

Dawn Flight (Coming 2016)

— § —

For Kathy

MAP 1 - West Central Florida

MAP 2 - Tampa Bay Region

MAP 3 - Southwest Zabul

MAP 4 - Northeast Mexico

MAP 5 - Reynosa, Mexico

GLOSSARY

AFOSI - Air Force Office of Special Investigations

ANA - Afghan National Army

ANP - Afghan National Police

AO - Area of Operations

AQ - al-Qaeda - Islamist terrorist organization

BCT - Basic Combat Training also Brigade Combat Team

CENTCOM - Central Command (aka USCENTCOM)

CFSOCC - Combined Forces Special Operations Component Command - forward deployed sub-headquarters of SOCCENT (aka SOCCENT FWD)

CG - Commanding General

CJSOTF-A - Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Afghanistan

CJSOTF-AP - Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force - Arabian Peninsula

Clica - literally the clique in Latino gang slang our gang

CO - Commanding Officer

Delta - 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta

DFAC - Dining Facility

ETT - Embedded Training Team

FOB - Forward Operating Base - either a location or, pre-2007, a deployed SF ODC

GMV - Ground Mobility Vehicle (SOF version of HMMWV)

HMMWV - High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle

IED – Improvised Explosive Device

Intel - intelligence (aka int)

ISAF - International Security Assistance Force

ISI - Inter-Service Intelligence - Pakistani intelligence services

ISTAR - Intelligence, Surveillance, Target Acquisition, and Reconnaissance

JAG - Judge Advocate General

JTF 2 - Joint Task Force 2

JSOC- Joint Special Operations Command

KAF - Kandahar Air Field

Kandak - Afghan term for battalion

LAV or LAV III - Light Armored Vehicle (aka Stryker in US)

M4 - US 5.56 mm assault carbine

M9 - US military version of 9 mm Beretta 92FS pistol

M11 - US military version of 9 mm SIG Sauer P228 pistol

MARSOC - US Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command

MSOC-F - Marine Special Operations Company Foxtrot

MBITR - AN/PRC 148 Multiband Inter/Intra Team Radio

Masjid - mosque

MVT - Medium Value Target

MXS - Maintenance Squadron (US Air Force)

NCIS - Naval Criminal Investigative Service

NDHQ - National Defence Headquarters

ODA - Operational Detachment Alpha – 12 man Special Forces Team

ODB - Operational Detachment Bravo – Special Forces Company Headquarters

ODC - Operational Detachment Charlie – Special Forces Battalion Headquarters (when deployed termed FOB and, starting in May 2007, SOTF)

PB - Patrol Base

R22eR - Royal vingt-deuxième Regiment (aka Van Doos)

Ranger - member or element of U.S. Army 75th Ranger Regiment

Raza - literally the race, in Latino gang slang, the family, the group, the gang

RCR - Royal Canadian Regiment (aka Royals)

RPG - Rocket Propelled Grenade

SF - Special Forces – members and elements belonging to a SFG(A) – not to be confused with the term SOF – special operations forces which refers to the wider community to which the SF and other units such as Delta, SEALs, JTF 2 etc belong

SFG(A) - Special Forces Group (Airborne) (aka Green Berets)

Sicario - hitman, enforcer, contract-killer

S3 - staff officer/section - operations

SOPMOD - Special Operations Peculiar Modification

SOT-A - Special Operations Team Alpha - low-level signals intelligence intercept teams within a SFG(A)

TAC - Tactical command post

TOC - Tactical Operations Center

Taliban - armed Islamist militants (aka Tims, Timmies)

TF - Task Force - a military element or unit specifically configured for a given task

TF 31 - 1st Battalion, 3rd SFG(A) (aka FOB 31, SOTF 31)

TF 373 - JSOC black ops TF in Afghanistan

TF 71 - 1st Battalion, 7th SFG(A) (aka FOB 71, SOTF 71)

TIC - troops in contact

UAV - Unmanned Aerial Vehicle

USACIC - United States Army Criminal Investigation Command (aka CID)

SOCCENT - Special Operations Command Central

SOCOM - US Special Operations Command (aka USSOCOM)

SOTF - Special Operations Task Force (aka TF and, pre-2007 aka FOB)

THE GULF

AN ALLIES NOVEL

— § —

PROLOGUE

— § —

SW 1st Avenue, Ocala, Florida

Saturday 03 Mar 07 1850 hrs EST

Lewis had to die. Not just Lewis; everything that had ever mattered to Lewis had to die as well. Not right away maybe, but eventually. Jim Lewis on the other hand; well, he was a goner just as soon as Tuffy laid eyes on him.

