It was almost two weeks since his death, and the tenacity of Crocker’s grief surprised him. He carried it with him as he crossed the concrete grinder where Green Team was doing push-ups with loaded packs on their backs.
Still burdened with guilt over the decision he’d made in the helicopter, he climbed the concrete stairs to HQ and heard his footsteps echo down the hall to the CO’s office. Captain Sutter sat behind his desk studying plans for a new team mess with a young lieutenant from the Special Operations command.
Crocker knocked on the doorframe, then ran a hand over his stubble-covered chin, removed his hat, cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me, sir. Can I have a minute?”
Sutter glanced up at him and turned to look at the digital clock on the wall. “I’ll give you five,” he said, nodding at the lieutenant, who saluted and left.
It was a big room done up in a quasinautical theme. Crocker settled into one of the brown leather chairs and laid his jacket across his lap. “Thanks, sir,” he started. “What’s the latest on Cal?”
“Cal’s better. How are you?” Sutter’s Kentucky drawl filled the space between them.
“Fine.”
The CO always cut to the chase. “What’s bugging you, Ritchie or the incident with the Israelis?”
“Both,” Crocker answered. “Ritchie and I were close. We had history.”
“I know.”
“I miss him.”
“I do, too. It’s perfectly natural.”
Crocker nodded, then cleared his throat. “I know you’re busy, so I’m gonna make this quick. It relates to Ritchie. I’m sure you’ve been keeping tabs on the situation with Senator Jesse Clark and the kidnapping.”
“Yes, I have.”
“You know Ritchie always looked up to Clark as a leader and mentor, which he was, sir. In terms of the teams, he’s one of us. So I’ve been thinking-”
Sutter held up his hand and said, “You can stop right there.”
“Why?”
“I know what you’re gonna ask.”
“Sir.”
Sutter leaned forward over his desk. “I know and respect Clark at least as well as you do, Crocker. And Ritchie was one of the finest, bravest men I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with.”
“Yes.”
“And I appreciate your coming here and volunteering,” Sutter continued. “But as you know, I take orders just like you do. And the answer I got, and the one I’m now passing on to you, is no.”
“Sir, I haven’t even told you what I’m volunteering for.”
“You want to rescue the hostages and punish the kidnappers.” Sutter slapped his hands together. “So do I, Crocker. So do I. But it’s not as simple as us wanting to do something. Is it?”
Crocker objected. “Sir, Clark’s one of us. We can’t sit here with our fingers up our butts while-”
Sutter’s face started to turn red. “When did I ever give you the impression that I’m a coldhearted commander who doesn’t give a shit about the men under him? Didn’t I let you remain in Tripoli after your wife went missing? Haven’t I defended you and your men countless times when you did things without prior authorization or pissed somebody off?”
“You have, sir. I’m sorry.”
“I’m trying to clean up more of your shit now with the fucking Israelis.”
“You’re the best, most supportive CO we’ve ever had, sir. All the men feel that way.” Crocker meant it.
This time Sutter waved his hand in front of his face and looked embarrassed. “I appreciate that, Crocker. I’m not some teenage girl fishing for compliments about her looks. The point is that I did take the Clark request higher up command. And you know what they told me?”
“No, sir.”
“The FBI and DEA are handling it and don’t want our help.”
Crocker cleared his throat into his fist. “Do they know where the hostages are being held?”
“Somewhere in Mexico. That’s all I’ve been told.”
Crocker had worked with the FBI and DEA before and knew their training, skill levels, and expertise. Finding and taking out kidnappers and terrorists in a foreign country wasn’t among those.
He said, “No disrespect to the FBI, but they aren’t going to move as fast and hit as hard as we are.”
Sutter leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “I know that, Crocker. But there are political considerations. For one thing, the Mexicans recently elected a new president, and he doesn’t want us kicking up a fuss in his backyard.”
Crocker had read about Enrique Peña Nieto and knew that he was a young, baby-faced guy from the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI). He also knew that he’d had three children with his wife, who died in 2007 of an epileptic seizure, and a fourth child, a daughter, with a mistress two years before his wife’s death.
“So what’s he doing about the situation?”
Sutter shook his head. “All I know is, he doesn’t want American military personnel operating in his country.”
“But under the circumstances-”
Sutter cut him off. “Those are the circumstances. If they change, I’ll let you know.”
Crocker grabbed his jacket off his lap, stood, and said, “I appreciate that, Captain.”
Sutter stood, too. “I don’t mean to be short with you, Crocker,” he said. “I’m sure you can tell that I’m frustrated, too.”
“We’re in the big boys’ club, sir.”
It was Crocker’s way of saying Message received, no hard feelings, move on. But it wasn’t completely honest, because he knew he had no intention of letting it go.
Every nerve in Lisa Clark’s body tingled as she sat at the long table covered with a white linen tablecloth, ivory-and-gold Lenox china, cut-crystal stemware, and large silver candelabras filled with burning candles. A half dozen male and female servers dressed in white waited with their hands behind their backs. One stepped forward and refilled Lisa’s long-stemmed glass with ice water.
“Wine, Señora?” he asked.
“Not now, thank you,” she answered, her back straight and her chin held high.
Looking over the water glass as she drank, she noticed that the big table was set for three and the room had two doors. One set of doors, to her left behind the head of the table, stood between large windows covered with white gauze curtains; the second door was behind her.
The significance of the three settings didn’t register, even though she was trying to be hyperalert to every tick of the clock in the corner, every movement and expression of the servers, every scent from the kitchen, every change in her own mood.
She immediately regretted drinking the water, because a strange feeling of detachment came over her, as though she was perceiving the world from inside a cotton-lined box.
She looked around again slowly in a last effort to take everything in before whatever they had given her had its full effect-the rich texture of the air, the subtle light, the glowing, eager faces of the servers, the sepia-colored walls.
A strange stillness pervaded everything, except for the candles that flickered gently.
She waited, counting her breaths, silently praying for sympathy and deliverance. Then, without warning, a current of excitement stirred the languid air, and she turned to the French doors seconds before they opened. Three very large men entered. One wore a Pancho Villa-type mustache. They all had dark, shiny hair and brought with them the musky smell of outdoors. The three were dressed in white guayabera-style shirts over black pants and cowboy boots, and looked like they meant business.
Behind them limped a shorter man with a cane, dressed entirely in white linen. He was thin with muscular legs and long straight hair that fell to his shoulders and hid his face. An aura of power and menace hung around him.
One of the bodyguards pulled back the high-backed chair at the head of the table and helped the man into his seat. He placed the carved ivory cane on the back of the chair with a long, dark, sinewy hand, then turned to face Lisa.