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  headed up by a one-star. Worldwide, nearly three thousand people were assigned to it, nine hundred of them special agents, like John Puller. It was a centralized stovepipe command structure with the Secretary of the Army at the top and special agents at the bottom, with three layers of bureaucracy in between. It was a lasagna dish with too many noodle beds, Puller thought.

  He focused on the SAC. “With an off-post homicide we usually go heavier than a one-man team, sir.”

  White said, “I’m trying to get you boots on the ground in West Virginia, but it’s not looking good at this point.”

  Puller now asked the question that had been puzzling him ever since learning of the assignment. “The 3rd MP Group has the 1000th Battalion at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. West Virginia is their area of responsibility. They can investigate a colonel’s homicide as well as we can.”

  “Murdered man was with the Defense Intelligence Agency. Sensitive slot calls for the ‘quiet professional’ of the 701st.” White smiled at the description often given to the highly trained field investigative personnel of the 701st CID.

  Puller didn’t smile back.

  White continued. “Fort Campbell. That’s where the 101st is stationed. Your father’s old division, the Screaming Eagles.”

  “Long time ago, sir.”

  “How’s the old man doing?”

  “He’s doing, sir,” Puller replied tersely. He did not care to talk about his father with anyone other than his brother. And even with his brother it was usually only a few sentences at most.

  “Right. Good. Anyway, the 701st’s FIUs are the best of the best, Puller. You weren’t assigned here like other MP groups. You were nominated.”

  “Understood.” Puller just sat there wondering when the man would get around to telling him something he didn’t know.

  White slid a file across the metal desk. “Here’s the prelim. Duty officer took down the initial info. Check with your team leader before you head out. An investigative plan has been formulated, but feel free to ad-lib based on conditions on the ground.”

  Puller took the offered file but kept his gaze on the man. “Thumbnail, sir?”

  “Dead man was Colonel Matthew Reynolds. As I said, he was with DIA. Stationed at the Pentagon. His local address is in Fairfax City, Virginia.”

  “West Virginia connection?”

  “Unknown as yet. But he’s been positively identified, so we know it’s him.”

  “His duties at DIA? Anything that could connect to this?”

  “DIA is notoriously tight-lipped about its people and what they do. But we have learned that Reynolds was in the process of retiring and going into the private sector. If we need to get you read in for purposes of the investigation we’ll do so.”

  If? Puller thought.

  “What were his official duties at DIA?”

  The SAC wriggled a bit in his seat. “He reported directly to the J2’s vice chair.”

  “The J2 is a two-star, right? Gives the daily intel briefing to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Guy like that gets murdered, why isn’t DIA all over this? They have badged investigators?”

  “All I can tell you is that the task has fallen to us. Namely, to you.”

  “And if we catch the person, does DIA or more likely the FBI get to swoop in and do the perp walk?”

  “Not my call.”

  “So DIA is sitting this one out?”

  “Again, I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “Okay, do we know where he was heading to after he left the service?”

  White shook his head. “Don’t know yet. You can check directly with Reynolds’s superior at DIA for specifics. A General Julie Carson.”

  Puller decided to say it. “Looks like I’ll have to be read in to do the investigative work, sir.”

  “We’ll wait and see.”

  That answer was nonsensical and Puller noted his SAC didn’t look at him when he said it.

  “Any other victims?” he asked.

  “Wife, two kids. All dead.”

  Puller sat back. “Okay, four dead, probably complicated crime scene in West Virginia with the investigation also extending to DIA. We would normally send out at least four to six people with major tech support on something like this. Even calling up some bodies from USACIL,” he added, referring to the Army’s Criminal Investigation Lab at Fort Gillem in Georgia. “We’d need the manpower just to properly process the evidence. And then another team to hit the DIA angle.”

  “I think you just hit on the operative word.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Normally.”

  Puller sat back up. “And normally in an office as large as the 701st I’d be getting my assignment from my team leader, not the SAC, sir.”

  “That’s right.” The man did not seem inclined to expand on that response.

  Puller dropped his gaze to the file. He was obviously expected to figure this out on his own. “Phone call said slaughterhouse.”

  White nodded. “That’s how it was described. Now, I don’t know how many homicides they have out there in West Virginia but I guess it was pretty bloody. Whatever it is, you’ll have seen far worse in the Middle East.”

  Puller said nothing to this. Much like the subject of his father, he did not talk about his tours of duty in the desert.

  White continued. “The local police are in charge of the investigation since it’s off-installation. It’s rural, and from what I understand they do not have an official homicide detective; uniforms will lead the investigation. Finesse will be called for. We don’t really have grounds for full involvement unless it’s determined the killer was military. And because of Reynolds’s position I want us involved at least on a collateral investigation basis. To do that we need to play nice with the locals.”

  “Is there a secure facility in the area where I can store evidence?”