Tuffy was pumped.

He’d never actually killed anyone before but he had been imagining it for the better part of his extremely short life. It wasn’t just the run-of-the-mill imagination that passes through a boy’s mind while the body count adds up as he watches television or a movie or plays a video game. Instead Tuffy had worked through the details of how to do the act, what to do with the body, even what effect the killing would have on him. Not affect, but effect. Tuffy wasn’t concerned about how his first kill would affect him. Quite simply Tuffy had no emotional connection with anyone; well maybe his family and his girl, Sandy, but not anyone beyond them. It never once crossed his mind that killing someone would change him in any way. On the other hand he clearly expected that there had to be something in it for him; some benefit. Killing just for the sake of killing—for the fun of it—well, that just wasn’t really his thing.

Getting into the house was the first thing that had gone well as far as Tuffy was concerned.

It was a typical Floridian suburban home: a rambling bungalow with an attached two-car garage set on a large lawn of coarse, ragged St. Augustine grass, numerous plantings of flowering bushes, palms, palmettos and oak, and a pool and a lanaii under a massive screened enclosure. Its muted lighting seemed engulfed by the Stygian darkness that followed the region’s brief dusk.

They had gone in through the back, easily popping the lock on the screen enclosure’s door. A bedroom’s sliding patio door succumbed just as easily. A quick dash through the house showed the home’s alarm system peacefully flashing a welcoming green light. It either hadn’t been set or alternatively was not connected to the back screen door or to any motion sensors.

There were several dim lights glowing in the house, mostly LEDs from appliances and clocks as well as nightlights in each of the children's bedrooms.

Tuffy and the old man did a walk through. He wasn’t too sure what he should be looking for but he knew well enough that he ought not to leave any fingerprints. Note to file: next time bring gloves. Instead he took a bandanna out of his back pocket and used it whenever he handled anything. Tuffy’s search was profit oriented and ended up netting him a small pile of jewelry and two watches, all of dubious quality. His excitement hit a peak with an automatic pistol in one of the side tables in the master bedroom. He was not a novice when it came to handguns but he knew he was far from an expert. In the glow of the clock-radio the thing looked to be a Glock of some type. Sweet.

The search had been quick. Everything had stayed quiet. There was nothing to do now except to wait for the headlights to show up in the driveway.

Tuffy and the old man had arrived at the house only ten minutes earlier. They’d been late. They had expected to be here at sundown but hadn’t realized that SW 1st Avenue consisted of a number of disconnected fragments. They’d come in on the I-75 then taken Exit 350 for Florida State Road 200 East; toward downtown Ocala. SR 200 had curved into the south-central part of the city although there had been nothing that would indicate that they were moving into its heart—no tall buildings, no sidewalks bustling with shoppers—just the usual collection of Floridian malls, fast-food restaurants and car dealerships.

They’d easily found the turn for SW 1st Avenue, but unfortunately, long before they reached the number that they were looking for the street made a sharp right onto S Pine Avenue and came to an abrupt end. They had searched around and found SW 2nd Avenue, SW 3rd Avenue and then SE 1st Avenue but SW 1st had simply disappeared.

Asking for directions had not been an option. In the end the choice had been to aimlessly wander around to find the right part of the street or to try to find a better street map than the piece of garbage one of Central Florida that the old man had brought along.

Tuffy had learned his first lesson; the old man might be in charge, but he was a piss-poor planner. He’d never asked Tuffy for any input and, quite frankly, Tuffy himself had never given much thought to planning. But Tuffy wasn’t stupid. Not well educated perhaps, but not stupid. The old man’s fuck up had taught Tuffy the cardinal principle of a hit: plan well.

There had been no sense in retracing their route to the interstate. On the way in they hadn’t come across any major truck stops where they could find a decent map. The best option was to cruise up Pine looking for a likely candidate. It had taken three tries. Three times that the old man had sent Tuffy in to look for a map before he finally found a GM Johnson map of Gainesville and Ocala. Tuffy hadn’t exactly been looking out for cameras but even to him the idea of wandering around three different gas stations looking for maps hadn’t exactly seemed like a brilliant idea. Another lesson learned.

