Fourteen
“Have you and Cahill been in contact since his discharge?”
“No.”
“How well did you know each other?”
“Not very well. He and his Recon Marines were tight-knit, didn’t really hang out with outsiders. I was just a Seabee, so I was an outsider.”
“Did you two have any interactions before the night he saved your life?”
“I think we exchanged books once or twice, but that was it. I was aware of him. It was a small base, and he was kind of a star to his men.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was . . . exceptional. Everyone knew it. His men looked up to him, and he took care of them.”
“Do you know what he’s been up to these past four years?”
“No.”
Savelle swiped the tablet several times, then held it so Tom could see the screen.
Displayed on it was a newspaper article. The headline read:
EX-MARINE OPENS FREE YOUTH GYM
Below the headline was a photograph of Cahill standing amid several teens, male and female, all of whom were dressed in boxing gear.
Behind them was a fully equipped boxing gym—rows of hanging heavy bags, wall-mounted speed bags, and a regulation-size boxing ring.
“Cahill made the papers often,” Savelle said. “At least he did at first. He opened a number of these gyms, each one in a city with high dropout rates and out-of-control gang violence. Open to all, boys and girls. And absolutely free. The only catch was all schoolwork had to be completed before training for the day could begin. To that end, Cahill staffed each gym with volunteer tutors. Within six months of the first one opening, the dropout rate in that district fell to nearly zero and the graduation rates rose to one hundred percent. He changed lives, Tom. He gave at-risk youth a place to go and learn discipline and respect. Detroit was the first gym, New Haven the most recent. There have been five in total.”
Savelle swiped through several more articles. Tom watched them go by, saw in one article a photo of Cahill standing with a priest on his left and a man in a business suit on his right.
The headline above that photo read:
YOUTH CLUB RECEIVES CORPORATE SPONSORSHIP
“I’ll send these to your Kindle,” Savelle said. “Along with everything else we have on Cahill. His education, service, and medical records, as well as every after-action report he wrote. I need you to look through all the material tonight and get back to me first thing in the morning.”
“What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“We consider it very likely that someone from Cahill’s past has taken him in. It would be someone who isn’t too far away. And who had some kind of medical training. Maybe a classmate of his who went on to become a doctor or nurse, maybe someone he worked with during his rehabilitation at Walter Reed. Or even a medic from his unit.”
“Why would Cahill need someone with medical training?”
“He was wounded last night.”
“How?”
“I’ve included the police reports.” Savelle paused. “But the short answer is that he was shot. We’ve been through everything with a fine-tooth comb, but you knew Cahill. Maybe not as well as I had hoped, but you knew the men he served with and wrote about in his after-action reports, so maybe you’ll catch something we missed. A name, a connection—something, anything that may give us an idea where he is.”
“The NSA isn’t law enforcement. Why is Cahill’s disappearance a concern of yours?”
“There are some questions I won’t be able to answer, Tom. I’m sorry.”
“Then maybe you can tell me why this is a concern of Raveis’s.”
“Let’s just say he has a personal interest in what happens to Cahill.”
“I’m going to need more than that,” Tom said.
Savelle looked at him, then nodded and said, “I’m not surprised you didn’t know. Apparently, most people didn’t.”
“Know what?”
“That Cahill comes from money. Big money. Old family money. And the rich and powerful take care of their own.”
“Raveis works for his family.”
“Again, Tom, I can only tell you so much.”
Tom took a moment to consider that, then said, “Why drag me down here if all you need is for me read over some reports? Reports you’re going to e-mail to me.”
“The way you lived these past five years sent up some red flags. An intelligent man choosing to live some Jack-Kerouac-
On-the-Road
-thing could just as easily be another homeless vet struggling to cope with what he’d seen and done. And the fact that you’re working a job that is, well, beneath you—that concerned us, too. We needed to meet you in person so we could determine whether or not you were up to this.”
“Up to what?”
“We’re all in agreement that when and if we do locate Cahill, you should be the one to approach him.”
“Why?”
“People who have almost died together in combat share a bond that can never be broken. Trust me, I know.”
Tom glanced down at her only ring.
He wondered if beneath her silk blouse she had scars similar to his own.
“Cahill is likely to react better to you showing up than anyone else we could send. Considering his current state of mind, anyone else would be at risk of being shot dead on sight.”
“What do you mean by ‘his current state of mind’?”
