Raid on Afghanistan, page 4
They killed my wife. And they’re still out there. Unpunished.
So it wasn’t all over, maybe there was something to live for; one of the oldest, most fundamental motives in the world. Before he went, he’d find out who was responsible, and make them sorry they’d ever been born. If he were to die, he’d make certain they’d die first. Yeah, revenge. If it was all he had left, so be it. He’d work that angle until he’d taken justice for Grace, and then he’d be ready to bow out. He safed the weapon and put it back into the glove box. It was time to go to work.
He drove to the San Diego office of NCIS, an anonymous, gray stone Federal building close to the Naval dockyard. A female petty officer sat behind a desk and gave him a look of alarm as he walked in. She put one hand on the phone, ready to call for the cavalry. Nolan understood, and he made a mental note to clean up his act. He needed these people to take him seriously if he was to get their help.
“Chief Kyle Nolan, PO. I need to see the duty officer.”
She held out her hand, a dubious expression on her face.
“Let’s see some ID, Chief.”
He handed over his wallet. She examined it and keyed the computer in front of her.
“What’s your business, Chief?”
He hesitated, but this was the Navy, and she’d need to pass on a reason. “My wife was murdered. I need to find out if the Navy is investigating, and how far they’d got.”
Her expression changed in an instant. “I’m real sorry about that, please accept my condolences. I’ll get Lieutenant Commander Evers right away.”
She ushered him into an interview room, a small, windowless cubicle with a battered desk and a chair either side. On the ceiling, a small camera was pointed at him, listening, watching, and recording. He waited fifteen minutes before the door opened and a black officer walked in. Nolan stood to attention. He was still Navy. The officer nodded him to a chair and shook hands.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Evers. How can I help you, Chief?”
Nolan told him about the shooting that had happened while he was on a mission. “I want to know if NCIS has looked into it, and what’s been uncovered.”
Evers shook his head. “We were told about your wife’s murder when it happened, but it’s San Diego PD business. When I heard you were here, I gave them a call. A Detective Summers is looking into it, but she says there’s nothing new on the case.”
Nolan stood. “In that case, I won’t waste your time. I’ll go down there and speak to this detective and find out what they have got.” He held out his hand. “Thank you for your time, Sir.”
Evers nodded. “You’re welcome. If anything does come up that we can use, let us know, and we’ll follow it up.”
Nolan left the room and walked out of the building, acknowledging the smile from the PO on the desk.
He drove into San Diego and parked outside the modern, zigzag shape of the new police headquarters. He’d often driven past the old PD building, which looked like a mission church, and more a place to save souls than to damn them. But now it was largely abandoned, and it was in this modern edifice that he hoped to find the answers he was looking for. The greeting from the desk sergeant was even more remote than from the PO at NCIS. He indicated a chair at the back of the station and told him to wait. A half hour later, he was still waiting when two cops walked in, a man and a woman. One of them mentioned the name Summers, so he stood up, and crossed over to them.
“Is one of you Detective Summers?”
They both stared at him. He recognized the look of contempt, as if he was some kind of a felon, maybe a street bum. He was getting used to it. The woman nodded. “I’m Summers, what can I do for you, Sir?”
She was slim and pretty, he’d give her that. No way was she his image of a hard-bitten police detective. Detective Summers was also rather short, and he guessed petite would be the word to describe her best, fresh-faced, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, dark eyes and medium length brown hair with a natural wave. She wore a blouse over faded jeans and a cropped tweed jacket that was barely long enough to hide the gun in the holster at her belt. When he looked closer, he could see a scar on her face, just above the right eyebrow. Knife wound, maybe, but it was longer than a regular knife slash, and probably a gunshot that had grazed her skin. She'd covered it with a little make-up, but the scar was too deep to be completely hidden.
“Chief Petty Officer Nolan, Ma’am. I’m here to ask about progress on the investigation into my wife’s murder.”