The map had finally shown them the way. The only way to access the right fragment of SW 1st Avenue that they wanted was by way of SW 7th Avenue Road.

These fuckers need some serious help with naming and laying out their streets, Tuffy had commented to the old man.

The delay had cost them all of the time that the old man had planned to use for looking the place over. In the interim, dusk had fallen and they had settled for one quick drive-by and then parking in the least conspicuous place possible up the road. The neighborhood was purely residential with no really good place to hide the car but the darkness had helped.

Tuffy had now learned his third lesson about planning and his disrespect for the old man had deepened.

— § —

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

Edgewater Beach Dr, Lakeland, Florida

Saturday 03 Mar 07 2110 hrs EST

Saturday night TV sucked. It was as if all of the entertainment executives in New York and Los Angeles believed that the whole country went out to party and there wasn’t any sense in putting anything new or good on anyway. If you were lucky you might get a new Saturday Night Live but new episodes, and particularly new and good episodes, were hard to come by. The week before, Rainn Wilson had been the guest star but the show had failed to deliver on the star’s link to The Office. If it hadn’t been for Amy Poehler’s the The British are leaving! The British are leaving! line on Weekend Update, Mark wouldn’t have had a laugh during the whole show. Her reference to the Brit’s pulling out of Iraq was the only piece of writing that had gotten more than a mere smile from him. Mark swore that if Poehler or Seth Meyers ever left Update he’d just pack in watching the whole damn show.

Mark settled back into his La-Z-Boy, switched the TV off and picked up the book he’d been reading, off and on, for two weeks now; Michael Connelly’s Echo Park, a Christmas gift from Kristin that he had only recently gotten to. Mark wasn’t a slow reader; it had just been an unusually busy few months.

Chief Warrant Officer 2 Mark Winters of the US Army’s Criminal Investigation Command—which still used the acronym CID from its previous designation as the army’s Criminal Investigation Division—was the special agent in-charge of its Lakeland, Florida sub-office.

Collocated at the city’s James West Army Reserve Center with the headquarters company of a Florida National Guard artillery battalion, the office had responsibility for all felony investigations concerning US Army facilities or personnel within the Florida Peninsula. Mark reported directly to the CID Battalion located at Fort Benning, Georgia. Unlike most other CID battalions which were numbered, it was simply called the Fort Benning CID Battalion with jurisdiction over the southeastern continental states. Besides having the responsibility for the army’s national guard and reserve units in the peninsula, Mark also supported the army’s elements at each of US Central Command and US Special Operations Command in Tampa and US Southern Command in Miami—CENTCOM, USSOCOM (or simply SOCOM) and SOUTHCOM.

A busy office, but generally one where one could mostly count on the weekend being one’s own. This month, his wife Kristin even had shifts that gave her the weekend off from her duties as a nurse with the intensive care unit of the Lakeland Regional Medical Center thus relieving Mark from babysitting duties of their four-year old son, Max.

Today had been a busy day: shopping, housekeeping and a swim in the backyard’s pool. Their almost five-year-old Max had nodded off about a half an hour before his usual bed-time while Kristin had turned to finishing the week’s laundry thus leaving Mark to entertain himself with the TV for a few hours. Tomorrow would be a picnic out at the Bok Tower Gardens just on the other side of Winter Haven.

The room’s stillness was interrupted with the ringing of the phone. Mark manged to drag himself up out of the chair just slowly enough so that Kristin, in the master bedroom, picked up first.

Hello, she said. There was a pause. Yes, he’s here. One moment please.

Her head peeked around the end of the hallway.

Mark. It’s a Sergeant Harris from the Ocala Police.

Mark padded his way over in his bare feet and took the phone from his wife’s hand. He walked over to the door to the lanaii and looked out toward the blackness of Lake Parker before answering.

Chief Winters, he said.

Chief. It’s Sergeant Wayne Harris, said the voice on the phone. I’m the major crimes sergeant out here in Ocala.

How can I help you Wayne? Mark asked.

We got one out here that you guys might want to be in on, he said. I talked to your duty agent and he gave me your number.

Something I’m going to have to thank him for, thought Mark.

It’s a bad one, added Harris.

