Killing Time

One-Eyed Jacks again. It was on that deployment that Operation Slam Dunk disintegrated and Ramon had died.

“So you figure that’s exactly what I did,” he surmised correctly.

Still slumped against the door, he looked exhausted with the weight of Ramon’s memory. “How did you know him?” he asked again with a closed expression.

“I did a story on him,” she lied. She refused to give Brown the advantage of knowing how she and Ramon were really connected. “When he was home recovering from—”

“Shrapnel from an IED,” he interrupted with a war-worn look in his eyes. “Took a hit in his leg in a skirmish outside Kabul. It sent him back stateside for a couple months.”

“That’s when I met him. While he was recuperating.” That part was true. “He gave me an interview.” That part wasn’t. What he’d given her was a ring. They’d been married three months when he redeployed to Afghanistan.

She flinched when Brown pushed away from the door and walked back to the chair. Eyes on hers, he stood behind it, gripped the back with both hands, and leaned on it heavily. “Try again. Active duty Spec Ops soldiers don’t give interviews.”

He was right. She had to pull it together if she wanted to convince him to believe her. “It was strictly anonymous. I never referred to him by name. It was more of an overview… the perspective of a soldier on the ground.”

“Did you drug him, too, to get him to talk?”

She expelled a deep breath. “I’m sorry about that.” It was a lie and she’d do it again in a heartbeat. She didn’t have time to be nice. Nor was she particularly inclined.

She seldom was. Nice wasn’t her thing.

He considered her with a hard look. “Now you’re sorry? I don’t think so. You wanted your pound of flesh. You’re happy as hell you made me suffer. That’s why you came looking for me, right? To make me pay?”

She wanted him to suffer, all right, the way she’d suffered after losing Ramon eight years ago.

It had taken a long time to work through the grief. But she’d finally moved on. Then a month ago the file on Operation Slam Dunk with all of its conflicting information had dropped into her hands… and somebody spooky had landed on her ass. From that moment to this one, her entire world had shifted.

Eight years ago, she’d been told that Ramon had died on a routine training mission. That he’d made a careless mistake that had cost him his life. So all this time, she’d believed a lie that had told her Ramon had not died a hero’s death, but one caused by his own carelessness.

The OSD file blew the lie to smithereens. The “official after-action report” on Operation Slam Dunk, signed off on by the Spec Ops commander, said that Ramon had died on a reconnaissance mission in Helmand Province. A mission that had turned into a bloodbath when Mike Brown had defied orders.

And yet, while the official after-action report laid all the blame squarely on Mike Brown’s shoulders, he’d vehemently denied any wrongdoing in his pretrial statements. That denial had compelled her to look deeper.

Nothing she’d found out said Brown wasn’t guilty. But every new piece of information she’d uncovered raised more questions. Then the shadow had appeared, and her sources had dried up. Someone had been following her ever since, and Eva didn’t have a doubt in her mind that her own life was in danger.

Just like she had no doubt that her shadow had followed her to Lima. She’d never seen the spook, but so help her God, she could almost smell the guy.

She jerked her head front and center when Brown snapped his fingers, commanding her attention. “You’re drifting, chica. We were talking about Ramon.”

She cleared her mind, tried to pick up the thread of their conversation. “Ramon talked to me because he was a friend of my brother’s.” Another lie, but she was determined to stay this course and somehow regain her advantage.

“How were they friends?” he asked, grilling her the way she’d grilled him. “Your brother in the military?”

“What does it matter?” she snapped. She didn’t want to go down this path. It left her open to more scrutiny. “He was a friend, okay?”

He spun the chair around and straddled it. “Seems like maybe a lesson in hostage etiquette is in order. You shouldn’t get testy with me, Pamela. Remember, I’m the one holding the needle this go- round.”

7

Eva breathed deep, regained her composure, and stared him down.

He dragged a hand through his too-long hair, brushing it off his face. Between the hair and his much more than a five o’clock shadow, he looked ragged and worn and still ridiculously gorgeous. His eyes were bright and clear now. The Ketamine had worn off.

“Fine,” he said when her silence made it obvious she planned to stick with her story. “Ramon was a friend. You hate me because he died. Got it. So, what? You plot for eight years to find me and tell me what a horrible person I am? Sorry. I’m not buying that.”

When she said nothing, he studied her face intently, and when he finally spoke he sounded thoughtful, even a little sad. “Did you come here to kill me, chica?”

“If I’d wanted you dead, I’d have put something with a little more kick in that syringe. I told you. I’m doing a story. A tribute to Ramon. A retrospective,” she said, restating her original lie, then adding a little extra, working him. “And I waited eight years because I’ve been on assignment in the Middle East. You might have heard? There are wars on terror, uprisings, military coups breaking out everywhere?”

“You know how it is. Us bottom-feeders tend to live under rocks. We miss things.” He gave her a considering look as he gingerly touched his fingers to the swelling under his eye. “Okay. Because you’re so entertaining, I’ll play along. You’ve been a busy little war correspondent. But now you’re back on Ramon’s story. Please, do enlighten me more.”

“In the process of doing research about Ramon and his deployments, I was given access to several military documents.” Another bold-faced lie. She’d never been given access to anything. If it hadn’t been for that top-secret file showing up out of the blue on that flash drive—no explanation, no return address, no postmark, because it had been delivered by a courier service that had conveniently lost all information about the sender—she would have never opened up this particular can of worms.

His eyes sharpened on hers. He clearly suspected that she was lying about how she’d gotten the files, yet for some reason, he played along. “And they handed over the OSD file. Just like that.”

Relieved that his skepticism seemed to have transitioned to interest, she pressed on with her lie. “No. Not just like that. My guess is they intended to supply me with a press-ready overview of the operations run since the war started. Your basic homogenized and carefully culled material. Declassified, redacted, and already made public in some form. They weren’t supposed to give me the Operation Slam Dunk file.”

His face paled again at the mention of the file. “Then how did you get it? That file isn’t supposed to exist anymore.”

“It exists. I read it.”

His expression grew grimmer. She’d already proven how much she knew about him with information that could only have come from the file.

“Okay.” He conceded the point. “Let’s back up. Who are they? Who gave you the information?”

“I don’t reveal my sources.” She couldn’t if she wanted to. She didn’t know who her benefactor was or what his or her motive was for dropping the bomb in her lap that had led her here to Lima and Brown.

“It’s so reassuring to know that you have some professional code of ethics—drugs and flex cuffs notwithstanding.” He lifted a shoulder. “But that could just be me, splitting hairs.”