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  “Well, captain, we can try it either way. You can sign this document stating that you will appear at the Pentagon to answer questions, or we can use this document,” Paslowski said. He had removed two folded pieces of paper from his jacket pocket. Now he held one in each hand like a shopper comparing two different products. Mahegan didn’t care what either piece of paper said.

  “Not signing anything and really don’t care about your paperwork. Now if you’re done, I’m going to eat my chow.”

  Mahegan turned his shoulder slightly, but he knew what was coming. He saw Paslowski’s baseball mitt–sized paw moving at a rate of speed indicating that he was totally unprepared for what Mahegan was about to do. The hand got within a centimeter of his “Shoot the Tourists” T-shirt when Mahegan’s right hand grabbed Paslowski’s wrist and used the man’s momentum to pull him forward while Mahegan slid under the big, fleshy arm that was softer than he had anticipated. His left forearm pressed Paslowski’s head into the deck railing, giving the investigator a direct view of the flooring of the restaurant. Meanwhile, he ratcheted the man’s right arm up so far he thought he heard a slight pop from the shoulder.

  “Six o’clock,” he said to Locklear, who was already standing and pointing a baby Glock at the light-haired version of Paslowski who had come running from his station near the door. Not suspecting Locklear, Paslowski’s partner had missed her leveling her pistol before he could retrieve his weapon.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said to him.

  “You are messing up big-time,” Paslowski grunted. “This will have bearing on your discharge determination, too, asshole.”

  Mahegan said, “Maybe, but you’ve got a whole restaurant full of folks here who saw everything. And because I’m such an honorable guy who deserves an honorable discharge, I’m going to do two things. I’m going to take your weapon and your friend is going to hand his weapon to my friend, because you know what? She’s crazier than I am.”

  Mahegan added some torque to Paslowski’s arm as he reached around with his left arm, removed the pistol, released the magazine, caught it with the heel of his hand, and slid the pistol on the table to Locklear. He thumbed the rounds out of the magazine and they plunked into the still water just over the deck’s edge. Without being told, Locklear held the pistol over the sound and jacked the slide, but no round expelled.

  “I’m insulted,” Mahegan said. “Not even worthy of you chambering a round.”

  “Next time,” Paslowski grunted.

  “Maybe,” Mahegan said.

  Locklear had retrieved the second man’s pistol, jacked his rounds into the sound, and checked the chamber, again empty, about the time Rollie Williams came busting through the door.

  “What we got here is an A-one situation,” he said, standing in the middle of the now empty deck, several of the frightened diners peering around either side of the restaurant.

  “Oh, Rollie, put a sock in it, will you?” Locklear said, moving toward the deputy while she kept her pistol trained on the light-haired special agent.

  “Lindy, damnit. You’ve got no right to be talking to me like that here, especially in front of this murder suspect.”

  “He’s no more a murder suspect than I am. Now what you need to do is take these two big badasses and lock them up because I think they may have more to do with Miller Royes’s murder and J.J. being missing than anyone else here. Here’s two pistols. Start running ballistics on them. Make yourself useful.”

  Mahegan was still pinning Paslowski to the deck railing and he felt a lot of the fight go out of the man. He knew he had probably separated the man’s shoulder and eased up a bit, turning Paslowski toward Williams.

  “Here you go, deputy. You can have him.”

  “It ain’t him I want, you moron,” Williams said.

  Williams glared at Locklear as he grabbed Paslowski by the shoulder to steady him. Mahegan could see the agony painted on Paslowski’s face, which looked like a theater tragedy mask.

  Mahegan wiped his hands on the swim trunks he’d been wearing since this crazy day had started and he thought for a minute about the red wolves and how centered he had felt with them. For a moment, he wondered how Locklear and Williams were connected. Then he thought about Colgate. He needed to get his ass in gear if he was going to make it to Arlington tonight. Then he had an idea.

  “These goons want to take me to the Pentagon, Williams. You going to let them?”

  Mahegan could see Williams thinking. He also saw Locklear snap her head toward him.

  “Why would you go?”

  Mahegan shrugged and said, “I changed my mind. Maybe it will be my chance to show I’m an honorable guy.”

  She was still aiming her baby Glock at Paslowski’s partner. Then she seemed to remember and dropped her arm.

  “All this bullshit for nothing?” she asked.

  “Maybe not,” he said. Turning to Williams, he noticed Sheriff Johnson pounding his way through the restaurant and onto the back deck.

  “Damnit, the two of you again?” the sheriff said. Then he saw Locklear and stopped. “Lindy, what did I tell you about carrying a pistol around here?”

  “All these damn treasure hunters, contractors, tourists, and such, you know I’m not going to stop, Uncle Mitch.”

  Uncle Mitch. Interesting. He could see the connection. Both Locklear and Johnson were athletes. Johnson was a big man, like a linebacker, and still looked fit and cut in the same way Locklear appeared sinewy and strong.