“Cahill wasn’t alone last night. He was with a woman. Two witnesses saw the shooting from their rooms. According to them, she was shot, too.”
“Shot by whom?”
“Seven men came after them initially. A hit team. The police reports identify them as Chechen. Cahill killed every one of them. Before he and the woman could get away, though, an eighth man appeared. He wounded Cahill and shot the woman in the chest.”
A bright light suddenly filled the interior of the sedan.
Headlights, approaching rapidly from behind.
The driver flipped on the indicator and steered the sedan into the right lane.
A white box truck passed in the left lane, traveling at a high rate of speed. That, combined with the November wind coming off the East River, caused their vehicle to waver as the truck pulled ahead.
Swerving into the left lane, it sped onward.
“Where’s he going in such a hurry?” the driver said.
Tom saw that she was wearing the same earpiece setup as Raveis’s men.
He turned his attention back to Savelle. “Why would a Chechen hit team be after Cahill?”
“That’s one of the things we’d like to know.”
Tom thought about that for a moment, then said, “Chest wounds aren’t necessarily fatal. The woman could still be alive.”
Savelle shook her head. “Two spent shell casings were found at the scene. Their locations suggest they came from the firearm used to shoot both Cahill and his girlfriend. The rounds were Remington Golden Sabers. Nine millimeter, 135 grain hollow points, plus-P load, to be exact. It’s difficult to imagine she could have survived the devastation caused by such a round, especially at such close range.” She took a breath, then said, “I’ve read your service record, Tom. You’ve seen chest wounds. They’re a fucking paradox, aren’t they? There’s only so much you can do when you’re out in the field, and yet it can still take time for your man to die.”
Tom thought of the fragility—the startling fragility—of the human body.
He’d seen flesh torn and burned, faces and torsos mutilated, limbs severed, missing hands and feet that were never again found.
Men in agony, lost to fear, the course of their lives in a single instant forever altered.
It had taken him years to even consider being with a woman again.
Years before he knew he could lie naked in the dark and touch soft flesh for pleasure without seeing in his mind the things he’d witnessed and wished he could forget.
To imagine Stella’s body torn in any way was unbearable.
“Will you help us?” Savelle said. “Help us find your friend before he does something that can’t be undone.”
Tom almost felt compelled to point out once more that he and Cahill weren’t friends.
Not back then—and not now.
Instead he said, “What is it you’re afraid he’ll do?”
“Take his revenge. And throw what’s left of his life away. Wouldn’t you?”
Tom used his silence to let Savelle know that he needed more than that. It didn’t take her long to understand.
“There was an incident a few years ago,” she said. “With his family. This much is public information. In fact, I’ve included the relevant newspaper articles and court records.”
“What kind of incident?”
“You’ll understand once you’ve read everything. You’ll see why this is so urgent. Maybe you can help us, maybe you can’t, but right now Raveis is determined to do whatever it takes to find Cahill. If it helps, consider this a search-and-rescue mission. And a chance for you to maybe repay your debt.”
“What makes you think I feel indebted?”
“I saw it in your face the instant I said his name. And anyway, who wouldn’t be?”
Tom glanced at the driver watching him in the rearview mirror, then looked back at Savelle.
“I’ll need a few things from you in return first,” he said.
“Okay.”
“All the data that was collected from Stella’s cell phone—I want it erased. Mine, too. All of it deleted, every scrap. Can you do that?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Savelle said.
“And Stella is to be kept out of this from now on.”
“Of course.”
“I have your word.”
“You have my word.”
Tom knew he had no choice but to trust her.
The only ring she wore helped him with that.
“How will I get in touch with you?” he said.
She showed him a small business card on which were written ten digits—an area code and phone number.
The handwriting was precise and confident.
“This is to a clean cell I’ll have on me at all times. Call me and I’ll meet anywhere you want.”
Tom glanced at the business card. “Okay.”
Savelle smiled. “That memory of yours must come in handy.” She returned the card to her jacket pocket and tapped her tablet’s screen several times. “I’ve sent the documents to you. They’re encrypted. To open them, use the last four digits of the phone number I just showed you.”
The sedan decelerated then.
Tom looked through the windshield and saw that they were about to exit the FDR.
