The hotel security office was located behind the main desk. Two Rangers stood guard at the entrance. A simple desk took up the back third of the small office space. The desk held security camera monitors that rotated through all four upper floors of the hotel and the basement. Two Rangers sat at the desk watching the camera sweeps, keeping constant radio contact with security teams throughout the building.
The unknown man Goose’s squad had picked up in the alley sat in the center of the room in a straight-backed chair that didn’t look comfortable to any degree. His bruised face had swelled considerably. Black-and-purple splotches covered most of his features. Dried blood mottled the long tears and split skin. He held a chemical ice pack along his jaw.
Barnett lounged against the wall and smoked a cigarette.
The man glared up at Goose. “You in charge of this operation?”
Goose returned the man’s gaze full measure. “Yes.”
The man nodded, but the movement looked painful. “They’re not letting me leave.”
“They were told not to.”
“Why?”
“Because we found you, unconscious, in the middle of a battlefield.”
“So what?” the man asked belligerently. “You put me under guard to make sure I stick around long enough to say thanks? Well then, thanks.” He started to get to his feet.
Barnett leaned forward casually and shoved the man back into the chair. He landed heavily, and the chair legs screeched across the stone floor.
“What is wrong with you people?” the man demanded. “First you save me; now I’m getting the tough-guy treatment.”
“What’s your name?” Goose asked.
The man didn’t hesitate. “Winters. Mike Winters. I’m an American citizen. From Newark, New Jersey. You don’t have any right to hold me here like this.”
“Well, Mr. Winters,” Goose said, “at the time we found you, you didn’t have any ID.”
Winters made a show of reaching into his pants pocket. He looked surprised when he came up empty. “My wallet must have fallen out.” Then he glared suspiciously at the Rangers in the room. “Or maybe someone stole it.”
“At the time we found you,” Goose repeated in a slower, more forceful voice, “you didn’t have any ID.”
“Then I guess I lost it while I was running for my life,” the man said. “Just my bad luck. That doesn’t explain why you’re holding me.”
“I notice you normally carry a couple of sidearms.”
“Not normally.”
Goose shrugged and acceded the answer. “You did tonight. And if you don’t normally go armed, tonight was a special occasion.”
Winters shifted a little, rocking from side to side and grimacing. The holsters he wore offered mute testimony that he had carried weapons.
“I like to be safe,” the man said.
“Safe would have kept you inside tonight,” Goose said.
“The building I was staying in was bombed. Killed a whole room full of people. I was lucky I wasn’t killed.”
The man was lying. Goose’s sergeant’s nose for trouble and falsehoods told him that. “Safe would have had you out of the city days ago.”
“I got trapped here during the attack.”
“A lot of people left immediately afterward. Before the Syrians started running jets through Turkish airspace and taking out convoys headed north.”
“I wasn’t in the city then.”
“Where were you?”
Winters waved a hand. “South.”
“What were you doing?”
“Business.”
Goose waited a beat, took a look at the empty shoulder holster the man wore, and asked, “What kind of business are you in, Mr. Winters?” “Photography. I’m a photojournalist.”
“Whom do you work for?”
“I’m independent. I work for myself.”
“You didn’t have a camera with you tonight.”
Winters hesitated. “I did. It must have gotten stolen.”
“I thought so,” Goose said. “An attack like this, there’d probably be a lot of news agencies willing to pay for pictures.”
Shifting the ice pack along his jaw thoughtfully, as if suddenly realizing he’d stepped out onto dangerous ground despite the innocuous line of questioning Goose had introduced, Winters nodded.
“Yeah. A lot of ‘em.”
“How much film were you carrying?” Goose asked.
Winters shrugged. “Don’t know. A bunch.”
“Where is it?”
“I suppose it was stolen with the camera.”
“And your pistols.”
“Yeah. And my pistols. Maybe you should be out there looking for whoever jacked me instead of giving me the third degree.”
“I don’t do police work,” Goose replied. “I’m here to help my captain maintain a strong position inside this city and resist occupation by enemy forces.”
Winters relaxed a little in his chair. “Looks like I’m keeping you from your job, Sergeant Gander. I’m not the enemy.”
“Part of my job responsibilities here includes running security and identifying potential threats,” Goose said.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Goose ticked points off on his fingers. “You don’t have any ID. You were heavily armed for a civilian, even under these circumstances. You were in motion in this city, carrying out your own agenda when common sense would have dictated that you hole up until the worst of this situation was over. You don’t come across like any photojournalist I’ve ever met, and I’ve come across a lot of them since the op here began. You’re demanding to leave immediately instead of taking comfort in the fact that—at present—you’re safe from attack.”
“That’s all circumstantial. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“You were in the same area as me,” Goose said softly. “And you know my name.”
Hesitation froze Winters for an instant. He tried to cover. “You gave me your name.”
“Private,” Goose said, raising his voice slightly.
“Yes, Sergeant.” Barnett looked directly at the back of Winters’s head.
Goose knew the man felt the private’s stare because he squirmed uncomfortably and couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder. “Did I give this man my name?” Goose asked.
“No, Sergeant.”
“Did anyone else in this room give this man my name?”
“No, Sergeant. I’ve been doing