  “Homeland Security has a secure site about thirty miles away. Second person stationed there to witness opening and closing the safe. I’ve gotten you authorization.”

  “I assume that I can still have access to USACIL?”

  “Yes, you can. We also did a quick phone call to West Virginia. They voiced no objection to CID involvement. The Army lawyers can paper it later.”

  “Lawyers are good at paper, sir.”

  White studied him. “But we’re the Army, so together with finesse the occasional hammer will also be necessary. And I understand that you are equally capable of providing either one.”

  Puller said nothing. He’d spent his entire military career dealing with commissioned officers. Some were good, some were idiots. Puller had not made up his mind about this one.

  White said, “I’ve only been here a month, got posted here after they moved the operation from Fort Belvoir. Still feeling my way. You’ve been doing this five years.”

  “Going on six.”

  “Everyone who counts tells me you’re the best we’ve got, if a little unorthodox.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that there’s a lot of interest from up top on this one, Puller. I’m talking past even the Secretary of the Army and on to the civilian corridors in D.C.”

  “Understood. But I’ve investigated cases involving Defense Intelligence that were handled within normal parameters. If there is that much interest at those levels, Colonel Reynolds must’ve had some extra juice in his post at the Pentagon.” He paused. “Or maybe more dirt.”

  White smiled. “Maybe you are as good as advertised.”

  Puller stared back at the man. He thought, And maybe I’d make an excellent fall guy if this all goes to hell.

  White said, “So you’ve been doing this nearly six years.”

  Puller remained silent. He thought he knew where this was going, because others had gone there before. The man’s next words proved him correct.

  White continued, “You’re college educated. You speak F
rench and German and passable Italian. Your father and brother are officers.”

  “Were officers,” corrected Puller. “And the only reason I speak those languages is because my father was stationed in Europe while I was a kid.”

  White didn’t seem to be listening. “I know you were a star of your training class at USAMPS,” he began, referring to the United States Army’s Military Police School at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. “As an MP you bounced the drunken heads of grunts all over the globe. You’ve cracked cases pretty much everywhere the Army has a footprint. And you’ve got your Top Secret and SCI clearances.” He paused. “Even though what your brother did nearly blew that for you.”

  “I’m not my brother. And all my clearances were renewed.”

  “I know that.” The man fell silent and tapped the arm of his chair.

  Puller said nothing. He knew what was coming next. It always did.

  “So why not West Point for you, Puller? And why CID? Your military service is solid gold. Top scores at Ranger School. Hell of a combat record. A leader in the field. Your father earned forty-nine major medals over three decades and he’s an Army legend. You garnered nearly half that in six tours of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. Two Silvers, one of which landed you in rehab for three months, three Bronzes with V-devices, and a trio of Purples. And you bagged a guy on the fifty-two-card most wanted deck in Iraq, right?”

  “Five of spades, sir,” said Puller.

  “Right. So you’ve got more than enough stars and scars. Army loves that combo. You’re a stud with an impeccable military pedigree. If you’d stayed with the Rangers you’d be a shoo-in for the top enlisted spot. If you’d gone to West Point you’d be a major or maybe even a lieutenant colonel by now. And you could’ve earned at least two shoulder stars before you left the Army. Hell, maybe three like your old man if you played the political games right. At CID an enlisted man tops out at command sergeant major. And my predecessor told me the only reason you filed your warrant officer application was because sergeant first classes sit their butts behind desks at CID while WOs can still get out in the field.”

  “I don’t much like desks, sir.”

  “So here you are, at CID. On the low side of the bars and clusters. And I’m not the first to wonder about that, soldier.”

  Puller let his gaze drop to the other man’s row of ribbons. White was dressed in the Army’s new blue Class Bs that were over time replacing the old greens. For anyone in the military the chest of ribbons and/or medals was the DNA of a person’s career. It told all to the experienced eye; nothing of significance could be hidden. From a combat perspective there wasn’t anything in the SAC’s history worthy of note, not a Purple or valor device in sight. Certainly the ribbons were many in number and would look impressive to the layperson, but it told Puller that the man was basically a career desk-humper, who only fired a weapon for recertification.

  Puller said, “Sir, I like where I am. I like the way I got there. And it’s a moot point now. It is what it is.”

  “I guess it is, Puller. I guess it is. Some might call you an underachiever.”

  “Maybe it’s a character flaw, but I’ve never cared about what people call me.”

  “Heard that too about you.”

  Puller eyed the man steadily. “Yes, sir. I guess the case is getting cold out there.”

  The man glanced over at his computer screen. “Then get your gear and head out.”

  When White looked back moments later, Puller was already gone.

  He’d never even heard the big man leave. White leaned farther back in his squeaky chair. Maybe that was why he had all those medals. You couldn’t kill what you couldn’t see coming.

