Battle Cry Page 11

  Visibly fuming, he’d sat in the back of that squad car and stared at the rearview mirror in open defiance. He’d showed no signs of remorse for driving his elbow through the nose of a responding paramedic. Seemed to have no real answer about what had happened to his wife.

  In those first minutes, Marsh had thought he had it all sewn shut. A scene similar to what he’d seen several times before, the narrative practically told itself. An angry husband had lashed out at his wife, taking things much too far.

  Inadvertently or with intention didn’t much matter, the end result being the same.

  Never would Marsh have imagined that the farfetched story of a man draped in a blanket would turn out to be true.

  Just as he can’t quite believe that the majority of the list of things that have come to pass in the time since don’t at least somehow come back to Clady.

  Taken alone, many of the incidents can be waived off as coincidental. Mike Lincoln, the man that shot Clady’s wife, could have gone to ground, wanting to stay hidden after what he did. The Wolves might have torched his home with no goal beyond wanting to inflict as much pain as possible. Clady’s meeting with Dr. Brendan Hoke just days before his gruesome end could have been as innocent as wanting to share some tragic news.

  As a whole though, there is no way to discount Clady’s continued presence, no matter how satellite it might seem.

  “You ever been out this way before?” Mark Tinley asks from the passenger seat. Features illuminated by the pale pallor of the lights on the front dash, he leans forward, peering out through the windshield.

  An effort that is more or less futile, darkness and rainfall limiting visibility to nothing beyond the glow of the headlights.

  Agitation rises through Marsh. How the question could possibly be relevant in the moment, he hasn’t a clue, his young partner again showing his inexperience.

  And an affinity for talking too much while nervous, just as he had with Clady in the interrogation room a week before.

  Giving his head a quick shake, Marsh says simply, “Nope.”

  While not quite the urban sprawl of Los Angeles to the north, the greater San Diego area is more than thirty miles square. Living in Imperial Beach and working out of the Central District, never does the normal course of Marsh’s day take him within fifteen miles of Santee.

  Let alone the deserted stretch of sandy road outside the main hub of the small enclave.

  “In a quarter mile, your destination will be on the left.”

  Flicking his gaze to his phone propped up in the middle console, Marsh shoots out a hand. Depressing the power button on the side, he kills the electronic navigation, letting the phone fall flat in the plastic cup holder.

  Anticipation climbs through Marsh’s chest as a faint glow appears up ahead. Easing back on the gas pedal, he stares out, watching as a sign takes shape just back from the road.

  His grip on the wheel tightens. One time after another he tries to envision how the next few minutes might go, the possibilities as disparate as the cases they are currently investigating.

  “We got back anything from the crime scene last night yet?” Marsh asks as he makes a turn into a driveway that it is equal parts asphalt and mud. Rivulets of rainwater snake through the various chunks, carving miniature streambeds into the softened ground.

  “Not yet,” Tinley replies. “Talked to the department head earlier. After some pissing and moaning, he told me they should have a preliminary file over to us this evening.”

  Not bothering with the gas pedal, Marsh allows the vehicle to idle forward. Rolling past a battered clunker that looks to be barely running, he goes to the far end of the single-story motel and pulls in beside a black sedan.

  Not bothering to even check the plate, Marsh trusts it to belong to Clady, the vehicle completely out of place parked outside of the Valley View.

  “It is evening,” he mutters.

  Coming to a stop, he puts the car in park and stares straight ahead, the door before him lit up by his headlights. Rain continues to fall, thumping against the hood of the car.

  The same feeling as before passes through him, his body temperature rising ever higher.

  “You want me to give them another call?” Tinley asks.

  The words barely even register with Marsh. His focus stays locked on the room right before him. The sole one with lights on, it has to be where Clady sits waiting for them.

  Along with possible answers to everything they’ve been chasing for a week solid.

  And potentially the opportunity to move up and out of the Central District Marsh has been craving.

  “No,” Marsh says, giving his head a quick shake. “Too late for that now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Even with the steady din of rain hitting the roof, I can hear as a pair of car doors are slammed shut. They are followed by a few quick footfalls, water splashing as the detectives make their way across the soggy parking lot. A few heavier steps follow next in order, shoes slapping against the concrete sidewalk lining the front of the motel.

  Not that any of it has a noticeable effect on me.

  I know the purpose in Marsh calling me out of the blue and asking to meet on short notice was to catch me off guard. As was his insistence on coming here. Everything about the meeting has been designed to maximize whatever advantage he thinks he has.

  Meaning there is either some new development he wants to leverage, or he is out of ideas and has devolved into fishing.

  Based on everything I’ve seen thus far from the man, I’m more inclined to go with the latter.

  While I can appreciate what he is trying to do, what he seems to be underestimating is what I do for a living. For ten solid years, I have been trained in how to deal with stressful situations. Ways to prioritize and compartmentalize.

  He might work in law enforcement, but he cannot begin to fathom some of the places I’ve been. The things I’ve seen. Multiple tours on just as many continents have leathered my senses in a way that a simple interview will never penetrate.