The most direct route to Ocala lay through the middle of the Green Swamp via SR 472, a two-lane black top running straight up from Lakeland to Sumterville. At Sumterville the I-75 took you to Ocala. Mark had instead chosen a slightly longer route taking US 98 through Dade City thereby hitting the I-75 some twenty five miles further south. In his mind, the longer route would reduce the odds of hitting some wayward deer or inebriated cracker on his way home from the local tap and grill. Either way the ninety-some miles would take an hour and three-quarters; an hour twenty with the SUV’s hideaway emergency lights flashing and fingers crossed as to said deer and drunks.

Two National Guardsmen? Sal had asked when he had gotten into the car.

Sal was Staff Sergeant Salvadore Watts, a twenty-seven year old Virginian nicknamed Pitbull because of his small stature yet heavily muscled body. His shaved head—compensating for early signs of male-pattern baldness—and tenacious aggression had contributed considerably in earning him the name.

Sal’s stature stood in contrast to the slightly older Mark who stood at six foot one and carried a hundred and eighty-five pounds on a fit, muscular frame. While Sal stood with a slightly crouched menacing stance, Mark’s bearing reflected an almost parade-like, military look. His brown hair was severely close-cut by a barber who catered primarily to Lakeland’s black and Latino residents. Whatever the hair, or lack thereof, Mark’s round face was dominated by his brilliant blue eyes, a throw-back to his Dutch ancestry.

Technically a National Guardsman and a Guardswoman, said Mark as he waved goodbye to Roxy, Sal’s significant other and a legal secretary for a local ambulance chaser.

Bring him back in time for lunch and there’s a barbecue in it for you, she called out.

Mark smiled and managed to pull out of the driveway without squealing the tires, but only just. He could feel Roxy shaking her head behind him.

They sped out quickly, ducking under the I-4, leaving behind the warm glow of the city and plummeting into the velvet black of the night. Ahead of them the amber reflectors set into the middle of the highway provided a line of perfect glowing beacons pointing the way; on the radio CCR’s Bad Moon Rising set the tone.

The functioning radio was another fine feature of the SUV that had set it apart from their previous car, an aging Ford Police Interceptor—dubbed the Piece-of-Shit—whose radio, like its air conditioner, had rarely worked. The POS had finally crapped out completely and, by some miraculous luck of the draw, the supply chain had delivered a black 2006 GMT800 3/4 ton Suburban complete with a police pursuit push bumper, grill wraps, a radio and light package, working air, all-wheel drive, a 496 cubic inch Vortec V8 and only forty-seven miles on the odometer. Sal had vacillated between calling it The Pig or the Heavy Chevy before finally settling the question by not settling the question and alternating the use of the title as the mood struck him.

So what do we have? asked Sal.

Not much. Just what I told you on the phone. Looks to be a home invasion and the two vics were in National Guard units in Ocala. More than anything else I think that the local cops want us to carry their water for them on investigating their military backgrounds.

Doesn’t sound like a Saturday night emergency, if you ask me, Sal said. He pointed at the radio. Does that thing get the game?

What game? Mark inquired.

The Bolts are playing the Panthers tonight. The Bolts were the Tampa Lightning, Tampa’s National Hockey League team. With their Stanley Cup win two seasons ago interest in the team had spiked notwithstanding the following year’s league-wide lockout and the team’s dim performance the subsequent year.

Why does anyone in Florida follow hockey? Mark asked rhetorically. I mean you have to build arenas that suck up masses of energy to make ice down here. It’s not like the kids can play a pickup game outside. Who gives a shit anyway. Better to play basketball. Or soccer. Balls are cheap and you can find a flat field pretty much everywhere out here.

Nobody cares about a game where one goal is considered a major achievement, said Sal derisively. All folks do in soccer is run back and forth for a couple of hours. It’s like watching paint dry.

Same with hockey. You get maybe a goal every half-hour.

But the skating is fast and there’s full-body contact.

Basketball’s fast and you get tons of scoring. There’s a game for you.

Well you got that, but there’s no basketball tonight while, on the other hand, the Bolts are playing right now. What with them and Atlanta flipping back and forth for the Southeast Division’s lead, every game matters.

The Bolts had lost six to two by the time Exit 350 into Ocala came up. Just short of a kilometer after the exit, Mark’s Garmin lead them on a circuitous route through a residential area to the Oceola Parkway, down SW 4th Avenue before hooking up with SW 7th Avenue Road and into the neighborhood Harris had directed them to. Mark caught sight of a low sign at the entrance: Lemon Wood II.

