Authors: Trish McCallan
That day had defined his life, his mother’s as well. No doubt she cursed the day he’d met Billy on the playground.
Billy had rung out of BUD/s—twice—and they’d lost touch years ago. But Cosky made a habit of visiting Handel, that old bullfrog, anytime he was in town.
The hallway in front of the grand jury room was almost empty. Security had stopped the reporters and curiosity seekers at the courthouse doors—thank Christ—so when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye he shuffled around on his crutches to get a better look.
Beth, his LC’s fiancée, was headed their way after a trip to the restroom. She seemed to spend half her time in the can these days. Apparently the baby was sitting directly on her bladder.
“Is he still in there?” Beth asked as she neared them, shooting a worried glance toward the jury room doors.
Their LC, Lieutenant Commander Zane Winters, was on the hot seat at the moment. Cosky’s turn was next.
“It’s not these questions that worry me,” his mom said, a slight quaver to her voice. Worry lines bracketed her mouth. “It’s where their questions will lead.”
Beth reached out to rub his mother’s arm. “I’m sure this hearing is just a formality, Marion. They have the support of the public, the passengers from flight 2077, and Amy Chastain. There’s no way the grand jury will actually indict.”
When the double doors opened, Cosky straightened too fast and winced at the grinding pain that ripped through his knee. It was already swelling. He could feel the pressure against the compression sleeve.
Zane’s calm green eyes locked on Beth as he exited the room and he offered her a reassuring smile. Cosky knew how much the smile cost his CO. Zane hadn’t wanted Beth anywhere near the courthouse, just as Cosky hadn’t wanted his mother here. With their names and faces splashed across every damn paper and television in the county, he, Zane, Rawls, and Mac were walking, talking bull’s-eyes. Every terrorist cell they’d spent the past fourteen revolutions
hounding would be swarming after them like hornets to honey, which put the people they loved at risk.
When reporters had tracked his mother down, Cosky had moved her out of his childhood home and into a rental under an assumed name.
Not that he and Zane had any luck keeping the women home. They’d been determined to support their men.
The double doors opened.
“Lieutenant Simcosky?” The jury forewoman asked, a polite smile on her middle-age-softened face. “We’re ready for your testimony now.”
She held the double doors open for him and followed him into the wood-paneled room. A collection of men and women sat in an elevated jury box to his right. Facing them was the witness stand. Cosky swung his way over to it and seated himself. The forewoman waited until he’d stowed his crutches, before she stepped up to administer the oath—
to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Which they’d been doing from day one—not that it had done them a damn bit of good. They’d still ended up in this box, in front of the grand jury.
The federal prosecutor rose from the table across from him and approached him with a casual, pseudo-friendly air. “You understand that these proceedings are merely a fact-checking investigation into the events of March twenty-ninth and thirtieth?”
Cosky simply nodded.
What the bastard wasn’t mentioning, according to Amy Chastain—who should know considering she’d been a highly decorated FBI agent prior to her marriage and had testified in plenty of grand jury rooms—was that his
fact-checking investigation
could
easily turn into a criminal investigation and from there into an indictment.
“State your name for the record, please.” The prosecutor slowly ambled into the center of the room.
“Lieutenant Marcus Simcosky, Officer in Charge, Squad 1, Alpha Platoon, SEAL Team 7.”
“Thank you Mr. Sim—”
Cosky calmly continued listing his credentials. “Fifteen years of active duty with Naval Special Warfare Group 1. Fourteen deployments in Afghanistan, Iraq, Paki—”
“Mr. Simcosky.” Raising his voice, the prosecutor cut Cosky’s recital off. “This proceeding acknowledges your service to our great country.”
“It’s Lieutenant Simcosky,” Cosky responded flatly. “If this court acknowledges my service to this country, then it must also recognize the service of Commander Mackenzie, Lieutenant Commander Winters, and Lieutenant Rawlings. In which case, it no doubt recognizes that it’s our combined sixty-plus years of covert ops experience in tracking, assessing, and handling terroristic threats to the United States of America that made us particularly capable of assessing and reacting to the events in question.”