She looked him up and down. Then she sighed. “Come to my desk, Chief, and I’ll tell you what we’ve got. Which will take less than a minute.”
He followed her through the detectives’ room and sat down in front of a desk where she indicated. She sat behind it, took out a file, and read through it.
“Grace Nolan. Killed with a single shot from a 9mm slug, probably an Ingram. Confirmed DOA at the local infirmary. Forensics report no leads, nothing to go on. We pulled in the usual suspects, talked to the locals, but so far, there’s nothing.”
“That’s it?” he shouted. He banged his fist on the desk, and several heads turned to see if the detective needed help. “My wife was killed and you’ve got nothing?”
“I’m sorry, Chief. It’s often the way when these things happen. Everyone develops amnesia after a drug-related killing. Anyone that witnessed the crime either forgets or disappears.”
He picked up on something in her voice. “You say it’s the way it is for a drug-related killing. So it’s nothing new, then you must suspect who was behind it.”
She nodded. “Yes, I suppose that would be true, but we have no evidence.”
“Who was it?”
She shook her head. “That I can’t tell you.”
“Ma’am, if it was your husband, wouldn’t you want to know?” he asked her quietly.
She closed her eyes for a second. “My husband’s dead, but yes, I guess I would.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“No, that’s okay.” Her expression had changed, and there was sympathy and understanding there. “Look, I get off shift in less than an hour. My car is in the shop. How about I bum a ride home, and maybe we can talk?”
“Okay. We could go for a drink if you like, make it easier to talk.”
She grinned. “Not with you looking like a bum, Chief. Sorry, but you ought to take a look in the mirror. No offense, but you’ve had a hard time, and it shows.”
I don’t give a shit about the way I look. I just need a name. A target.
He waited in the street, parked under a streetlight until she emerged from the precinct. She saw him straight away in the Camaro and climbed in. He looked across at her.
“Where do you want me to drive?”
“I’ll take that drink you offered first. I could do with one. Find a decent bar, no forget that, they tell me Popeye’s is where you Navy guys drink.”
“I thought you said I look like a bum?”
She chuckled. “You do, actually. But it’s dark, so I guess no one will notice the way you look.”
He started the engine and drove away. “You checked me out, didn’t you?” It was the only explanation for her change of heart.
“Yeah, I did. I needed to know who I’d be riding with. You’re a Frog.”
So she knew the jargon. How could she not know it, a cop in this town?
“Yeah, I’m a Seal. Or I was, but I’m on sick leave right now. I don’t know if I’ll be going back.”
She nodded, but didn’t reply. He parked close to Popeye’s and they went in. At least he didn’t feel out of place in such a sorry looking bar. He found a booth in a quiet corner, and they sat down. When he asked what she wanted, she said a beer, so he ordered two Buds. It would make a change from his normal order of hard spirits, but he needed a clear head for this conversation. He looked at her when Art had gone to fill the order.
“Okay, what’s the deal with Grace’s killer? Do you have a name, or any suspicions about who did it?”
She nodded slowly. “This is confidential, right? If they found out I was giving you a name, they’d have my badge.”
“Sure, I’ll never tell anyone where I got it. What’s the name?”
She sighed. “Okay, he’s an Afghan immigrant, at least, the guy who’s behind the shootings. His name’s Mohammed Gul. His outfit is muscling in on the Latino gangs who’ve run the local drug scene up to now. He’s well connected back in Afghanistan, and he gets a lot of Afghan product into the town. He sends his shooters out to look for the local Latino dealers and pop them right there on the street. Then he moves in to take over their territory. I’m afraid your wife was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ll never know for sure who pulled the trigger, but it was Gul who ordered the shootings.”
“Where does he hang out?”
“You have to leave this with us, Chief. You can’t go starting a vigilante war.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I guess that would worry the PD. Don’t worry, I’ll find him. It’s Kyle, by the way, and thanks for helping me out.”
“That’s okay. My husband was Navy, before he was killed. I guess I’m just a sucker for a sailor. I’m Carol.”