From here, finding the scene would not have been difficult even without the GPS. Flashing red and blue strobes lit up the thick canopy of the trees and were visible all the way to the development’s entrance.

They followed the road around to the lights’ source; nearly a dozen cruisers, vans and unmarked cars nestled on a narrow paved street where low houses on wide lots lined both sides. On one side of the street the lots consisted of treed lawns, on the other dense woods and scrub.

Looks like the press is here already, said Sal pointing to two white vans with transmission masts run up just outside the yellow crime tape closing off the scene.

Like flies to carrion.

Mark and Sal had to drive down nearly three lots in order to find an empty slot on the lawn side of the street.

Sal was about to exit the car when a spray of water hit the windshield and the passenger side of the SUV.

Shit. That was close, he said as he waited for the impact sprinkler to move on and then quickly exited the car and dashed around onto the street out of its range. Once outside, they slipped into blue-black nylon rain jackets with gold lettering prominently featuring the words POLICE and US AGENT on the back and CID and the CID crest on the right and left breast respectively.

They walked down the middle of the road toward the house that was the focus of all the attention. The slapping sounds of several more impact sprinklers to their left gave evidence to the fact that at least one of the residents here was smart enough not to water the grass during the heat of the day. Deep drainage ditches ran along either side of the road; no sidewalks here. Interested neighbors stood in small clumps on their front porches or lawns whispering to each other, their arms hugging themselves tightly to ward off the chill of the evening and the violence that had struck their community.

A dimly lit driveway of Roman-style paving stones beyond the yellow tape led up to a two car garage attached to the house. A small cluster of cops stood at its end, one holding a leash attached to a German Shepherd who gave them a serious stare as they walked past. No one asked for their credentials, their jackets giving them general acceptance onto the scene.

Mark tossed a question their way, Sergeant Harris?

Inside, answered the K-9 handler pointing to the house’s front doorway.

At the door a uniformed cop finally checked their credentials and marked them down on a clipboard site access log while Mark and Sal slipped on paper booties and latex gloves.

The house’s foyer opened into a large open-concept living area; kitchen, great room, dining area all unified by way of an expanse of yellowish-red terracotta tiled floor. The heavy Spanish-style furniture was a blend of pastel fabrics and wrought iron accoutrements.

Mark took in the layout at a glance. Several crime scene technicians in disposable coveralls were scattered about the premises concentrating on their tasks. There was no second storey and Mark expected that, like most Floridian houses, there would be no basement, just a slab foundation. To the right, as he faced the living space from the foyer, lay a short hall which led to what appeared to be a master-bedroom suite. To the left lay another short hall which branched back toward a bathroom and a set of small bedrooms and a mudroom/laundry room which he assumed also served as a garage entrance.

Any further examination of the premises was cut short by presence of an ACU clad body lying crumpled in the doorway of the laundry room. Next to the body stood four plainclothes officers whose hushed conversation stopped as they spied Mark and Sal.

You Chief Winters? asked one of the four.

Mark took their measure. The speaker was a forty-something, white male a couple of inches shorter than Mark but about ten pounds heavier and wearing a grey, rumpled suit. To his right stood a tall, bald black man in a neat tan suit, maybe mid-thirties, six-three, two-forty pounds. A mid-thirties woman, five seven and a hundred and fifty with blond hair and blue eyes in a blue pant suit and a blue-suited man who could have been a carbon copy of the speaker completed the foursome.

Yup. You Harris? Mark replied.

Yeah. Call me Wayne. This is Detective Tyron Anderson, from our homicide office. he said nodding to the black cop. These guys are Sgt Gary Dunn and Detective Phyllis Agnew from the Marion County Sheriff’s Office.

Staff Sergeant Sal Watts, Mark said flicking his head toward Sal. You can call me Mark.

They all nodded to each other except for Agnew who said Pleased to meet y’all, in a thick southern belle accent uncommon for Florida. Must be an immigrant from Georgia, thought Mark.

And this would be . . . ? he said looking toward the crumpled body.

This would be Staff Sergeant James Lewis based on the name tape on his uniform, photos around the house and identification by one of his neighbors. We haven’t found a wallet or any photo identification cards, said Harris. He and his wife are the registered owners of this house.

Harris pointed through an open door into the garage beyond.