  “Just because I deputized you, Lindy, doesn’t mean you get to wave that damn pistol around,” Johnson barked.

  Deputy? Certainly didn’t look the part, Mahegan thought. Victoria’s Secret model, Billabong surf-wear babe, and actress would all fit. But deputy? No.

  Johnson turned to to Mahegan. “What’s this about the Pentagon wanting you?”

  “Ask them,” Mahegan said.

  “That’s right,” Paslowski said. “The Army Inspector General, a three star, wants to question Captain Mahegan about an enemy prisoner of war who died while in his custody. Maybe murder. Given today’s incident at Fort Brackett, the situation is more serious than ever. His discharge determination is hanging in the balance, too.”

  Mahegan had gone from complete anonymity for the last 364 days to wanted man at both the state and federal levels. Not good. He watched Johnson swivel his head from Paslowski to him and back to Paslowski.

  “Murder?”

  “That’s right. That’s what we call it even in combat when a combatant is unlawfully killed.”

  Mahegan watched Johnson weigh his options. He’d got what he considered to be the Feds down here to pick up someone whom he probably initially thought was telling the truth and an innocent do-gooder. Now, the new information colored his lens of perception. He didn’t want to give up his prime suspect, but he didn’t want trouble with the Feds.

  “How serious is this? Is he being charged?” Johnson asked.

  Mahegan watched Paslowski, who was holding his right arm up in a position as if it were in a sling. Paslowski looked at Mahegan and then at Johnson.

  “Murder is the allegation. The Inspector General has extralegal powers. For you and your courts here, Mahegan is innocent until proven guilty. That’s a pretty high bar. For us, it’s the preponderance of the evidence. That can mean a lot of things.”

  “And what does it mean regarding Mahegan?” Johnson asked.

  “It means the evidence is looking pretty good for conviction. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be down here. General Bream ruled him a dishonorable discharge, but his daddy, General Savage, a two star, mind you, filed an appeal. So General Bream, B Three as we call him, is reconsidering based upon S Two’s recommendation.”

  Mahegan rolled his eyes. The staff jockeys had an annoying habit of combining the first letter of a general’s last name with the number of stars he bore. Just more unnecessary Pentagon jargon.

  “Are you going to lock him up, or will you send him back to answer my questi
ons when you’re done with him?”

  They talked as if Mahegan were invisible. Two men were hashing out his fate in front of the waiters and patrons who had come around the corner of the restaurant when Sheriff Johnson had arrived. Mahegan looked at Locklear, who was just staring at him. Just after they exchanged glances, he had a thought. Maybe she’d sent it to him somehow, he didn’t know.

  “Gentlemen, if you send me up to DC under the supervision of Sheriff’s Deputy Locklear, you can kill two birds with one stone.” Bad analogy under the circumstances, he thought, but he kept going. “She can drive me up there, wait for me while I’m questioned, and then drive me back here. I’ll be in her custody until such time as the Inspector General takes custody of me and releases me back to her, should they decide to do so.”

  “You’re crazy,” Rollie Williams spat.

  Mahegan could tell that Johnson, though, was considering it. He looked at Locklear.

  “I’m good with it,” she said. “As long as it doesn’t take too long.” She looked at Paslowski.

  “Should be a day of questioning. If we decide that the evidence is against him, all bets are off.”

  “Sheriff, you can’t be seriously considering this, can you?” asked Williams.

  “Stay out of it, Rollie. I trust Lindy and if we’ve got to keep an eye on him, she’s about as good as we’ve got.”

  Locklear was better than Rollie, and Mahegan figured it wasn’t even her full-time gig.

  “Fine,” she said. “Where do you want me and when?”

  “Ten hundred hours tomorrow morning in Crystal City,” Paslowski said, handing her a document. “The address is on there.”

  Locklear took the sheet of paper, nodded, and said, “Roger.”

  “And Mahegan?” Paslowski said.

  Mahegan pulled his eyes from the paper he was straining to read in Locklear’s hand, and stared at the man’s beefy face, pockmarked with acne scars. Paslowski hefted his separated shoulder as much as he could, wincing.

  “Once this heals, I’m going to show up sometime where you least expect it. Hell, it might be your prison cell in Leavenworth, who knows?”

  “And you want me to get the other one? Give you a matching set?”

  “Watch it, shit for brains. I have input into this case,” Paslowski said.

  “Why don’t we just give you assholes pistols and you can duel? Put us all out of our misery,” Locklear said. “Barring that, Mr. Mahegan, you are in my custody.” She came around the table, wedged herself between Johnson and Paslowski, and grabbed Mahegan’s thick triceps, guiding him past the throng. She stopped and turned toward Paslowski.

  “Does he need a lawyer for your line of questioning?”

  Paslowski gave her a wide grin that showed bad, crooked teeth. “That’s the beauty of the Inspector General. He can’t even have one.”

