Private (Private 1)

“Don’t whine, you little twerp. Just spread your wings and fly.”

Jason’s belly scraped concrete as he was shoved a few more inches over the wall. Cars sped by on the street below. Blood rushed to his brain, and his mind spun. What could he say? That this was the most incredible game of all?

Jason’s mind kicked off disconnected images. His father’s hand holding a pen. The priest who gave him first communion. The look on Marguerite Esperanza’s face while she fought for her life.

His own voice was loud inside his head.

I’m not supposed to die this way.

I’m not supposed to die at all.

He was too scared to scream as he dropped over the rail, and he clearly heard Steem yell, “Pigeon!”

Chapter 43

TO BE HONEST, my recurring dream was sometimes more real than reality. More focused, more magnified, and usually in high-definition color.

I ran across the broken landscape toward the back ramp of the CH-46. The powerful helicopter was actually the easiest for the Afghans to bring down—their heat-seeking missiles would rather lock on to its engines than the sun. Men screamed in pain, and the crump sound of mortars exploding rang in my ears. I stood at the lip of the ramp, felt horror as I looked inside and saw—

Jesus, I was ripped from the dream, from some kind of closure, by a loud humming noise.

My eyes flashed open, and I saw my cell phone vibrating less than two feet from my face.

I palmed the phone and stared at it, my heart still thudding. The time was 9:35. The caller ID read “R. Del Rio.”

I put the phone to my ear.

“Rick. I overslept. I never do that.”

“That’s all right. I have to tell you something, buddy. You’re not going to like it.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My knees felt shaky, as if I’d really been running over rock and rubble. My mouth tasted like gunpowder.

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“It’s about Shelby,” Rick said. “She wasn’t exactly who you thought she was.”

Now I was wide fucking awake. “What does that mean? What did you find out? Let me have it, Rick.”

“She was a hooker,” Del Rio blurted. “More of a high-class party girl. Whatever. And Jack, she went back to work after she married Cushman.”

“That’s crazy. Who said that about Shelby?”

“Jack. Jack, calm down. I wouldn’t lie to you. Cruz and I talked to some credible sources. Get dressed. I’ll be out front of your house in fifteen minutes. We’ve got a witness to interview.”

Ten minutes later, I threw my briefcase into the backseat of one of the fleet cars, a Mercedes S class. Rick was at the wheel. He handed me a container of coffee.

“Shelby was not a hooker. I’m sure she wasn’t. That’s bullshit,” I said.

“You think I’m lying? Why would I lie to you, Jack?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Buckle up,” he said. “Let’s get to the bottom of this. Let’s find out who murdered her and why they did it.”

Del Rio drove the car through the smog-gray morning up into the hills. The neighborhood got richer as we climbed.

Mansions worth millions were set on lush grounds with staggering views. Del Rio slowed the car and pulled up to the high wrought-iron gates in front of one of the great houses in Beverly Hills.