Things We Cannot Unsee

By R.J. Pineiro

A heinous crime.
A terrifying discovery.
A detective on the edge.

NCIS Agent Lawson Pacheco is scarred to his soul from the violence he has witnessed while serving his country in the War on Terror.

There are things that Law has seen that fuel his nightmares—things he cannot unsee.

But nothing prepares him for the grisly homicides of his brother-in-arms, Navy Commander John Casey and his family—the only family Law has ever known.

Working with fellow agents Mia Patel and Beatriz Howard, Law launches an investigation that, on the surface, suggests Casey butchered his family before eating his gun—further suggesting this to be a tragic case of a PTSD-triggered murder-suicide.

But is it?

Casey had recently blown the whistle on his superior officers for war crimes committed three years before in Syria—crimes that Casey claimed the Navy tried to cover up.

When an unexpected discovery in the forensics work challenges the official Navy report, Law is propelled into the netherworld of the opium trade, sex trafficking, and corruption in the ranks that costs him and those he loves. But he won’t stop digging—he can’t stop—even when the answers threaten to consume him . . .

THINGS WE CANNOT UNSEE is the shocking psychological thriller of a man haunted by his past while searching for the truth—a truth that comes at a price he may not be prepared to pay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.J. Pineiro
• Release date: Mar 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005369729

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About The Author

PRAISE FOR R.J. PINEIRO

An unrelenting thriller. Constant action, believable evildoers, and absolute authenticity on every page.

—Publishers Weekly on Without Mercy (starred review)

Gripping battle scenes . . . outstanding follow-up to Without Mercy . . . this military adventure thriller deserves to become a genre classic.

—Publishers Weekly on Without Fear (starred review)

It’s a thrill-a-minute story, with good here-and-now technology, and a striking scientific premise at its heart.

—Wall Street Journal on The Fall

A fast-paced tale of murder and horrific crime with twists and turns worthy of Hitchcock.

—Publishers Weekly on Avenue of Regrets

Rip-roaring . . . superior action scenes.

—Publishers Weekly on Without Regret

One of the most original and electrifying science-based thrillers I have read in a long time.

—Douglas Preston on The Fall

"Indiana Jones meets Chariots of the Gods adventure . . . genuinely original and thoroughly entertaining."

—Booklist on 01-01-00

The well-executed plot twists keep you riveted until the end. Fiction of the first order.

—Clive Cussler on Firewall

Grisham fans will enjoy this well-written version of the Pelican Brief meets The Net.

—Austin American Statesman on Exposure

Things We Cannot Unsee

A Novel

R.J. Pineiro

Copyright © 2021 by Rogelio J. Pineiro

All rights reserved. Produced in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Identifiers:

ISBN 9798683850579 (paperback)

ASIN B08HM7HZ18 (Kindle)

Cover image: Under license from Shutterstock

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, corporations, or other entities, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

BOOKS BY R.J. PINEIRO

Siege of Lightning

Ultimatum

Retribution

Exposure

Breakthrough

01-01-00

Y2K

Shutdown

Conspiracy.com

Firewall

Cyberterror

Havoc

SpyWare

The Eagle and the Cross

The Fall

Without Mercy *

Without Fear *

Without Regret *

Ashes of Victory **

Avenue of Regrets

Chilling Effect

First, Fire the Consultants ***

Highest Law

Things We Cannot Unsee

* With Col. David Hunt

** With Joe Weber

*** With Robert H. Wilson

For Lory,

The first, the last, my everything.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness.

Only light can do that."

—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Chapter 1

I believe that each of us carries a unique sense of right and wrong, a moral compass born of and shaped by a lifetime of trials and tribulations.

I also believe that it is those events—and most importantly, how we handle them—which ultimately define us.

There are things I have seen and things I have done that molded me into the person I am tonight. Some experiences are good, others not so, and then there are those that fuel my nightmares.

Things I cannot unsee.

But for better or for worse, each one of those missions I carried out in the worst armpits of the world—and in the name of the War on Terror—had a hand in fashioning my personal desire for justice.