Over there, in the garage, we have his wife Carlie. We identified her the same way since we haven’t found any purse or wallet. Neighbor says she’s in the Guard as well; a corporal. There’s a uniform hanging in the master bedroom’s walk-in closet that looks like it would be hers.

Mark stepped forward and looked through the open door where he could just make out the body of a woman with a coverall clad man and woman examining the body.

Okay to look at the bodies? he asked.

Yeah, Harris replied. The ME has finished the husband but they’re still working on the wife.

Mark and Sal with Harris trailing moved toward Lewis’s body. The other three stepped back toward the great room.

Mark squatted down and began to methodically scan the body and the area around it. Sal took out a notepad.

20th SFG, Sal said pointing at the shoulder patch on the arm. What have they got up here? Company C of the 3rd?

Nah, said Mark. CHARLIE’s down in Wauchula. Up here in Ocala, it’s ALPHA. They’re over at the Armory just south of downtown.

The body was slumped up against the washer next to the doorway leading into the house, like he’d gotten tired, bent his knees and settled down with his cheek nestled up against the machine. There were a scattering of puncture wounds in the uniform’s jacket soaked in blood and one directly into the right forehead. His hands had been encased in baggies by the ME.

Looks like one, two, . . . three to the chest and one to the forehead. Mark looked around at Lewis’s back. No sign of exit wounds. Smaller caliber. My guess is he took three to the chest while standing up, collapsed and was given one more to the head. There’s some light spattering here on the side of the machine that looks like it would match to a hit right where he’s come to rest.

Yeah that’s our preliminary thought as well, said Harris.

Looks fresh, said Sal.

It is, said Harris. Our primary witness would seem to lock down the timing as between seven and seven thirty this evening.

Mark continued to scan the body methodically then started working a grid outward from it. Not much. Some droplets on the floor. No sign of casings. Cabinets closed, an empty clothes hamper, a fairly new white-enameled, front-loading washer and dryer set. A neat, clean room except for the body in it.

Anything on the hands? Mark asked of Harris.

Nah, he said. A clean hit. No sign of a struggle that we can see. The ME will let us know more.

Mark looked at the tan combat boots on Lewis’s feet—no sign of mud or dirt.

Anyone seen his patrol cap? he asked. Harris shook his head.

Carlie Lewis’s body was the reverse of her husband’s. Dressed in blue shorts, a white blouse and blue-white sneakers, she was laid out face down, just inside the garage with two shots in her back and one in the back of her head. Mark took it in from a few steps away while the ME and her assistant continued to work on the body.

Harris left them at it for a minute waiting for a break in the work-flow before introducing Sal and Mark to the District 5 ME, Doctor Velia Castaneda and her assistant Alex Noica.

Castaneda noticed the newcomers and stood. A slight, short, young woman with a pretty face and an olive complexion crowned by long black hair tied back in a pony tail. Noica didn’t stand but Mark estimated him as of average height with a skinny frame. His defining feature was hair died a garish red with a one inch wide, white streak that ran from the crown of his head diagonally to the right.

You’re with the army? she asked.

Mark nodded. Criminal Investigation Command. From Lakeland.

These are your people then? she said.

More like all of ours, said Mark. They’re National Guard; full-time citizen, part-time soldiers.

Not anymore, she said wistfully. She turned to Harris. We’re done here and ready to transport the bodies unless you need them for something else.

No, said Harris. We’re good here. When will you do the autopsies?

Monday morning. Let’s say nine o’clock. Is that suitable?

Harris looked at Mark who nodded in reply.

Good that’s settled, she said.

Any preliminary observations that could help us? Mark asked.

Two, she said. Firstly there are abrasions to her hands, knees and face that would indicate that she was running away when she was shot from behind and went down flat and hard on her front. The second is what appears to be crushing to the fingertips of the right hand. We’ll know better later but it looks like the tire of a car ran over a part of her hand.

Mark looked at the empty space in the garage. One car, an older Honda sat on the left side. The other side, where Carlie’s hand had lain was empty.

I’m missing something here, said Mark as they walked back into the laundry room. What am I missing?

It’s not what you’re missing, it’s who, said Harris. Their two daughters are missing.