  To say nothing for all I’ve been through these last couple weeks.

  Not bothering to wait for a knock, I rise from my post on the edge of the bed and pull the door open to see Marsh and his partner standing before me. Both appearing a bit surprised by my sudden appearance, they stand with mouths slightly agape, staring into the bright light flooding out.

  So much for my being the one off balance.

  “Saw your lights pull up. Come on in out of the rain.”

  The moment of being startled passes quickly as Marsh steps inside. Droplets of rain cover his bald head and cling to the top of his suit coat. Behind him, his partner enters wearing a nylon jacket, streaks of water dripping from the hem to the floor.

  “Thanks,” Marsh mutters. Stepping to the side, he runs both palms back over his scalp, wiping it clean. “Don’t know where the hell that came from.”

  “Right?” I reply. “My wife was from here, used to say it doesn’t rain often in San Diego, but when it does, it means it.”

  Much like the earlier decision to open the door on them, making a mention of my wife is a deliberate choice. As is doing so in the past tense for the first time ever.

  Just as I’ve been doing with Botkins all those mornings at the base, I need to play a role.

  “You guys need a towel or something?” I ask. “I’d offer you something to drink, but, uh...”

  I raise a hand to the room around me. No more words are shared, though I doubt they need to be for the point to land.

  In the corner sits everything I own save of my vehicle parked outside. A couple changes of clothes. A few items picked up at Kohl’s yesterday. What remains of my last food run.

  In total, less than I’ve seen some people pack for a day at the beach.

  “No,” Marsh says. Clearing his throat once, he flicks his gaze to his partner. Making no effort to sit, he spreads his feet a few inches, folding his arms before him. “We’re all set. And thank
s for making the time. You remember my partner, Detective Tinley, right?”

  Of course, I remember the man that first messed up and gave me Mike Lincoln’s name. Just as I’ve noticed he hasn’t been present for one of our meetings since.

  I can’t imagine his being included now is by accident.

  Unless that story about Marsh being in El Cajon and just swinging by was more than total bullshit.

  “Yeah,” I say, raising my chin. “Good to see you.”

  He matches the greeting, mumbling something I can’t quite make out. Not that it matters.

  My focus stays on Marsh. The trepidation I felt earlier remains just beneath the surface, waiting for whatever has really brought them by this evening.

  “The reason we wanted to speak with you,” Marsh says, “is we were wondering if you’ve had any run-ins with the Wolves lately?”

  An abrupt transition from the initial banter, my eyebrows rise without my even meaning them to. Several times in the last week I’ve encountered the Wolves. My friends and I have gone to their bar and lured one out into the desert, where we tortured and killed him. Two days later, I fought with two of them at the Ogos.

  They burned down my house. I shot one of them in Chula Vista. Swinger and I put a couple more in the hospital.

  Of all the places he could have immediately pivoted, it is an interesting choice. A question with infinite possibilities, which I’m guessing is by design.

  “I wouldn’t call it a run-in,” I reply. Despite the urge to fold my arms, matching his stance, I keep them by my side. My body language stays completely neutral, even in the face of my pulse ticking slightly upward.

  “How’s that?” Tinley chimes in.

  Sliding my gaze his way, I say, “Couple days ago, the arson investigator on my house asked me to come by. He explained what had happened and then showed me a traffic cam shot from immediately afterward.”

  My focus shifts back just in time to see Marsh’s eyes narrow.

  Whatever he was looking for, this likely wasn’t it.

  “And you recognized them?” he asks.

  “I recognized the patch on their vests,” I answer. I force myself to pause. Take a breath. Keep this from devolving into a rapid-fire exchange.

  The more that happens, the higher the likelihood they try to trap me with something.

  “I’ll never forget that damn thing.”

  I don’t bother pointing out it is the same one that Mike Lincoln had on his backpack that night in the park. The very same one that originally put me on him and the organization to begin with.

  “Why? What’s this about?”

  A single crack of lightning sounds out, close enough that white light flashes through the front window. Drawing all of our attention toward it, we stand in silence a moment before slowly turning back to face each other.

  “Where were you last night?” Marsh asks, ignoring my question.

  For the first time since getting the text from Valerie earlier asking who Mark Tinley was, a tiny bit of my anxiousness slips to the side. Replacing it is genuine curiosity.

  Of the various things they could be here asking me about, not one of them occurred last night.

  Meaning something went down that I was not involved in and know nothing about.

  “Had dinner with some friends,” I say. “Came back here, talked on the phone a bit, went to bed.”

  “What time was that?” Marsh presses.

  “Uh,” I say, lifting my palms slightly, “maybe ten-thirty? Had to be on base early this morning.”

  “And after that?” Tinley asks.

  “I went to sleep?” I say, phrasing it as a question. Again, my palms rise as I turn to either side, motioning to the empty room around me. “Sorry, haven’t exactly been doing much entertaining.