“Lieutenant Simcosky,” the grand jury forewoman broke in, her voice quiet, but firm as she nudged the hearing back on track. “You were booked on flight 2077. Is this correct?”
Cosky gave a tight nod. “Yes, we were on leave. Flying to Hawaii for a buddy’s wedding.”
“Could you please take us through what happened that day?”
“While waiting to board the bird, we were notified that flight 2077 had been targeted by hijackers. Intel indicated the guns were
already on board and that the group intent on jacking the flight had already taken two birds in Argentina and slaughtered the passengers.”
“And where did this information come from?” the prosecutor asked.
“Through fresh intel off a covert op, the details of which are classified,” Cosky said.
The grand jury sure as hell didn’t need to know the
fresh intel
had come courtesy of one of Zane’s handy-dandy premonitions.
“Commander Mackenzie notified John Chastain, special agent in charge of the Seattle field office’s counterterrorism division. Our orders were to stand down, keep an eye on the Tangos, and let the feds sweep things up.”
The jury forewoman nodded her understanding. “At what point did you realize the Seattle field office was compromised?”
“As soon as Mac made the call to Chastain. Within minutes the hijackers tried to depart the gate.”
“Isn’t it true you broke protocol and stepped in to detain the suspects, regardless of your stand-down orders?” the prosecutor pounced.
Cosky raised his brows and stared him squarely in the eye. “We believed it was advisable to hold the suspects until the feds arrived. Would you have preferred that we’d let the suspects go so they could target another bird?”
“When did you suspect Agent Chastain was compromised himself?” The jury forewoman sent the prosecutor a quelling glance.
“We
knew
that Agent Chastain had been compromised the next morning. He approached us in secrecy and admitted he’d been tapped. He told us his wife and sons had been kidnapped to force his compliance. He requested our assistance in locating and freeing his family.”
“And you didn’t consider contacting local law enforcement so they could handle the rescue of Agent Chastain’s family?” The prosecutor’s tone was accusing.
“Agent Chastain was certain his office and DHS were compromised. He was also certain contacting the local PD would filter back to his field office and from there to the kidnappers, and his family would be executed. After reviewing his evidence, we agreed with his assessment. There were additional concerns that the hostages were in grave danger given the hijacking had been aborted. We didn’t feel we could wait to take action, so we contacted Admiral McKay who agreed with our evaluation and gave us the green light.”
“Isn’t it convenient that Agent Chastain and Admiral McKay are no longer available to confirm your account of that day?” the prosecutor said dryly.
No longer available?
Cosky gritted his teeth, swallowing a tide of rage. Chastain and McKay deserved better than this farce.
“They are
no longer available
because they were murdered.” Try as he might, Cosky couldn’t quite mask the contempt boiling within him. “You call that convenient? Perhaps you should run that description by their wives and children.”
The prosecutor’s round face flooded with red. An unhealthy red. “You’re well aware I used that term in conjunction with you and your teammates’ vigilante behavior and the fact neither Agent Chastain nor Admiral McKay are alive to testify to their involvement in the events you describe.”
“Chastain’s and Admiral McKay’s murders are linked to the events of March twenty-ninth and thirtieth.” Cosky’s voice turned arctic. “Chastain was killed immediately following the release of his
wife and children. McKay was bombed within hours of giving us the go-ahead. Their deaths are not a coincidence.”
“Their murders are under investigation,” the prosecutor said tightly, the flush slowly fading from his face. He sent a stiff smile toward the jury box. “But their murders, tragic as they are, are not the focus of this proceeding. Your vigilante behavior is the focus of this hearing, and the fact you and your buddies left a string of fatalities behind you.”
Cosky crossed his arms. “The fatalities took place during the insertion to release Amy Chastain and her children from their captivity.” He paused, trying to wrestle back the sarcasm. “The kidnappers were reluctant to release their prizes.”
“Isn’t it true that you were shot multiple times, in fact—near fatally wounded during this assault?”
With a frown, Cosky settled back against his chair. Where the hell was the bastard going with this line of questioning? “That’s correct.”