And tonight, that desire is burning as brightly as it ever has.

I want justice for this.

And I want it now. Not later. Now.

Ever seen such shit, Law?

My boss, NCIS Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC) Mia Patel from the Norfolk Field Office, draws from her half-smoked Marlboro. She regards me in the cool evening air outside a house on a typically-quiet street in the heart of Norfolk, Virginia. It’s mostly a residential neighborhood, plus a gas station at the corner, its large red sign advertising current fuel prices burning bright against the flashing blue and red lights of emergency vehicles.

Four years with the Corps, followed by another ten with the teams—half of them with SEAL Team Six—could not have prepared me for what I have just seen in that living room. The two rookie cops from the Norfolk PD who arrived first at the scene are down by the sidewalk vomiting. Even Dr. Harold Yanez, the Chief Medical Examiner for the Tidewater District, responsible for all of our forensic work, seems to have difficulty processing the scene. Contrary to what popular TV shows like NCIS make you want to believe, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service does not have its own team of forensic experts or anything resembling a crime lab. Rather, our office uses the services of the Eastern Laboratory of the Virginia Department of Forensic Science. The state-run crime lab handles everything from forensic biology and latent prints to toxicology, ballistics, serology, and all trace evidence.

I’m handling the gore better than most, though I think I’m going to have to double up on my meds for the next couple of days. See, on top of this being a scene right out of a Stephen King novel, I happen to know the victims. Professional detachment will be impossible for this one.

Who would do such a thing? Mia adds in a raspy voice that matches her lifelong addiction to nicotine-infused tobacco. She exhales through her nostrils before wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. And mind you, this woman, a former United States Marine who served multiple tours in-country, has yet to shed a tear in my presence. "Carving up adults is bad enough…but children, Law? Fucking children?"

And that’s, of course, the other thing that has caught me unprepared.

Children.

I glance back at the carnage through the open front door while Yanez tries to do his thing, speaking in his monotone forensic voice, though I detect a crack in his normally steady tone. His young assistant, Jerry, snaps pictures after puking by the spot on the sidewalk currently occupied by the cops. There’s also a blood spatter analyst named Eleanor Caine who, to my understanding, just transferred to Yanez’s domain from Quantico. She’s placing numbered markers on the crime scene and also snapping photos. I notice she looks a little pale.

Yeah. Pretty dark when even the damn ME, his assistant, and the blood tech are feeling it.

So, we’re hanging out on the side of the front porch to give the forensics team the space they need to process the scene. Mia and I already had an initial crack at it when we got here after getting word from the Norfolk PD that the crime involved Navy personnel, placing the case within the purview of NCIS.

There are four victims sprawled on the living room floor, each surrounded by his or her overlapping patch of blood-soaked carpet: U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander John Case Casey, his wife, Dolores, and their two youngest, Ashley and Hanna, thirteen and fifteen respectively. Their oldest daughter, Julianna, a senior at the nearby Norfolk Academy, was out, probably with friends since it’s a Saturday, so she missed the slaughter.

But she’s the one who found them when she arrived home two hours ago and dialed 911.

Julianna’s now in the rear of the Norfolk PD cruiser belonging to the puking duo; it’s standard protocol for officers and agents at the scene of a crime to detain anyone who could be a witness—or a suspect. But the reality is that we’re simply keeping her away from the gore while waiting for a Navy social worker to arrive and attempt to help her through this.

But I know better.

The girl is…well, for lack of a better sentiment, fucked.

Probably for life.

I heard an old veteran once say that his inner strength was forged by the harrowing events that brought him to his knees. And while those are inspiring words, I’m not so sure anyone can get up off the canvas after a quadruple punch like this one, and the few who possess the strength to do so, will certainly never be the same again. I know first-hand you never get over this kind of horror experienced in life. The best you can hope for is to learn to live with that gut-wrenching sense of loss—and also with the guilt of your own survival.