“Was it Iraqi Freedom?”
She inclined her head slowly, and he saw her eyelids close momentarily. “He was in the Gulf, intercepting smugglers and pirates. He was in a bar one night with his buddies when a suicide bomber hit them.”
“So he got it like Grace, the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I guess, except he was military. They know what chances they take when they sign up. Grace was a civilian. It’s a different deal.”
“You got that right. Look, I have to know where I can at least speak to this Gul. Where does he hang out? Don’t worry, I don’t plan on anything stupid.”
She gave him a skeptical look.
She knows I’m lying. Maybe she wouldn’t be unhappy to see someone cap this Gul.
Finally she nodded. “Okay, I’ll tell you. He’s got a place in an old warehouse on City Heights. That’s where he does most of his business. The place is well protected, and you can believe me, Gul employs a lot of soldiers.”
“What about his home, where does he live?”
“Saratoga Avenue, he owns a big house, almost a mansion. It stands on a large lot, surrounded by a high wall and razor wire. You can’t miss it,” she laughed. “The locals call it Fort Kabul.”
“Guarded, of course?”
“Of course,” she grinned. “Guys like Mohammed Gul attract enemies the way shit attracts flies. But he travels a lot, so you won’t find it easy to locate him.”
“He has another enemy now. I’ll find him.”
Nolan looked up and groaned inwardly as a group of men approached their table.
“Move over, Chief, make room for the guys. Who’s your new friend?”
Detective Summers looked up and saw what Nolan had seen, PO1 Vince Merano, along with a half dozen members of Bravo Platoon, Seal Team Seven.
Nolan gave them a weak smile. “Hi, Vince, meet Detective Summers, San Diego PD.”
They all shook hands as he introduced her to the guys.
“So what gives, what’s this all about?” Vince asked.
“We were just discussing the progress of the case,” Nolan said quietly. “Grace’s murder.”
“Yeah, we heard the last bit,” he nodded grimly. “And I overheard the name. What are we going to do about it?”
Carol Summers got to her feet. “Look, I’m out of here. I can’t be a part of this discussion. Besides, I need to get home.”
Nolan jumped to his feet. “I’ll take you. I said I’d see you home.”
“No, no, you stay with your buddies, I’ll get a cab. I don’t live far from here. But hear this, all of you. This is police business. You will not, repeat, not use vigilante tactics against this guy. We’ll get him. Don’t worry. One day, sooner or later. In the meantime, stay away from him. I’m serious. If I see you taking potshots at this guy, I’ll run you in myself.”
There was a chorus of catcalls and laughs.
“You can run me in anytime,” Vince chuckled. He held out his hands. “Here, put the cuffs on, or do I put them on you? How do we play this?”
She went bright red, surrounded by so many fit, tough, young men. She realized she was keeping company with the finest that America could produce, the best of the best.
“Hey, cool it, guys,” Nolan shouted into the hubbub. “Detective Summers’ husband was a squid, and he got hit during Iraqi Freedom. She’s one of us.”
They fell silent. Vince looked suitably chastened. “My condolences, Ma’am, and my apologies.”
She managed a small smile. “That’s okay, but remember what I said, leave Gul to us.” She looked at Nolan.“Chief, call in and see me tomorrow. I’ll see what I can look out from the files, and try and get some momentum on this case.”
“Sure, I’ll call in.”
Their eyes met as he watched her walk towards the door. Two men stood up to block her way. They were both big men, large, and well muscled. Dockyard workers.
“Hey, Babe, you don’t want to waste your time with those guys. How about you spend some time with me and my partner here? What are you drinking?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, guys, but I’m leaving.”
“Hey, I offered you a drink. Don’t insult me by refusing, what are you having?”
“I said I’m leaving,” she repeated.
He put his hand on her arm. “The fuck you are, darling. You’re gonna sit down and have a drink with me and my buddy here. If you’ve got time for those Navy pukes, you’ve got time for us.”
