The 6:20 Man

“Patience, Devine. We’ve been interested in you for a while now.”

“Is that right?”

“Who do you think got you the room at that town house in Mount Kisco?”

Devine’s eyes widened at this. “A Realtor who was a friend—”

“Right. A friend of a friend. We have lots of friends, Devine, who do what they’re told.”

“Why did you care where I lived?”

“Let’s just say it was a convenient spot for us, considering we have this office nearby. And you take the train in. And you pass a certain house there every day, right?”

The man could only mean one thing. “Brad Cowl’s palace, you mean?”

“Palace, eh? You’re right. And I’m glad you pick things up fast. Maybe our time won’t be wasted.”

He took out another picture, clearly a morgue shot of the now deceased Roy Blankenship with ligature marks around his neck.

“He was killed, murdered, you also know that. Even though Army CID ruled it a suicide. The guy was cremated, evidence lost, a total clusterfuck. But you know who killed him. Kenneth Hawkins, his superior officer, his comrade in arms, did the honors. And you know exactly why he did it.”

“Says who?” muttered Devine. He was feeling sullen and trapped, because he was. And he also knew exactly where this was headed.

“Says the evidence. Hawkins murdered Blankenship and made it look like a suicide. He got away with it. Until he didn’t. As you know. But, to refresh your memory.”

He took out another photo of a very dead Kenneth Hawkins.

“And you know who killed Hawkins.”

“Do I?” Devine felt every muscle in his body tense. The nightmare had finally come home to roost. He could feel the walls of the small space close in around him.

Hey, it was a nice, if short, ride. But you’ve got to pay the piper. I guess I did shoot the deputy after all.

“You do, because you killed him,” replied Campbell.

“I didn’t kill him.”

“You two fought, out in the moonscape mountains of Afghanistan. He was badly injured from that fight. You walked away and left him. He died there. You could have saved him. You chose not to. How would you describe that?”

“You have no proof of—”

“We have proof of everything. Enough to take years of your life away. With that said, I’m going to make you an offer that is akin to your winning the goddamn lottery, son. Now, the choice for you is astoundingly simple. Those men outside are Army CID special agents. You can either go with them to be charged and thrown in the brig to await a military trial—”

Devine interrupted, “You can’t court-martial me. I’m a civilian now.”

“Civilian courts have ruled that military retirees can be prosecuted under military law for crimes committed after they left the service. In your case, the crime was done while you were in uniform. So there is no question that the Army will be the one prosecuting your case. And you will be convicted and sent to USDB for a very long time,” Campbell added, referring to the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, the military’s max-security prison. “Unless you agree to work with us.”

“And who exactly is us?”

“The shop I now run. It’s a small office within the Department of Homeland Security, and has a joint operation agreement with the Department of Defense. It’s aptly called the Office of Special Projects. It has about five hundred operatives, of which I control fifty. I’d like to make you the fifty-first. It has a wide latitude of core interests, with the security of this nation driving all of them. When I took off the uniform I didn’t forget my oath—did you?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“A woman died at your place of employment.”

“Sara Ewes, yes.”

“You knew her.”