I think I should explain that Case is—or was now—a platoon leader with DEVGRU, the Naval Special Warfare Development Group, better known as Seal Team Six. DEVGRU is composed of eight 16-men operational platoons and reports to Captain Peter Judice. Case took over command of my platoon after I lost the bottom of my left leg to friendly fire—if there’s such a thing—almost two years ago during a mission I’ve tried very damn hard to forget. And although my recent NCIS training tells me I should allow the forensic and investigative process to guide my thoughts, I can’t help but wonder if the viciousness in that living room is simply payback for the work Case did in the teams. He and I go way back to BUD/S, the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training course at Coronado, where we earned our tridents a lifetime ago.

This assault looks personal, Law, Mia says, almost reading my mind, which she tends to do with more and more accuracy the longer we work together.

She regards me while dragging a lungful of smoke from her cigarette, which looks diminutive in her large hand, before exhaling bullishly through her nostrils. My boss is a bit shorter than my six feet and sports a combination of swimmer’s shoulders and gymnast’s legs—very strong. Plus, there’s those sailor hands, which some people may refer to as man hands, and which I’ve seen her use to take down perps bigger than her. Mia has an oval-shaped brown face and round brown eyes framed by shoulder length dark hair. Tonight, she’s in black jeans, a black shirt, and a navy NCIS jacket. Her badge is clipped to her left hip, opposite her service Glock. She’s wearing extra-large blue nitrile gloves, also like mine, though in her case they’re stretched almost white. We’ve also slipped blue surgical booties over our shoes to preserve all footprints inside the crime scene.

That’s because it is, I say. "It’s very personal."

The list of suspects might be long with this one, she adds.

I cross my arms and look away. Case was one of three SEAL operators who sounded an alarm a month ago about crimes committed against the family of an ISIS sniper in Syria in 2018 at the hand of then Commander Judice, who at the time was a platoon leader with SEAL Team Six, and who is now on unpaid leave and under house arrest pending our investigation. And, by the way, I should also mention that Pete Judice was the chief instructor at Coronado for my BUD/S class, which made it even more difficult for Case to do what he did.

I had no choice, Law, even if I risk a court-martial for speaking out about a classified op. The things he did to that sniper’s family…to his wife and daughters…they were children, Law. Fucking children.

And there it is. Case’s comment, which he made while we smoked cigars in his backyard after a small dinner party at this very house just last week, matches Mia’s comment from a moment ago.

Is it really that simple?

Is it children for children?

A family for a family?

But it wasn’t Case who brutalized the sniper’s family.

It was Judice—at least allegedly since it’s still under investigation.

If anything, Case was trying to get justice for that war crime. Why come after him and his family?

Unless it wasn’t ISIS.

Sure, the highly-publicized case had the unfortunate side effect of exposing the names of the three team operators to the media, meaning the bad guys also knew who they were. But the average rank-and-file was also quite displeased with the Treacherous Trio, the unofficial name given to Case and the other two whistleblowers—Petty Officer Second Class Sal Dominguez and Petty Officer Third Class Angela Rusk, the first woman to make it through BUD/S—by a military establishment that frowns on snitching. And it was more so when the target was someone as decorated and honored as Pete Judice, who not only served his country in exemplary fashion but also while enduring severe hardship at home. The man lost his young son after a long battle with leukemia and that was followed by his wife dying from breast cancer. The president even awarded the coveted Congressional Medal of Honor to the man for extreme courage under fire during a still-classified mission in Afghanistan a month ago—ironically almost at the same time that Case, Dominguez, and Angela were walking into our NCIS office to report what they saw after waiting almost three frustrating years for their chain of command to do something about it.

In most military institutions, there’s a general willingness to turn a blind eye to rules being bent, especially when fighting terror. And in the case of the SEALs, the general expectation is to keep it in the immediate family. Unfortunately, the head of that immediate family, namely Captain Collin White, at the time commander of SEAL Team Six, allegedly told Case and team to stop talking about it and let it go or their careers would be side-tracked. To make matters worse, White was recently promoted to rear admiral and head of the Naval Special Warfare Command, meaning all of the SEAL teams. And the cherry on top of this shit cake was newly-promoted Rear Admiral White then promoting Judice to Captain and leader of SEAL Team Six. And, of course, White was promoted to rear admiral by the Vice Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral William Kagan—though it’s still unclear if he was aware of the claim Case and team told us they made to White. But in any case, both White and Kagan told us that no one ever came to them with any claims. Ever. Both naval officers stated quite firmly—and even emotionally—that the first time they ever heard of the war crime allegation was when Mia and I contacted them, after Case and his team had broken ranks and come to us.

