Megan went through the doors, flanked by the MPs.
“Stand down,” Benbow told the MPs.
“Sir,” one of the MPs said, “we were given orders to escort Mrs. Gander out of the building.”
“She’s out of the building. Now back off.”
The MPs hesitated as Megan came to a stop beside Benbow.
Benbow stepped forward, inserting himself between Megan and the military police. “Privates, do you see that bar on my collar?”
“Yes, sir,” one of the MPs said.
“Then acknowledge it.”
Both MPs snapped off salutes.
“And leave,” Benbow ordered.
Reluctantly, the MPs turned and reentered the building. They took up positions just inside the doors and stared through the glass, looking like two well-trained attack dogs.
Benbow turned to Megan. “Now I have to admit, the last thing I expected to see when I got here is you accessorized with MP bookends. Again. Especially after last night.”
Megan looked out at the sunshine, feeling more energy than she had any right to after the days she’d put in. Somehow, what had happened in that office had changed her forever. There was a lightness to her, a wellness she hadn’t felt in a long time. She was ready to get back to doing what she knew she needed to do.
Trimble’s referral, if the chaplain really followed through on the threat, would take days to get through channels. Even if he did carry out his threat, counseling services were severely strapped. Her supervisor wouldn’t like the idea of losing someone when he needed every person he could get his hands on.
It would work out. She knew this because she knew God was with her. Somehow, this had all happened to let His plan for the world move forward. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
She started for the parking lot.
Falling into step beside her, Benbow said, “On the phone before you went into Chaplain Trimble’s office, we did discuss the whole low-profile concept, right?”
“That didn’t work out for me,” Megan said.
“Judging by the evidence of those MPs,” Benbow said, “that would be an understatement.”
21
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1412 Hours
Seated behind the wheel of the Hummer, Goose’s back warmed uncomfortably from the weak afternoon sunlight piercing the fog of dust and smoke hovering over the city from the debris thrown into the air and the areas that still burned. The tang of chemicals and charred rubber left a taste on even the shallowest breath he took through the cloth mask that covered his lower face.
Under his armor and LCE, his BDUs were drenched with sweat. His eyes burned from the chemicals and the lack of sleep. He sipped from the canteen and turned to survey Icarus.
Icarus was lying on his stomach on the rear deck of the vehicle. Green ordnance tape bound his hands behind his back and his feet together. His clothing was ripped and stained with dirt and blood. At least some of the blood was his.
Goose had stored the M-4A1 in front of the passenger seat out of easy reach of his prisoner. He kept his M9 pistol on his knee. Shifting, he capped the canteen and tossed the container into the passenger seat.
A quick glance around the alley where he’d chosen to confront the rogue CIA agent revealed that they were alone. At present, Captain Remington had cut Goose loose, leaving the first sergeant to his own devices. With his captive in hand and no one the wiser, he intended to make use of the time.
A heap of broken rock and glass spread over a cargo truck blocked one end of the alley. The other end opened onto a little-traveled street off the main path the military teams used to ferry wounded, dead, and supplies.
Goose looked at his prisoner. “You can stop faking. I know you’re awake. I saw your breathing pattern change five minutes ago. Lying there like that is just going to waste the time you have to talk to me.”
Icarus kept his eyes closed a little longer. Dried blood formed a comma from the corner of his mouth to his chin, then darted down his neck like an exclamation point. The blood had come from the damage Goose had delivered with his punch.
When he opened his eyes, Icarus said, “You punch like a mule, First Sergeant. For a while there I thought you’d broken my jaw.”
Goose barely marshaled the fury that resided within him. Icarus was the reason Goose had fallen into disfavor with Remington, and he was the reason the captain was risking his career warring with Alexander Cody’s CIA team instead of focusing on the holding effort going on in Sanliurfa.
“I can’t say that would have been an altogether bad thing,” Goose said.
Icarus worked his jaw. “Well, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the experience.” He shifted a little. “You have me tied up?”
“Yeah. Ordnance tape. Works about as well as handcuffs. Unless you have a knife to cut through it.”
“Which I don’t,” Icarus said.
“No,” Goose said. “You don’t. I made sure of it.” He’d found two knives on the man: one scabbarded on the inside of his left arm and one in his right boot.
“I’m thirsty.”
“I don’t care,” Goose said. “A few days ago, you confronted me in a bar. You were wearing a bomb, which you said you would set off if I attempted to restrain you. I’m not inclined at this juncture to cut you any slack.”
“I wouldn’t have exploded the bomb.”
“I don’t know that.”
“It was just a threat,” Icarus said in a dry voice. He broke into a fit of coughing. “I just needed to get your attention.”
“You got it then,” Goose promised. “You’ve still got it.” He worked to keep his tone harsh and aggressive. He felt badly about tying the man up and leaving him in what had to be an uncomfortable state.
“Could I have some water?”
“After we talk. You want water, you’ll earn water.”
Icarus squirmed. At first Goose thought the man was trying to free himself from his bonds; then he saw that Icarus was only trying