“So you were unconscious during most of this battle and thus unable to verify that lethal force was necessary.”
Was he fucking kidding? What a Pollyanna asshole.
“Are you aware of the firing capacity of a single MP5?” Cosky shot back.
When the prosecutor frowned and opened his mouth, Cosky turned to face the jury. Hell, nothing he said was going to convince this clueless bastard. His best bet was to hope that some of the jury members had a kernel of common sense.
“A single MP5 can rattle off hundreds of rounds per minute. The men holding Amy Chastain and her children had four of these weapons on the premises, along with assorted handguns and rifles. From the Argentine example, there was little doubt the hijackers
were willing to slaughter women and children. So to answer your question—yes, fatal force was absolutely necessary in order to free the hostages.”
Soon after, the jury forewoman released him from the witness box. Cosky didn’t budge. It was time the prosecutor answered some of his questions.
“Has anyone looked into the first-class passengers and tried to identify the seven people the hijackers were after?” he asked the prosecutor and caught the momentary freezing of the attorney’s tall frame.
“There’s no evidence to suggest there was a list of names.”
The fact the guy had responded to the question was a surprise—his answer wasn’t.
Cosky’s gaze narrowed. “Agent Chastain was given a list of first-class passengers. He was told to make these passengers available if he wanted to see his family again.”
“So you and your teammates claim,” the prosecutor said in a bored voice. He walked over to the table across from the witness stand and stacked his papers together. “Yet no evidence of this purported list has shown up in any of Agent Chastain’s personal effects.”
Cosky’s mouth tightened. Christ, save him from idiots in high places.
“Considering his laptop and cell phone went missing following his death, the lack of concrete evidence is understandable. Perhaps you don’t understand the ramifications of this list? Every person booked into first class on that flight was a scientist and several of these scientists are working on projects with military applications.”
“Yes, yes.” The prosecutor waved him off. “The passengers will be looked into.”
Bullshit.
Cosky swore beneath his breath. The lack of interest in the passengers totally stymied them. Didn’t those assholes realize how important those seven names were? Someone had tried to hijack a plane to get their hands on them.
His frustration was at a high boil as the jury forewoman escorted him out of the room.
Zane took one look at his face and barked out a tight laugh. “I see you warmed up to that bastard as much as I did.”
That earned a slight smile. But the smile quickly faded.
Zane slung an arm over Beth’s shoulder as they headed down the hall, matching their paces to Cosky’s crutch-enabled hobbling.
Cosky shook his head in disgust. Apparently, the poor sucker couldn’t walk, talk, or sit without touching her. Then again, Zane had almost lost Beth to Russ Branson—or whoever the hell the guy had been, so he should give him a little slack.
The thought of Branson brought another surge of frustration. You’d think it would be easy to track down the identity of the mastermind who’d orchestrated the hijacking and kidnappings, but the bastard had turned out to be a ghost. Too bad Zane hadn’t managed to ask him one damn question before killing him.
“My brother’s offered up his apartment when he deploys, until Beth and I can buy a place,” Zane said as the group started walking again. “So we need to start looking for someone to take over my share of the condo.”
Cosky simply nodded. It had been only a matter of time before Zane moved out. Beth hadn’t complained about sharing the condo with them when she flew down to visit. But hell, the lovebirds undoubtedly wanted their privacy—particularly with a baby on the way.
“Aiden’s looking for a place,” Rawls said as he rejoined them.
Fucking hell.
No way.
Cosky jerked hard and his crutches skidded on the marble floor. Off balance, he pitched forward.
“Are you okay, dear?” His mother caught his elbow and steadied him.
Warmth heated his face. How humiliating, nothing like having your mother save your ass. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. But the tension didn’t ease.
“Aiden needs to stick it out where he’s at, and work through whatever his problem is with Tag,” he said harshly.
Which was true. But not the reason he was eighty-sixing the idea of Squad 2’s sniper moving into the condo.
Rawls shot him a surprised look and shrugged. “That falling out is between him and Tag, not our fence to mend. Besides, with Aiden about, we’ll see more of Kait. My mouth’s still watering from that chili she brought to the barbeque last year.”