Yeah. Pretty screwed up if you ask me. So, this could just as easily be some sort of reprisal by—

Law, you don’t really think that our own people could have been behind…

There she goes with the mind reading shit again.

Look, I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I really don’t know what to think. Between pissing off most of the navy, and then all three getting their names in the goddamned papers because of it, and then you throw in the fact that ISIS has cells operating in this country…"

We’ve already dispatched Humvees with Masters at Arms—the Navy’s equivalent of the Army’s Military Police—to the residences of Dominguez and Angela just to be on the safe side.

"I think our list of suspects—domestic and abroad—could form a line from here to fucking Syria," I add.

But there’s more than that to this story.

Much more.

And I’m not allowed to discuss it with Mia or anyone else who wasn’t there.

Yeah.

You heard me.

I was there, too.

Even though I wasn’t supposed to be.

Even though I really didn’t want to be.

And as I close my eyes and turn away from my NCIS boss—and from the sights, sounds, and smells oozing from that living room—a different set of sensory inputs rush back with intoxicating clarity.

Chapter 2

A volley of rounds from a Kalashnikov tore through the right fender of the weathered truck I’m using for cover, missing my right leg by inches but exiting while creating a sizzling cloud of hot shrapnel that peppered the right leg of my tactical pants, burning through the fabric.

Goddammit!

I winced in pain as I swatted away the sizzling debris with a gloved hand while a second barrage of 7.62mm bullets fired by the same ISIS asshole blocking our way to the plaza stabbed the rusting vehicle.

That’s gonna leave a nasty scar.

But I also cringed in frustration at my sniper, Master Sergeant Bruno Copeland, perched five hundred feet behind me on a rocky ledge. The haji firing at us was hiding somewhere on the rooftop of one of the structures behind a mud wall delineating the southern perimeter of the village, where a team of SEALs belonging to Commander Pete Judice had themselves been pinned down for most of the evening while assisting a platoon of ambushed Marines.

And that in itself made little sense. When Marines get into trouble, the USMC commander at KAF typically sends more jarheads to overwhelm the enemy, or perhaps orders air support. But this time a SEAL team was deployed.

We weren’t supposed to be here either. My squad was on another mission scoping out a suspected IED factory three klicks away that thankfully turned out to be just an abandoned mud structure. That was three hours ago, when we got the call to assist. But ISIS decided to plant a few turds along the way to slow us down. This was the fourth Johnny Jihad that had opened up on us since we made our way from our original target to the outskirts of the village.

Sierra Echo One, Tango Charlie Three. Sitrep.

I frowned as I heard the monotone and even, calm voice of Lieutenant John Casey asking for a situation report from the Multiband Inter/Intra Team Radio (MBITR) strapped to my utility vest. He was one of the stranded operators in that village. I could make out gunfire in the background, coming through the radio as well as echoing down from the village.

Almost there, Charlie Three, I replied. Clearing a path. Hang tight.

Roger that, Case replied.

C’mon, Cope, I then told my sniper. Get it the fuck done. We ain’t got all night.

Still don’t have a picture, he said. The man was armed with a powerful McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle packing a nasty load of 50-caliber rounds, each weighing over a pound. Most snipers preferred the smaller and more manageable TAC-338, which still had plenty of punch with its load of 338 Lapua Magnum rounds. But not Cope. He loved the monster fifty-cal, you know, in case a haji was hiding behind a freezer in the basement of a village two clicks away. Or, as was the case tonight, somewhere beyond that damn wall.

Seriously, Cope?

I don’t have a fix on his flashes yet. Make him fire again.

Christ.

