Will shrugged, because he had already decided that the next time it came down to Sara’s life or his, he was going to make the decision for both of them.
Amanda thumbed through the pages of another report. “The man you killed at the car accident. He called himself Merle. He’s been identified as Sebastian James Monroe. Ex-Army Corps of Engineers. Dishonorable discharge for domestic violence. He’s kept his nose clean since then, but obviously, he’s been up to something.”
Will didn’t ask her how she’d come across the information. The Pentagon didn’t usually volunteer details without a warrant and ten miles of paperwork. “Domestic violence. Does that include rape?”
“It does not.”
He couldn’t tell if she was lying. “What about Vince? The guy I shot in the chest.”
“Oliver Reginald Vale. Also ex-Army, but he has no overlaps with Monroe that we can find. Honorable discharge five years ago. No rap sheet. And going by the fact that these men chose country-western pseudonyms corresponding with the first letters of their names, we can assume that Dwight is the Dash from Sara’s bathroom ceiling message. Obviously a nickname.”
“Dash,” Will repeated. The name stirred up a boiling fury. Will couldn’t remember a damn thing about the man beyond his average height, weight and coloring. All of his attention had been on the conscious men. He’d thought Hurley was in charge.
He told Amanda, “Sara’s message said that Dash thinks Hurley is dead.”
“And we plan to keep it that way.”
She was missing the point, probably on purpose. Sara had told them that what Dash thought about Hurley was what mattered. Which meant that their focus right now should be on identifying Dash. If they didn’t know who he was, then they wouldn’t know how to find him, and if they couldn’t find Dash, then they would likely never find Sara.
So, this is what they had to do: Track down the social security numbers for Hurley, Carter, Vale and Monroe. Run credit reports that listed addresses, cell phones, credit cards, vehicle registrations. Talk to their neighbors about their comings and goings. Mine the phone numbers they had called, the stores or restaurants they had frequented. Look for overlaps. Methodically put together known associates until Dash’s real name, or an identifying feature, told them who he was.
Or Will could fuck his stupid brain and ask Amanda the obvious question. “Are Dash’s fingerprints in the military database?”
“They are not in any searchable database. We have the blood from Dash’s shoulder wound in the back seat of the Chevy Malibu, but that will take another twenty-four hours to process. And you know as well as I that if Dash’s fingerprints don’t come up in the databases, then it’s highly unlikely his DNA profile will lead us to his front door. At best, it will give us confirmation after the fact.”
Will rubbed his jaw with his fingers. He felt the rough stubble of his beard. He hadn’t shaved this morning. He was wearing the same gray suit from the day before. He had sat on his couch all night listening to Sara’s text message, trying to hear something in her voice that told him she was okay.
All he kept coming back to was this:
At 4:54, Sara had sent him a message.
What had happened at 4:55?
He said, “Dash is at the top of the IPA.”
“Correct,” Amanda said. “Carter, in his capacity as an informant, told the FBI that Dash is the shot-caller for the group. He didn’t start the IPA, it’s been around for ten years or more, but under Dash’s leadership, he’s managed to bring focus and organization to the group. The FBI deigned to share this information with me just this morning. The description they have for Dash is about as good as yours—which is to say, nothing. And the Emory CCTV video was as useless as the both of you. Dash knew exactly where the cameras were. He wore a hat and kept his head down. The man is incredibly adept at avoiding identification. You could say that Dash puts the invisible in the Invisible Patriot Army.”
Will gripped his hands together and rested them on her desk. “Amanda, I am begging you. Put me undercover. I will find Dash. I will serve him up to you on a platter.”
Amanda scooped up another report. She read, “‘Comparison weapon is a registered Glock 19 Gen5 with reversed magazine catch and slide stop lever for a left-handed shooter. The NIST algorithm using the CMC method produced a probability rating of—’”
“It’s my gun,” Will said.
“Your Glock was used to kill Vale in the motel room.”
Will tried to shrug again, but the twinge in his rib stopped him.
“You discharged your weapon twice at the car accident. You killed a suspect. You shot a second one as he was fleeing. You beat the hell out of a third. Technically, you should be suspended with pay pending an internal investigation.”
“Suspend me,” Will said. He had a plan. Sebastian James Monroe. Oliver Reginald Vale. Adam Humphrey Carter. Robert Jacob Hurley. He would circle their lives like a coyote going in for the kill.
“Stay in your seat, Wilbur.” Amanda looked past Will into the hallway. “What’ve you got?”
Faith dropped a pile of sealed evidence bags onto Amanda’s desk. She looked at Will, then did a double take.
“Faith?” Amanda was waiting.
Faith rested her hand on Will’s shoulder. She told Amanda, “This is everything Ragnersen had in his pockets. They’re going through his truck. Zevon already found a sawed-off shotgun under the seat.”
Will rubbed his jaw. The name Ragnersen drew a blank, but Zevon Lowell was the GBI agent who had met them at the motel last night. He asked Amanda, “What’s going on?”
“An investigation. What did you think was going on?” Amanda pushed around the bags on her desk. A man’s leather wallet. An iPhone. A set of car keys. A folding knife.
“Wait.” Will moved the knife around inside of the bag so he could get a better look. “This is mine. I stabbed Carter with it. The last time I saw it, it was sticking out of his crotch.”
Amanda said, “I imagine that’s the four-inch blade that was repeatedly stabbed into Carter’s chest and torso.”
Will could not stop staring at the knife. He forced his thoughts to sharpen on this one piece of evidence. Will had stabbed Carter with this knife. Michelle had used it to stab Carter. Someone had removed the knife from Carter’s dead body, which meant that the someone who had the knife had been at the motel last night.
A man’s leather wallet. Keychain with a GMC Denali logo. An iPhone in a black rubber case.
Will had to swallow before he could speak. “Where did you get this?”
Amanda motioned for Faith to shut the door. She sat back in her chair. She took off her glasses. She folded her arms across her chest.
She told Will, “The knife was found on Beau Ragnersen.”
Beau. Bar.
“He’s an ex-Army medic attached to Special Forces. The Green Berets. The file on him is too tight for me to break open. We’ve sent the paperwork up the chain to the Pentagon, but it’ll be at least a month before we hear anything. All my contact can give me is that Ragnersen saw heavy action in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was awarded a Purple Heart and took shrapnel in his back.”
Will recalled Zevon’s cryptic conversation with Amanda last night. The special agent worked with the drug squad. He hadn’t gathered all of that background information on Beau Ragnersen in the two hours it had taken Amanda to drive up to Rabun County.
Will quoted Zevon: “‘He makes his money down in Macon.’”
Faith sat down beside Will. She gave him a worried look. “Ragnersen runs black tar heroin.”
“Jesus.” Will couldn’t hide his shock. Black tar heroin was usually cut with black shoe polish or sometimes even dirt. Georgia’s distinctive red clay gave it a brownish color. You didn’t use it unless you were desperate or had a death wish.
Amanda said, “When I was in uniform, I saw a lot of vets coming home from Nam chasing the dragon. Shooting it up calcifies your veins. Distilling it into nose drops can cause you to choke to death on your own blood. Suppositories lead to internal bleeding. There’s no easy way out of it that doesn’t take you through the morgue.”
Will rubbed his jaw. This was why he hated drugs. As a kid, he’d seen too many adults do too many unspeakably terrible things in search of a fix.