Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (40 page)

“Lieutenant Collins,” Gonz told him. “M.I.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, studying Gonz and noticing the yellow pencil wedged over Gonz’s right ear. He glanced at Gonz’s lapel, which had the cover name
Collins
stenciled over the pocket of his Army fatigues. Both he and McKay were wearing their standard Army uniform, which was routine anytime they left the Green Zone. The fact that they were CIA agents was not something they wanted to become public knowledge. Even among the Marines and soldiers they often worked with. Their cover was M.I., or Military Intelligence, and although there would probably be some actual intelligence officers investigating this death, it provided ample cover for them to step in now.

“What have we got?” Gonz asked.

“It’s Briggs, sir.” The sergeant was referring to Marine Corporal Jason Briggs who had been captured eight days before after his four-man patrol had been caught in an ambush. The other three soldiers had been killed in the ensuing firefight, but Briggs had been abducted.

Gonz nodded. “What time was he found?”

“Oh-nine-thirty nine, sir. We immediately closed down the road, started diverting traffic.”

McKay started to head over to the body sprawled on the ground near the paved road, about fifteen feet away, but the sergeant suddenly blocked her path. “I wouldn’t, ma’am.”

McKay stared at him for a moment, then said, “But you’re not me, are you?”

She started off again, but Gonz reached out, grabbing her by the arm. He ignored her annoyed looked and turned his attention to the Army sergeant. “Cleared?”

“Yes, sir. No booby-traps, sir.”

Gonz let McKay go with a simple nod. Then he said to the sergeant, “Thank you, sergeant.” He quickly caught up with McKay. A moment later he understood why the young private had lost his breakfast.

Large flies swarmed over the naked torso of Corporal Briggs, the body laid out on its back, the exposed chest revealing deep cuts. The first thing Gonz noticed, beside the fact that the head was no longer attached to the body, was that his genitals had been cut off. The decapitated head, lying face up, was near his left outstretched hand, as if he were trying to reach for it so he could put it back on his shoulders. The genitals were on the severed head. His dismembered penis had been placed between his lips, laid across his mouth like a limp hotdog. Each testicle had been placed over the soldier’s eyes, thin lines of dried blood running down the man’s cheeks like tears.

“I hate this job,” McKay muttered, kneeling down next to the severed head.

“Hate the idiots,” Gonz replied, referring to the nickname a member of Gonz’s team had given to all terrorists. And since they were idiots, the name had stuck. “How long ago?”

McKay carefully lifted the dead corporal’s left arm. It was still very stiff due to rigor mortis. “Body temperature is cold to the touch, but he’s stiff. Somewhere between eight to thirty hours.” Swatting away some flies near her face, McKay peered closely at the left side of his torso, which was bluish in color. She pressed a finger firmly on the tissue, but the color remained. “Lividity on the left side here. He was either killed lying on his side or rolled onto his side immediately afterwards.”

Gonz looked around. He saw a large stain of dried blood several feet away in the soft sand. Stepping near the blood, Gonz saw tire tracks just two feet away. “Got tire tracks.”

McKay didn’t look up, saying, “He had probably been dead some time before he was dumped. Otherwise there would be a river out here. There’s hardly any fluid, considering...” Her voice trailed off. Gonz knew what she meant. Considering the man had been decapitated, there wasn’t much blood. Gonz turned his attention back to the tire tracks in the dirt. The tread was widely spaced. Perhaps a truck or SUV. Gonz withdrew a slim digital camera from his pocket and removed the pencil from behind his ear. He carefully placed the pencil near the tire tracks to give a sense of measurement, then took several pictures.

“That your idea of forensic science?” a deep voice asked.

Gonz whirled around to see Alvin Cutter watching him. A special agent with Naval Criminal Investigative Service or NCIS, he and Gonz had worked together in the past. A heavy-set man, Cutter was sweating profusely in the desert heat and put down the large black case he was carrying.

“Thought you guys couldn’t get over here,” Gonz said.

“Yeah, well, that was obviously a load of shit.” Cutter walked over to the body to get a closer look, but then instinctively took a step back. “Jesus H. Christ.”

“Corporal Jason Briggs,” Gonz told him.

“The guy kidnapped,” Cutter said, nodding.