But I stuck to the plan, clutching my Heckler & Koch MP7SD suppressed submachine gun, waiting for the pause that signaled—or at least I hoped to God it signaled—a reload, before rolling away in a darkness enhanced by the night-vision goggles strapped to my helmet.

Another figure followed my lead, though grudgingly. Chief Petty Officer Scott Murphy, my right-hand guy in the squad, was obviously not happy about being roped into my spur-of-the-moment plan to draw fire from the elusive insurgent.

A moment later, and ignoring my burning thigh, I reached the safety of a clump of boulders ten feet from the truck.

Goddammit, Law! Murph groaned while rolling next to me, barely escaping a fresh burst of 7.62mm hell stabbing the rocky terrain we’d just spun across.

I got the small satisfaction of knowing my hunch was spot on. The zealous bastard was indeed reloading. Murph, however, made it a point to elbow me right in the ribs as he huddled against me as a second volley sparked against the rocks shielding us in a shower of debris. Hopefully that’s enough muzzle flashes for my sniper to nail the bastard.

Sierra Echo One, Tango Charlie Three. Be advised we’re moving south, toward you.

As I’m about to reply to Case that we’re still hemmed in, a single round parted the air above us like nothing else can. The unmistakable energy of a 50-caliber full metal jacket projectile cruising at three times the speed of sound whipped the darkness, before cutting through the very top of the wall and onto the rooftop currently occupied by the haji.

Clear, Cope announced.

I stood and inspected the damage. The thick mud structure some two hundred feet north of us had a gaping chunk missing from its top at least two feet wide. And behind it, on the roof of a one-story dwelling, a hooded figure cladded in black was slumped over the edge. It looked like the zealot was missing most of his head.

Charlie Three, Echo One moving north. See you in a few, I said, the smell of singed flesh from my burning leg mixing with that of gunpowder creating a noxious fog I’ll never get used to smelling.

Roger, Case replied. We’re moving south. Sending you a little present.

Leg’s fucked up, Law, Murph whispered next to me. Want me to look at it? In addition to his kickass warfare skills, Murph graduated from the U.S. Navy Special Operations Combat Medic course, which makes him my squad’s default medic.

No time for that now, I replied, before running toward the wall. Murph was right behind me, and a moment later, I spotted another figure emerging from my far right. It was USMC Sergeant James Chappelle, the fourth operator in my squad, followed by the tall and wide bulk of Army Command Master Sergeant Leslie Hope, though everyone calls him Dix after the army base where he grew up: Fort Dix, New Jersey.

Chappy and Dix reached the wall a moment before Murph and me. Then we continued along its southern perimeter in a Close Quarter Battle formation. I led the stack followed by Murph and Chappy, while Dix brought up the rear.

I glanced down and gave my MP7SD a quick visual to make sure it was ready for business. The weapon was basically an MP7 submachine gun with a built-in sound suppressor almost an inch and half in diameter and extending a good ten inches beyond the muzzle. The metallic cylinder had the added benefit of killing our muzzle flashes, so the enemy couldn’t hear where our shots originated and also couldn’t see our flashes, especially at night.

More gunfire cracked from the direction of the village, mostly AK-47s since everyone out here tonight except for Dix and Cope were firing suppressed. And the fast rattle of those Kalashnikovs was getting louder, meaning they were headed our way from inside that village. A moment later I finally spotted their muzzle flashes spitting from the other side of the wall, probably Case’s little present.

Six figures suddenly emerged from the single access entry wide enough for a truck, all draped in dark clothes and hoods and clutching AK-47s, which they were firing toward the village. Then one of the enemy combatants noticed us and proceeded to swing his Kalashnikov in our direction from a distance of around a hundred feet.

Once more, there was that ominous whisper of air whipping above us, an instant before the head of the leading haji vanished in a cloud of crimson.

Cope had just placed another—

The second Johnny Jihad was suddenly cut to pieces, but not from a follow-up sniper round. The fusillade came from the other side of the wall, which meant Case and his operators were flushing the remaining hajis toward us.