CHAPTER 2

Courtyard Marriott, Ocala, Florida

Sunday 04 Mar 07 0300 hrs EST

Mark sighed. Another late night checking into a motel rather than being at home with his family. The down side of working the CID beat in the Floridian Peninsula is that virtually every case took him somewhere away from Lakeland. On the plus side, the hotels were generally good. This one had a small balcony overlooking a pool complex surrounded on all four sides by the three-storey hotel. He stood with his hands on the railing looking down at the dim illumination that shone throughout the night. The pool was deserted this early in the morning and in fact only two rooms that he could see had any lights on—more probably business men starting a new day rather than ending an old one.

The prior day’s off-and-on rain had stopped but the humidity still hung in the air despite the cold, mid-forties night air. Today would be clearer and dry; maybe hit seventy. A shiver went through him, partly from the night’s chill but mostly from the dilemma of the missing girls. They weren’t his primary responsibility—that was the focus of the Ocala PD and the Marion County Sheriff who had already issued an Amber Alert, engaged the Florida Department of Law Enforcement’s Missing Children Information Clearinghouse in Tallahassee, and stood up a Child Abduction Coordination Center.

Megan Lewis. DOB October 22nd, 1994—twelve years old—four foot ten, eighty-nine pounds, blonde hair, fair complexion, blue eyes, no distinguishing scars or marks. Emma Lewis. DOB March 14th, 1996—a week and a bit short of eleven—four foot eight, eighty-one pounds, blonde hair, fair complexion, blue eyes, no distinguishing scars or marks. The sum total of what they knew about the girls at this time gleaned from the few photos and documents available in the house. Not much even for their short lives. With first light, Harris and Dunn’s teams would follow up on the family’s background contacts—school, friends, relatives—anyone that could give context to their lives and relationships and their abduction, and, with luck, the murders.

To Mark and Sal had fallen the task of contacting the couple’s military and civilian employers looking for leads.

A sharp rap on the door carried easily across the small room and to the balcony. Mark shook the last fleeting images of the two girls faces from his mind and answered the door.

Find any crawlies? asked Sal. Mark had recently become highly conscious of the growing rate of bed bug infestations throughout the hospitality industry. Whenever they checked in he’d pull back the bedding and check the mattress’s seams in several places looking for the vermin’s telltale signs. So far no sightings nor any end to Sal’s persistent needling.

Mark avoided the dig. Any luck with the 20th? he asked.

Yes and No, answered Sal. "I got hold of the duty officer for the 20th SFG up in Birmingham. They were able to confirm that Lewis was a member of ALPHA of the 3rd here in Ocala. They passed me on to the 3rd’s S3 up at Camp Blanding who again confirmed Lewis as a member of the battalion and added that Lewis has been working at SOCCENT every second weekend for the past few months. Something about comms; he wasn’t sure offhand what but something comms, he said."

Did you get the local boss? asked Mark.

Nope, said Sal. Couldn’t get a hold of either the CO or the 1st Sergeant. No answer at either home number. I do have their home addresses so we can swing by there or at the local armory tomorrow for a look see.

Mark thought it over. The weekend was throwing them a curve. They’d identified probable workplaces for each of the Lewises but the likelihood of making any significant contacts before Monday was low. They’d try anyway and see how far they’d get in Ocala before heading down to Tampa to follow up on the SOCCENT lead.

I should give SOCCENT a heads up, he said. There might be a security issue they need to look at.

Call Jackson, suggest Sal with a grin. He loves calls from you in the middle of the night.

Jackson was Command Sergeant Major Devon Jackson, the most senior non-commissioned officer at SOCCENT and Brigadier General Phil Sambrook’s right-hand man. Effectively, anytime they had a matter at SOCCENT, Jackson became their liaison and facilitator. Jackson made things happen. He didn’t appreciate middle of the night calls, however. Still . . . Jackson should be called; should be called now.

Mark stepped over to the dresser and picked up his Blackberry from beside the TV. It buzzed in his hand before he could dial.

Sal lifted his eyebrows with a this can’t be good look. Mark keyed Send to answer the call

Winters, he said.

Mark. It’s Phyllis. Mark keyed the Speakerphone button.

Go ahead Phyllis, he said. I’ve got Sal with me on the speaker.

Good. You’re both still up then, she said. We just got word that one of our patrol deputies found what we’re pretty sure is the Lewises’ car. Gary, Wayne, Tyron and I are all heading out there right now. You want to come with?

Sal rolled his eyes. Shit! Yeah! he mouthed.

We’ll be there, said Mark. What’s the location?