She was still shaking her head, but the other man took hold of her other arm, and they started pushing her toward their table. It was as far as they got. One moment, the men were standing over Detective Summers, threatening her, and the next they were gasping in agony on the floor. Will Bryce stood over one of them, Dan Mosely over the other. The two Seals had barely appeared to move. One second they were walking casually toward the door, as if they were leaving, and the next, they stood over the two dockyard workers. People were staring, trying to connect up the moves, as if they’d been fooled by a stage conjurer’s trick. Which maybe they had.
“You’ll get up and apologize to the lady,” Bryce said. His rumbling voice was calm, but his body language and black face were cold as ice. They left the dockyarders in no doubt that he was a serious man; one they should listen to, and whose words of iron they should respect. The men stood up, nursing their bruises.
“Sorry, Ma’am,” they both mumbled.
“Louder!”
“We’re real sorry, Ma’am,” they blurted desperately, shouting out loud.
“Now get out, and don’t come back!”
They slunk out, like two whipped dogs. Carol Summers stood and smiled at the two men.
“Thanks, guys. I owe you one.”
“No, Ma’am, you don’t. They want to come in here. They treat ladies with respect. If they don’t, they soon learn the lesson. The hard way, if necessary.”
She chuckled. “I can see that. But thanks, anyway.”
She left the bar, and the Seals watched her as she walked through the door, her hips swinging slightly.
“That is some woman, Chief,” PO2 Carl Winters said to Nolan in an admiring tone.
“I wouldn’t know. How did you find me?”
“Art called us.”
Nolan looked across at the bar owner. Yeah, he would. He looked on the Frogs and Squids that frequented his bar like they were his own kids.
“Okay, what did you want? I was about to go home.”
“We want you.” It was Vince who spoke. “When are you coming back? The platoon isn’t the same without you.”
He looked at his Italian American sniper partner. Vince was dressed as always when he was off duty, faded blue jeans, a military T-shirt, brown leather A2 flying jacket that looked as if it had gone twice around the world in the cockpit of a biplane, and a pair of Alden walking boots, the iconic 405 Indy boots. He always swore he was wearing them before Raiders of the Lost Ark was released. Nobody was sure who was telling the truth.
“I don’t know, Vince. I’ve got some business to attend to first.”
“Would this be business for a MK11 Sniper Weapon System? You planning on a little unofficial target practice, Chief?”
Kyle smiled coldly. “I may look into it, yeah, maybe. Someone has to answer for Grace’s murder. But it’s my business.”
“No, Chief, you’re not doing it on your own. You know if you get caught, you could go down for life? Why don’t we put our heads together and work something out? We’ll get this guy, but let’s do it together.”
“We’re with you,” Carl added. “All the way.”
He looked around at the others, Brad Rose, Dave Eisner, Dan Moseley and Will Bryce. Their glances were a testimony to the platoon’s determination to stick together.
“I appreciate that, guys, but…” Nolan faltered, not knowing how to deal with the unexpected show of support.
“Yeah, there is a 'but',” Vince added. “But not the one you’re thinking of. We’re shipping out, so this has to go on the back burner until we get back.”
“Shipping out where?”
He looked around, but no one was within earshot. “Afghanistan. It’s a mission that’s been in the planning stage for some time. There’s a group causing a lot of trouble for our guys over there. They want us to take care of them.”
“Vince, I’m out at present, you know that. I’ve got things to…”
“They took out most of Charlie Platoon, these motherfuckers.”
Nolan stared at him, and his blood chilled. “Charlie, how come? Those guys are the best.”
“They reckon there’s a mole somewhere in ISAF, could be a Westerner or an Afghan. They’re not sure. He passed info to the insurgents, and they bushwhacked them. They’re bringing the survivors and the bodies back now. Bravo is needed over there to hunt these bastards down and kill them. Before we finish them, we’ll get them to talk about the mole, and then we can take him down. But we have to have you with us, Kyle. This’ll be a tough one. It’s all hands on deck.”