My team reacted in unison, spreading out from single file to an angled defensive fighting stance, like a diagonal firing squad. From then on, it was all head shots.

Winston Churchill once said that a prisoner of war was someone who first tried to kill you and failed, and then expected you not to kill him. And while that might have applied to the average World War Two enemy combatant, there’s no such thing as a zealous haji wishing to become your POW. If anything, these fuckers would blow themselves up in the hope of taking you with them. So, our SOP was firmly to crack their heads open.

We quickly put them down in a barrage of suppressed fire drowned in the pounding of Dix’s monster M247 machinegun. The belt-fed beast he hauled unleashed 7.62mm rounds at the rate of 600 per minute from an ammo sack slung behind his back.

And still, the haji in the rear somehow managed to duck beneath our mix-caliber volley while holding his right hand up in a fist.

Oh, shit.

Before I could react, the blast that followed knocked me on my ass. It was blinding and overarching, shaking me to the bone, rattling my teeth, squeezing my mind in a vise grip as the shockwave thundered past us.

The world slowed down around me and also went quite dark because the explosion ripped the goggles clean off my face.

I tried to sit up—tried to clear my head, but instead I felt bile-laden vomit reaching my throat.

Goddammit.

And just as I silently cursed the heavens above me for creating such deplorable and crazy bastards—just as I glared at the starry sky while blasphemous thoughts crammed my mind—the heavens responded by dropping a round object not a dozen feet from me.

It struck the ground like a sack of potatoes, only this sack was a black hood, and from it rolled out a head, or what was left of it, stopping when it bumped up against a rock.

That was something you didn’t see every day, and certainly something you seldom heard about in the media. The moment one of those zealous Johnny Jihads detonated a suicide vest, off went the head like a damned rocket ship.

See, Winston? We’re fighting a whole different kind of evil here.

And the bearded face, marred with powder burns, looked like the devil himself, still housing a pair of dark eyes that I could swear shifted toward me. Or maybe I was seeing things because of the blast.

I blinked at the surreal sight just as a hand grabbed the back of my utility vest and pulled me to my feet with amazing strength.

Up, Boss, Dix said, his bulk looming over me while Murph staggered in my direction followed by Chappy, who also looked rattled. But not Dix. The former high school linebacker remained ready for business, his M247 leveled at the spot where the hajis had materialized, smoke coiling skyward from its muzzle.

And you’re gonna need this, Boss, he added in his booming voice through the ringing in my ears. He handed me the night-vision goggles, which I strapped on, turning the darkness back into palettes of green.

Sierra Echo One, Tango Charlie Three. You guys okay over there?

Yeah, I replied, taking a deep breath and adding, bastard lighted up his s-vest…but we still have our balls.

Roger that. Hold your fire. We’re coming to you now.

We hooked up a couple of minutes later just north of the village’s southern perimeter wall, but I only saw Case and two members of Pete’s team. I recognized my old BUD/S compadre right away. The man resembled the poster child of a SEAL recruitment banner. He was tall, muscular, with fine handsome features and blond hair with blue eyes. But as they settled on me, those eyes seemed as cold and hard as the steel chambered in our weapons.

Hey, Law. Case was flanked by two operators, Dominguez and Angela. I knew both of them. Dingo was also in my BUD/S graduating class. Angie, a native of Harlem, got her trident just last year, so a rookie on her first tour in-country. Dingo got his nickname for being built like a fighting dog, short and stout, with strong arms and legs. Angie was lithe but muscular—and damn strong—with dark features beneath camouflage cream. She was also a smoker and wasted no time pulling a stick with her lips from a pack of Virginia Slims she kept secured to her utility vest. She lit up and took a long draw, briefly closing her eyes, obviously enjoying the nicotine bullet.

Angie always reminded me of a younger and thinner version of Mia, but every bit just as feisty.

Hey, guys. Where’s Pete and the rest of the gang?

Although Commander Peter Judice outranked us all, in the teams we tended to do away with ranks and with all of that sir and no sir stuff and just go with first names or nicknames.

Angie drew from her smoke and exhaled through her mouth in the direction of the hilltop. Dingo and Case also turned towards it.