Savelle was watching him. “When I reentered civilian life, I encountered a lack of loyalty from others that I found . . . unnerving. And, frankly, disorienting. I see now why Carrington speaks so highly of you. And why he has kept you in his back pocket all these years.”
The vehicle made a sharp turn onto Houston Street and came to a stop at a red light.
The intersection ahead was empty—no traffic visible in any direction.
Tom was now just blocks from his pickup.
He would be home in less than three hours.
Just like he’d promised.
“There’s one more thing,” Savelle said. “You’re off the books, of course, but I can’t guarantee your involvement in this won’t come to the attention of whoever sent the hit team after Cahill. Just to be safe, you might want to make sure your girlfriend is somewhere no one can find her. You might even want to take care of that now rather than later. One innocent woman is already dead. None of us wants another.”
Tom stared at Savelle for a moment, then said, “Thanks.”
He reached into his pocket for his smartphone as the traffic light turned green and the sedan proceeded into the empty intersection.
The phone was in his hand and he was about make the call to Stella when the vehicle’s interior once again filled with a bright light.
Overwhelmingly bright and growing ever-brighter.
Headlights, and high up. Identical to the truck’s that had passed them on the FDR moments before.
But coming from the left this time.
Casting shadows that shifted and swelled inside the sedan as their source grew closer and closer.
On an intercept course and closing awfully fast.
Fifteen
The sound of a gunning engine was the last thing Tom heard for a time.
He didn’t hear the crash of the high-speed impact. Metal colliding and collapsing, dense automotive plastic splitting, tempered glass shattering.
He felt the impact, though—felt the sudden change in the sedan’s direction and the G forces that sudden change had instantly generated.
He felt, too, Alexa Savelle grab his left hand as her side of the sedan lifted and the sudden shift in direction quickly morphed into the early stages of a rollover.
Once the vehicle was fully committed to the roll, the violence was remarkable.
Tom was flung against the passenger door, striking the window with the side of his head.
Savelle slammed into him, her right shoulder driving into his torso.
Tom reflexively tried to grab her with his right arm, but that meant releasing his phone. The moment he did, it was lost in the turmoil.
As quickly as he had been flung to the door, Tom was suddenly upside down. He hung weightless for a microsecond before being claimed again by gravity and landing headfirst on the sedan’s ceiling.
He must have blacked out briefly, because the next thing he knew the sedan was completely still.
He was breathing hard, so hard that he should have heard it, maybe even heard nothing
but
it.
All he could hear was dead silence.
The sedan’s interior was still filled with wide beams of bright light that illuminated churned clouds of dust and smoke.
The windows of every door had broken, the bits of scattered glass sparkling like diamonds.
Tom was still stunned, reeling from the crash and roll, when he detected a faint ringing in his ears.
Distant at first, but it grew steadily louder and louder. He almost brought his hands to his ears in a vain attempt to stop the rising sound.
But before he could, the ringing ended and he was at last hearing clearly.
What he heard first was the rushing November wind and the hissing of steam escaping the sedan’s cracked radiator.
And then he heard something else.
A vehicle coming to an abrupt stop and several of its doors opening and closing.
Several pairs of heavy feet scrambling.
Running in the sedan’s direction.
Tom’s initial thought was the wild hope that they were running to help.
It was when he heard men yelling in a language he could not recognize, but feared was Chechen, that he realized they weren’t rushing to lend assistance.
The exact opposite, in fact.
Raising his arm to shield his eyes from the blinding bright light, Tom could see that the driver was still buckled in and suspended upside down, her arms hanging limp beside a head that was motionless.
Looking to his right, he saw that Savelle was limp and motionless as well.
Motionless except for the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed in and out.
Tom heard the men moving along both sides of the overturned sedan, a single voice shouting commands.
It would require significant concentration for him to even begin extricating himself from his twisted position on the roof. He and Savelle were entwined in such a way that he could not immediately figure out how to separate himself from her.
As he struggled to get free and right himself, he suddenly heard the sound of liquid being spilled.
Lots of it. Some of it was splashing onto the pavement outside the shattered windows, but the majority of it landed on the underside of the two tons of steel above him.
Tom scanned the boots of the men now surrounding the sedan.
A pair, at least, was outside each door.
He focused finally on the boots nearest to him and saw that the pavement around them was shimmering.
It was when he smelled the pungent odor of gasoline that he understood what was about to occur.
His heart surged, pumping adrenalized blood into his limbs.