“Civilians are kidnapped,” Gonz rebuked him bitterly. “Soldiers are captured.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” Cutter said with a wave on his hand. He slowly took a few steps closer to the body, then shook his head in disgust. “Poor bastard. Geez.”

“Can you get a cast on the tire tracks? Looks like a truck to me.” Gonz asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cutter mumbled, staring at the dismembered body. He kneeled down next to McKay who had taken forceps from her medical bag and was now using them to gently grasp the testicle covering the left eye. She had just gotten a hold of it and was attempting to lift it when the forceps slid off the testicle. Cutter gave a nervous laugh. “Slippery when wet.”

McKay gave him a nasty look. She gripped the testicle again and gently pulled. Nothing happened. She tugged more forcefully. The testicle wouldn’t budge. Keeping a hand on the forceps still clasping the testicle, she said to Cutter, “I have another pair of forceps in the bag.”

Gonz kneeled down on the other side of her while Cutter handed over the second pair of forceps. “What’s going on?” Gonz asked.

“Don’t know. Won’t release. Like they glued it in place or something.” McKay used the other forceps to get a second grip.

Suddenly Cutter laid a hand on her arm. “Wait! It could be rigged!”

“It was checked,” Gonz told him. “It’s clear.”

“Yeah?” Cutter asked doubtfully. “Something’s holding the guy’s ball right there. Could be rigged to go off as soon as you move it.”

“It’s been cleared,” Gonz told him angrily. He caught McKay glancing at him and gave her a nod.

Gritting her teeth as flies swarmed around her face, she pulled hard on the dismembered testicle.

“Easy,” Gonz said gently.

Finally, McKay pulled the testicle free, nearly falling over backwards, but Gonz caught her, steadying her. Still holding the gonad with the forceps, McKay looked at the underside of the testicle with a puzzled frown. “What the hell...?”

Gonz reached for her hand and turned it so he could see. A high-quality, executive writing pen was sticking out of the testicle.

“I agree. Something has happened to him,” asserted Dr. Lami, the owner of
The Iraq National Journal
. “It’s the only answer.”

“What are you thinking? Kidnapped?” asked Colonel K.C. in Arabic. The retired U.S. Army officer, fluent in the native language and an attractive man with salt and pepper wavy hair, was now a journalist with America’s top cable news network. His military expertise and good looks made him a favorite with viewers all over the world. Dressed in jeans and an Army T-shirt, he stood ramrod straight at one of end of the conference room table. Daneen, the photographer’s wife, sat between her brother Adnan and Dr. Lami. Ghaniyah, Adnan’s wife and also a reporter for the American cable news company, sat across the table. Colonel K.C. looked at Dr. Lami and asked, “Kidnapped hoping you’ll pay for his release?”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Lami replied. “All I know for sure is that he would never voluntarily disappear.”

“He planned to be at the newspaper very early this morning,” Daneen offered, her voice breaking as she held back the tears. “I know he wanted to show Dr. Lami the wedding pictures right away.”

“He’s not at any of the hospitals,” Dr. Lami said. “We’ve contacted all of them. I even sent one of my men to the morgue. Nothing.”

“But if it’s a straight ransom, no one has contacted the paper,” Adnan reminded them.

“It’s early yet.” Colonel K.C. grimaced. “Sometimes it takes a week or more before the kidnappers make their requests known.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Just wait?” Daneen asked, distraught. Adnan put his arm around her, comforting her.

“Anything besides cash they might want?” Colonel K.C. asked the publisher.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Any stories you’re working on? Something sensitive?”

Dr. Lami gave him a perplexed look. “And then they blackmail me, you mean?”

“Possible.”

Dr. Lami thought about this for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

“I think we should go public with the story,” Ghaniyah said. She looked at Dr. Lami. “Put his picture on the front page of your paper. I can talk to some of my contacts at the local TV stations. Maybe they will broadcast it.”

“People go missing in this God-forsaken country every day,” Colonel K.C. countered bitterly.

“Then we’ll offer a reward,” Dr. Lami announced.

Everyone exchanged surprised looks. Finally, Colonel K.C. spoke. “I’m not sure that’s so wise.”

“Why? What is it you say in America? Money talks.”