They were all gunned up, like the rest of us, including goggles, utility vest over the Kevlar, and MP7SDs. We got our collective operators to form a new defensive perimeter in case there were more of the bastards hiding and waiting to take a shot at us. Angie hung with us while finishing her smoke, watching our immediate six. I also ordered Cope to shift his vantage point so he had eyes on us inside the village and also on its surroundings.

What a Charlie Foxtrot, Case finally replied with a scowl as we huddled under an overhang outside a mud and stone dwelling. Angie remained a few feet from us, her MP7SD on constant swivel, scanning our surroundings.

We had momentarily pulled up our goggles, letting our eyes adjust to the twilight of a couple of nearby pulsating fires, a likely result of the intense firefight these guys just went through. But you wouldn’t know it by looking at Case. His light blue stare was steady, even serene, calmly landing on me, reminding me of our darkest hours during BUD/S training, like that long night in that freezing water in Coronado during Week 7. Case was always the calm one, the one in control. He was famous in our BUD/S class for writing brief but encouraging personal notes to struggling classmates—and to the dismay of our instructors, who couldn’t figure out who the author was. And they never did. In an environment meant to break you, Case found a way to cheer you, and his cool temperament in the aftermath of this bloody exchange continued to reflect that attitude I noticed the day I met him.

A sniper had us pinned down most of the evening on a clearing right up that path, he started. Took out two Marines and used them as bait to wound several more, including two of our guys—one pretty bad. Almost got Angie, too, but she managed to roll back to safety. Bastard kept shooting our wounded in the legs and arms to make them scream and draw us in. Pete was enraged. I even had to restrain him to keep him from running back to get them. Then the Johnny Jihad vanished. Pete and the rest of the platoon went in pursuit up that hill. He stretched a gloved index finger at the path in the village winding up to the top. Then he added, Ordered me, Dingo, and Angie to link up with you guys.

And the jarheads?

Gone. Caravan of Humvees fought their way in and out with barely enough room for their dead, their wounded, plus our two guys. They were still breathing when they left. ‘Bout an hour ago.

So, it’s just us girls?

Case shrugged while Angie looked my way and grinned before resuming her guard. She was another tough cookie, making it through the BUD/S ordeal that typically washes out over 90 percent of the toughest hombres on the planet.

Case then motioned around us with his head. Yeah, plus any haji stragglers that didn’t clear out.

I also looked around and saw the number of black-clad bodies sprawled around the plaza, most missing a significant portion of their heads.

How long have Pete and his guys been up there?

Case checked his G-shock Casio, the same model hugging my left wrist. Almost forty-five mikes.

And?

And no word. Said he would report back in an hour. Got fifteen mikes left. Gorby is also up there, he said, referring to John Kessler, another of our fellow BUD/S graduates and whom we call Gorby because he was completely bald and sported a birthmark that evoked images of the old Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev.

Let’s get them on the horn, I said. Find out what the hell’s going on. Don’t like this shit.

Case looked over at Angie, who tapped her throat mic. Tango Charlie One, Tango Charlie Three. Sitrep, she said in a voice as calm as Case’s.

Static, followed by, Charlie Three, Charlie One. A little busy up here, Gorby replied in his deep baritone voice.

Did you locate the sniper, Charlie One?

Affirmative, and— A high-pitched shriek echoed through the radio. It was the scream of a woman, and it sounded as if she was in terrible agony. Then Gorby muted the call, cutting off the heart-wrenching cry.

I blinked, and so did Angie while Case just narrowed his stare.

As I was about to ask what the hell was happening, Pete’s voice came on the line. Situation contained. Repeat, sit contained. Big ass IED mart up here. Total Charlie Foxtrot. Need to blow it in place. Charlie Three, get your butt up here and give us a hand. Leave Sierra Echo One in overwatch covering our planned egress. And call for a helo and a driver.

Angie looked at Case.

Roger that, she replied. Charlie Three heading up.

The hell was that? I asked Case. That was a woman, man, and she sounded like if she was…shit. What’s happening up there, Case? What are those guys doing?