The trip had been a short one; barely nine and one half miles straight southwest from the hotel on SR 200 a hiking/cross-country bicycling trail running east-west, crossed the highway. The flashing red and blue lights of a Sheriff’s car at the side of the road marked their exit.

Sal leaned his head out the window and called out to the deputy, Sergeant Dunn here yet?

You the CID guys? A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. His lips barely moved as he spoke and it continued to hang on tenaciously albeit precariously.

Yup.

Yeah, he’s here, the deputy replied. Just follow the dirt trail in. It runs straight into the woods for about a third of a mile. You can’t miss them.

Mark threw the SUV into gear and eased it off the highway’s shoulder and onto the narrow dirt trail. In the headlights, the sand looked hard-packed and, while described as a hiking trail, clearly showed the twin ruts of a rough and bumpy, wheeled vehicle path. A few twists and turns through some minor scrub and the trail straightened out as it entered denser brush and trees.

Two hundred meters in and lights began to be visible through the trees. Almost immediately the trail became blocked by a string of cars parked on the trail. Mark backed up a few yards and made a three-point turn between taller trees as best as he could and backed into some thinner brush so as to leave the trail clear and to provide an easier way for himself to get out.

As they walked down the line of cars Sal shook his head. It will take them a half an hour to untangle this mess. Hope some Johnny-come-lately dipshit doesn’t block us in.

The scene had already been lit by portable lights and a generator from a crime scene van. Several coveralled techs were working the scene and a deputy checked them onto the site after they bootied and gloved up.

Dunn noticed them approaching and waved them over.

Get any sleep at all? he asked.

Nah. Making calls to the chain-of-command and trying to set up meetings for the morning. Mark glanced over toward the focus of all the attention.

Learn anything?

A bit,said Mark. We know the sergeant was working weekends at SOCCENT down in Tampa. We called them on the way down here to set up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon and will make a few house calls in Ocala later this morning. What have you got here?

C’mon over, said Dunn. With the car being found outside the city limits, it was clear that the Sheriff’s department was taking the lead at this scene. Mark and Sal followed Dunn over to the burned out car.

What is that? A Sonata? asked Sal.

Yeah, said Dunn. It’s a 2005. It’s one of the first ones to come out of Hyundai’s new plant in Montgomery.

Mark tried to distinguish the original color of the car but the glare of the floodlights and the condition of the car left him to simply conclude that it had been a light color, maybe the ubiquitous Floridian white, maybe a light tan. Much of the metal around the doors, roof and engine compartment was exposed and charred. The trunk area less so. The glass had shattered and the tires burned away.

This should have given off a lot of smoke, Sal commented.

If it did, no one reported it, said Dunn. If it hadn’t been for some late hikers coming down the Greenway we might never have found it.

The Greenway? asked Sal.

The Cross-Florida Greenway, said Dunn. It’s what this hiking trail is called. It’s part of the park system; folks hike and camp their way across the state.

Bit early in the year for that, isn’t it.

Go figure. Some folks like this stuff. Not me, said Dunn. Lucky for us there were three of them tonight that were pushing on to a campsite a couple of miles west of here. Anyway they came along the trail and the car was still smoldering and glowing in places so they figured with the fire hazard out here they should let someone know and called 911. Luckily one of our deputies got here before the fire department, figured out that this might be tied to the Amber Alert and convinced the fire department guys to hold off from ruining the scene.

Do we have anything yet? asked Sal.

Yeah, we do, Dunn said. The fire pretty much ate up the engine and passenger compartment but for some reason not so much in the trunk area. We’ve got some minor blood stains in there and scuff marks and scratches. The techs have taken samples and my guess is that the girls were in the trunk.

No sign of bodies? asked Mark.

Nothing.

This doesn’t make much sense, observed Mark. Why go out here in the middle of nowhere. Would he stash a getaway car here? . . . Nah. This was the Lewis’s car so how did he get to their house? I presume there wasn’t a spare car found at the house scene?

Nothing there, said Dunn. That makes it highly likely that we’ve got two perps. They come to the Lewis’s in one car, leave in two and then consolidate out here.

Makes sense, said Mark. I bet they parked their car out of sight of the house and then took the Lewises’ car so that they didn’t have to drag the girls down the street in sight of the neighbors. They just bundled them into the trunk and drove out of the garage, got their own car and sorted things out as soon as they could find a quiet place to do it.

Burned the interior to eliminate prints and trace evidence, said Sal.

"Your people have footprints and