  CHAPTER

  5

  SITTING ON THE TRUNK of his black Army-issued Chevy Malibu, Puller drank one extra-large cup of coffee while he scanned the file under the arc of a streetlight outside CID headquarters. Clustered around here were all the criminal investigative divisions of the military, including NCIS, which had become a hugely popular television show. Puller wished he could solve crimes in sixty minutes each week as his TV counterparts did. In the real world it often took a lot longer, and sometimes you never did get to the truth.

  In the background the sounds of gunshots were relentless. The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and the Marines trained around the clock with live ammo. Puller was so used to the gunfire that he barely noticed it. He would only react if he hadn’t heard it. Ironically, no shots fired at Quantico meant something was seriously wrong.

  He turned the page in the file. The Army was as methodical and precise about recordkeeping as it was about everything else: the size of the file, the number of pages stapled to it, right-side info versus left-side, what dot and dash and triple slash went where. There were volumes of field manuals devoted to every last detail. Just the regulations that went along with maintaining the Military Police Blotter were legendary in their exactness. But the important thing to Puller would always be what was on the page, not where in the folder it was supposed to go.

  Matthew Reynolds and his wife Stacey and their two teenage kids, one girl, one boy, had been murdered at a house in rural West Virginia. Mailman discovered the bodies. Local police on the scene. Husband was a colonel at DIA. He was in the process of rotating out and flipping to the private sector after pulling his twenty-six years in uniform. He was stationed at the Pentagon and lived in Fairfax City, so Puller didn’t know what the man and his family were doing in a house in West Virginia. That would be one of many questions he would have to find answers to. Maybe the locals already had answers. He would take any they had and then verify them independently.

  He put the file in his briefcase and checked his gear pack in the trunk. It was contained in a customized infantry rucksack with over a hundred compartments. It held pretty much everything he would need in the field: light blue latex gloves, flashlights, paper bags, body bags and tags, 35-millimeter and instant cameras, green biohazard suits complete with hood and air filtering gear, white field evidence collection scrubs, tape measure, ruler, evidence tape, departmental file forms, latent print kit, GSR analysis kit, barrier sheeting, digital recorder, crime scene notebook, medical equipment kit, shoe covers, body thermometer, purification mask, reflective vest, pocketknife, and nearly six dozen other items. He had two M11 pistols, and extra thirteen-and twenty-round mags. Puller also carried in his trunk an MP5 submachine gun. He had spare combat duds neatly packed in another bag. For now with the heat still at eighty-five degrees this late at night, jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt and Nikes would do.

  Puller had never taken on a case like this solo. There was usually at least one other CID agent with him, usually more, plus tech support. And this case begged for more resources. But he had his assignment. And in the Army once you had your assignment the next step was to execute it. Otherwise you would find yourself in front of a military tribunal with perhaps prison your next career post.

  He programmed the address where he was heading into his GPS, closed the Chevy’s door, punched the gas, and left Quantico behind.

  He stopped once to take a leak and grab another cup of black coffee. He hit Drake, West Virginia, population 6,547 as the sign said, at three in the morning. Sunrise would be in a little over three hours. He had gotten lost once, when the GPS led him down a two-lane road on the outskirts of Drake.

  His headlights had hit on a neighborhood of abandoned houses. There must’ve been at least a hundred of them, maybe far more. They looked to be prefabricated and mass-assembled on site. There was a string of electrical and telephone poles down one side of the street. Yet as his car glided down this little “detour,” Puller had changed his mind. The houses weren’t abandoned; at least some of them were occupied. There were old cars parked out front. But the lights that glowed in a few of the windows didn’t seem to be electrical. Maybe gas or battery-operated. He kept going, and then his lights hit on something else peculiar. It was a huge dome-shaped mass formed out of concrete that
rose up out of the woods.

  What the hell is that?

  Despite his natural curiosity he had driven on, anxious to get to where he was going. The GPS had recalibrated and he soon found himself on the right path. When he arrived he wasn’t tired. In fact the long ride had both relaxed and energized him. He decided to get to work.

  He’d called ahead and reserved a room at the only motel in the area. It was a few notches below a Motel 6, but Puller didn’t care. He’d spent years of his life in tin cans in swamps and deserts with a bucket for a shower and a hole in the earth for a bathroom, so this particular crevice in the wall was like the Ritz.

  The door to the office was locked, but on the third ring of the buzzer, the door opened. Later, after she checked him in, the sleepy old lady in hair rollers and ratty robe standing behind the counter asked him what he was in town for.

  As he palmed the room key Puller said, “Vacation.”

  That had made the old woman laugh.

  “You’re a slick one you are,” she said, her voice lisping through a large gap between her front teeth. She smelled of nicotine, garlic, and salsa. It was an impressive combination. “And big.” She gazed up at him from her five-foot-one-inch perch on earth.

  “Any place you’d recommend to eat at?”

  Army Rule Number One: Find a dependable place for chow.

  “Depends,” said the woman.

  “On what?”