Fuck if I know, Law. But you heard the man, and he outranks us all, he replied, before recalling Dominguez—or Dingo—from his overwatch post next to Murph by the gate. The three of them scrambled up the hill single file while I kept my operators in place guarding our southern flank. I also called for an exfil ride.

But as I stood there scanning our surroundings with my MP7SD, a strange feeling descended over me. I smelled trouble, real trouble. Although Case and Angie, and even Dingo, seemed calm, it was obvious that emotions had to be high with Pete and his operators. I’d seen it many times before in the heat of battle. It was the war-time equivalent of road rage, when a cruel enemy pushed you beyond your moral line in the sand. I had an overpowering sense that Pete and his guys were up there deep on the other side of that line, and an even stronger feeling that I should be doing something about it—that I would regret remaining put.

But my SEAL training and my oath to respect the chain of command kept me guarding our exit for twenty anxious minutes, before I just had to get back on the horn.

Charlie one, Sierra Echo One. Sitrep.

Silence.

Charlie one, Sierra Echo—

An earth-shaking rumble trembled across the village as a column of flames burst through the structure monopolizing the hilltop. For a moment, it appeared as if a volcano had exploded, vomiting a cloud of fire and smoke into the night sky, and a second later the sonic wave washed down the hillside like a hot desert wind.

And in the middle of all that chaos, I spotted Commander Peter Judice leading a single file of operators down the path snaking from the inferno consuming the summit. Some of them were carrying heavy backpacks, which team operators shied away from because it slowed them down. Their dark silhouettes were backlit in brighter shades of green by the glowing fire high above them. Its pulsating tongues licked the darkness, casting an eerie glow on the compound, almost as if the entire place had descended to the lowest level of a greenish netherworld.

What happened up there, Pete? I asked, noticing there was one marine with them, a very large guy sporting a bearded face and a slightly crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once. And what’s with the backpacks. Going on a camping trip?

That helo on the way? Judice replied, his camouflaged face rigid, his eyes as hard as the infernal rocky terrain surrounding us.

I thought all the jarheads were gone, I added, motioning toward the large man behind him who was also hauling a heavy backpack.

The helo, Law, Pete insisted, ignoring me.

I pointed toward the clearing on the other side of the compound wall. ETA five mikes.

He nodded and marched right past me, followed by the mystery jarhead, then the members of his team, including a stone-faced Case, a seemingly rattled Dingo, a visibly concerned Angie, who was taking drag after drag of her smoke, and, bringing up the rear, the stern image of John Gorby Kessler. My old BUD/S brother had removed his helmet, revealing that large basketball-like bald head and that birthmark monopolizing the left side of his forehead. But it was the lack of life in his eyes that gripped me. They looked dead, like those of a shark.

What the fuck, Gorby? What the hell happened up there?

Justice, Law, he replied, also following his commander. That’s what the hell happened up there.

And that’s the last time I saw him.

Gorby was killed two weeks later while on another strange mission babysitting a platoon of Marines closing in on an IED factory that turned out to be a trap. Insurgents blew it up, vaporizing half of the Marines, plus Gorby, before slaughtering the survivors. I escorted what little they could find of the man—merely part of his MP7SD with a gloved hand still clutching the weapon’s pistol grip—plus his personal effects, in a flag-draped casket back to his parents, who buried him at Arlington a week later.

Chapter 3

I suspected for a long time that what took place up on that hill was much more than what Pete and team reported. But I never had eyes on any of it. The official account stated that Pete and his operators had tracked the sniper to an IED factory, and since there wasn’t an aerial asset in the vicinity, they decided to blow it in situ.

End of story.

Until last month, that is, when Case, Dingo, and Angie enlightened us on what they saw when they reached that hilltop structure, and also on how long they had been reporting it up to White, who, according to them, took no action except to promote Judice.

And all this time, I had no idea that—

You okay there, Law?

I look back at my boss, who is licking her fingers to put out the cigarette, before sliding the butt inside the cellophane wrapper of her pack of Marlboros next to the other two she