“True,” the retired colonel conceded. “But it may also get him killed.”

Gonz turned as the heavy swinging door opened and Peterson stepped into the small lab. The young ex-Army private, just 19-years old, looked a bit sheepish and Gonz didn’t help matters when he said, “What is this? Everyone’s got morbid curiosity today?”

Chided, Peterson meekly said, “I can leave.”

Gonz just shook his head. He didn’t blame Peterson for being curious, and the young man had more than proven himself during the last year. In fact, Gonz had formally requisitioned Peterson from the Army some months before so he could keep him on the team. While it was highly unusual for the CIA to take on an American who hadn’t passed an extensive background check or mastered a rigorous training program, Peterson had been given the green light due to his vast computer skills.

He had started computer hacking by breaking through firewalls as a high school student in Ohio. He had successfully hacked into his school’s computer system and given himself better grades for nearly two years. Not because he was a slacker, but because he felt challenged to break their state-of-the-art firewall. Once the school learned of his transgressions, he had been promptly and rightfully, expelled. The local district attorney wanted to charge him with a felony, but his attorney had gotten the prosecutor to reduce the charge to a misdemeanor provided Peterson signed up for a four-year stint in the Armed Services. The prosecutor had agreed.

Gonz had found Peterson rebuilding a laptop in the mess hall while convalescing from a minor injury sustained in Fallujah. After extensive questioning, Gonz realized the young man might be an asset to his team. And since Peterson had found that he had no calling for a soldier’s life, he had been thrilled to be reassigned to the spy agency where he could play with super-fast computer systems day and night.

Now Peterson handled all of the computer needs for Marco Polo 5 – Gonz’s small team of agents that worked out of a nondescript building near the American Embassy inside the Green Zone. The structure was protected by a state-of-the-art security system that required anyone seeking entrance to slide aside a false brick near the door. They then had to enter a valid ten-digit code and press their right thumb on a small pad that matched that fingerprint to the security database.

Inside the building was the very latest in computer systems, all with large flat-panel monitors. A 60-inch plasma screen mounted on the far wall were used for both digital and video display, including video footage taken from combat soldiers on patrol, unmanned aerial vehicles and satellite feeds. Behind the main room was a small kitchen, a makeshift sleeping quarters with three cots and the lab where they now had all gathered.

Gonz watched as McKay, wearing medical gloves, tried to pull the silver pen out of the testicle.

“Man, this is just wicked,” said Heisman, leaning his elbows on the large lab table. The muscular black man had been a top-rated quarterback in college before he had blown out his knee. He had come in third in the Heisman Trophy balloting later that year, but his football career was over. The day after 9/11, he had joined the CIA. It was other rookie agents that had given him the name ‘Heisman,’ a tag that had stuck. The son of a contractor who often worked overseas, Heisman had proven to be invaluable to the agency since he had grown up in Saudi Arabia and was fluent in Arabic. He shook his head in disgust saying, “I mean, wicked.”

“Explains why I couldn’t easily lift it off the eye,” McKay said. “Once the testicle was placed on the eye, they drove this into both, securing it, if nothing else.”

“Why a pen?” Gonz asked. “Just something to do?”

“I don’t know,” McKay said, carefully removing the silver pen from the gonad. She gently put the testicle on the table and sprinkled the bloody pen with a dusting powder on all sides. Holding the pen up to the light, she frowned. “Smudged off, if there were prints.” She then quickly used a wet towel to clean the powder, blood and tissue off the pen.

“So what?” Heisman grumbled. “We see if it writes?”

“Wait! Can I see that?” Peterson eagerly asked. “Please?” McKay handed it over. Peterson quickly pulled off the pen top and a tiny flat rectangular device suddenly appeared. Peterson’s eyes lit up like he had just won the lottery. He grinned from ear to ear. “It’s a flash pen!”

“A what?” Heisman asked.

“A flash drive!”

“What’s a flash drive?” Gonz asked.

“A USB data storage drive!”

“What?” Gonz persisted. “Like for computers?”

“Exactly! Isn’t that great!?”

If you enjoyed this brief excerpt and would like to keep reading, please click below to go to Amazon to purchase and download
The Shot To Die For
by M.H. Sargent.