  “Can I ask again, what’s this all about?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Despite the air temperature still sitting in the seventies, the rainwater is cold as it splashes against Detective Malcolm Marsh’s bare scalp. Falling much faster than he can hope to wipe away, he leaves it to stream down. Forming thick rivulets, it races in every direction, dripping into his collar and the goatee covering his chin.

  Every few seconds he gives his head a quick shake, flinging away as much of the water as he can. The rest he leaves be, feeling his suit grow increasingly soaked with each passing moment.

  As it does so, his agitation rises higher, his focus locked on his partner just a few feet away.

  The first few minutes of the conversation with Kyle Clady had not gone anything like he’d anticipated. Or wanted. As if the man had already played out the discussion a couple of times before, he had a quick response lined up for every question. A slick retort that completely exonerated himself before tossing it back their way.

  After the second time he’d asked what this was all about, feigning complete innocence, Marsh had felt his anger starting to rise. His hands had curled up into fists, matching the urge to lash out at Clady.

  The man was lying. If not about last night, then about something from the last week.

  There was just too much coincidence for him not to be.

  Fortunately, an instant before that happened, before Marsh finally let his anger about the meeting with Friedlander and the lack of progress on the cases and being lied to by Clady boil over, they’d received the phone call.

  With Tinley’s ringer still turned up high from the drive out, the sound of it was like a fire alarm inside the small motel room. Loud enough that it caught all three unawares, they stood with bodies tensed, before realization set in.

  A moment later, Marsh and Tinley had excused themselves out into the rain.

  The same place they now stand. Huddled against the side of the building, Tinley is tucked into the alcove of the door neighboring Clady’s. Marsh stands beside him, alternating glances between Tinley and the door they just exited.

  “Yeah,” Tinley mutters in reply to something unheard over the line. “Okay.”

  With each monosyllabic response Marsh hears his partner make, his anticipation grows higher. Rocking his weight forward, he bounces on the balls of his feet.

  This might have all started as a way for him to ascend, but at this point, it is so much more than that.

  A culmination to multiple cases. A closing note to so many different threads that he never would have put together otherwise.

  “Will do,” Tinley says. “Thanks.”

  Signing off without farewell, he pockets the phone and turns to Marsh. Corners of his mouth curled up slightly, his gaze darts to Clady’s door.

  “That was the lab,” he says. “They’re not completely done processing yet, but he wanted to call and give me the prelim that was promised.”

  With every word that passes his lips, his cadence grows quicker.

  Unlike the annoyance and anticipation gripping Marsh though, his energy seems to be steeped in something much different.

  “Looks like Christmas done come early.”

  Not sure what the comment means, even less wanting to try and decipher it, Marsh snaps, “And?”

  “Long story short?” Tinley replies. He raises a finger, jabbing it toward the door beside them. “We’ve got his prints at the scene.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The first droplets of rain landed on Sven’s windshield shortly after leaving the coast. Big and fat, they slapped hard against the glass, finally starting what had been most of the day in arriving.

  Beginning slow, they hinted that the storm wasn’t going to be an isolated squall. Rather, it would be a protracted build, gradually working itself into a lingering downpour.

  By the time he reached the same spot he’d parked in earlier in the day, those first impressions were proven correct. Falling straight down, water already filled the trenches carved out in the asphalt of the road. Rested in every indentation along the berm.

  Within seconds of exiting the truck, the clothes he wore were soaked. His hair was matt
ed flat to his skull, wet tendrils clinging to his neck. The taste of cool, clean water rested on his lips.

  An outcome that is just as well to Sven, infinitely preferable to his maiden trek. If all goes as anticipated, the sole thing this journey will share with the first is the speed with which it occurs. Only nominally farther in distance, he will finish what he was contracted to do, there and gone before anybody even realizes he is present.

  Back to his truck in time for the remainder of the storm to wipe away any trace of his passing.

  Buoyed by an afternoon spent taking in fluids and medication, Sven’s steps are much quicker than they were seven hours earlier. Aiming for the direct center of any puddle he sees, his footprints are non-existent. Any sound is swallowed up by the steady drone of the rain falling around him.

  Barely does he feel the wound along his ribs. The tight wrap encasing his abdomen ensures as much, completely hidden beneath a black pullover.

  Around his waist is a small fanny pack, the same Beretta Pico and MTU16 he carried to the house the night before stowed inside.

  There is no point in trying to mix things up by switching weapons. No chance that anybody paying attention won’t draw a straight line between the house and his intended target tonight.

  Without the benefit of the moon above, Sven keeps his focus aimed down. Staring intently at the ribbon of water settling into the depressed path, he hardly registers as it splashes up around his ankles. He doesn’t worry about the rain saturating his boots.

  Instead, his thoughts stay on the task at hand. On visualizing the single-story structure he observed earlier in the day. The way it is laid out and the best manner to approach.

  The elderly woman he was assigned to eliminate and the younger one whose cellphone he used to find them, having last checked just before departing twenty minutes earlier.