  Mahegan trained his eyes on Paslowski and could see the man was serious. He hadn’t known this, hadn’t known much at all about the bureaucracy in the Pentagon or the uniform code of military justice. All he’d known was what was right and what was wrong and he’d lived by that code. Well, it looked like he was going to learn, and the notion began developing in the back of his mind that there were many different ways a massive organization could squeeze even the guys who wanted nothing more than to do their jobs and serve honorably.

  “Well, that seems like a load of bullshit,” Locklear said.

  “Lindy?” asked Johnson.

  “Yes, Uncle Mitch?” Mahegan watched Locklear keep her hard gaze fixed on Paslowski as if she was calculating how deep the Inspector General could drill into someone’s life without the civil protections of the American justice system.

  “Never mind. Doesn’t matter what the hell I say.”

  “About right,” she muttered as she guided Mahegan past Paslowski to her Defender in the parking lot.

  Mahegan allowed Locklear to escort him to the passenger seat and theatrically placed her hand on top of his head as she guided him beneath the roll bar into the passenger seat.

  “Thanks. That was a close one,” Mahegan said.

  “Watch it, you’re in my custody now.” Locklear grinned.

  She jumped in the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and waved good-bye to the newly assembled throng on the front porch of Blackbeard’s.

  Chapter 9

  Twenty-two miles across Croatan Sound and up the Long Shoal River the CEO and president of Copperhead, Inc., Samuel Nix, cradled his Fabbri 12-gauge over/under shotgun in the crook of his elbow as he lifted a wad of Red Man chewing tobacco into his mouth. He stood on the edge of Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge, contemplating what to do next.

  “This shit better not get out of hand,” he muttered to himself.

  Though he hadn’t really planned on killing anything today, he kept the weapon on hand in case one of those menacing red wolves decided to come after him. He’d shot a few already and had them stuffed for his Copperhead, Inc. company headquarters near Edenton, North Carolina. He considered them excellent trophies.

  That afternoon he had driven up Route 264 on the east side of Dare Mainland and looked through his binoculars across the Croatan Sound at the gathering that was forming near the Queen Anne’s Revenge restaurant. Mildly curious after receiving a text from someone in the crowd, Nix knew he would be able to regain control if the situation unraveled, so he wasn’t particularly worried. He had studied the commotion for a few minutes, turned his Ford King Ranch truck around and found the cove he had told his partner to locate using the new GPS they had installed in Vader.

  What bothered him right now was that Vader was late, which was not good. Much of their post-Afghan and Iraq war revenue plan depended on the reliability of the submersible fighting machine. He walked back to the cove, which was completely concealed from any road or waterway, save a small channel. Nix stepped over clumps of tall grass, picking his way down to the glassy pool of water that was about ten feet deep.

  His trained eye noticed a line tracing along the water as if in pursuit, maybe a largemouth bass in high gear ready to attack a lounging bullfrog. The water was clean but not especially clear. The ecosystem here mixed rich soil, freshwater, salt water, and abundant plant life to create a food chain that ranged from plankton to bull shark.

  But most important, Albemarle and Croatan sounds were the perfect testing bed for Vader, Copperhead’s prototype bid for the Navy and Coast Guard request for proposals on shallow-water armed submersibles.

  Nix watched as the submersible crested the meniscus of the water, barely discernable. He let a crooked grin set on his face as he pushed the stopwatch function on his Tag Heuer Gran Carrera black titanium watch. Vader had made the fifty-nine nautical miles from Edenton to where he was standing in one hour, fifty-eight minutes, and thirty seconds. Better than any prototype out there and averaging thirty miles an hour through the shallow waters of Albemarle and Croatan sounds.

  A former senior staff officer at Norfolk Naval Station, Nix believed that Vader could already win the Navy’s contract to supply a formidable array of shallow-water capabilities to combat forces. They were like fighter jets under the ocean. The Coast Guard would also want it for fighting the diesel submarines used by drug runners from South America. At the moment, though, he was holding on to the trade secrets his team had developed. They had created a radar-avoiding skin they called MeshLink that combined the buoyancy of fiberglass with the protection of armor via multiple overlapping thin tiles, like fish scales. And he wanted to know he had every possible profit anticipated and accounted for before he submitted the prototype on the final bid to the Navy.

  Nix was fifty-six years old with the small, tight build of a cage fighter. His black and gray hair was trimmed neatly around his ears, just long enough for the wind to toss and make him appear disheveled, a look he preferred. His eyes were dark, almost black, with no delineation between iris and pupil. As a submariner during his Navy career, his lack of height had served him well. At five
and a half feet tall, Nix never had to duck as he transitioned between compartments. He always fit just fine in his bunk, and he moved efficiently around the submarine’s tight confines.

  He had been near bankruptcy when he retired from the Navy fourteen years ago, just before 9/11. He founded Copperhead as a limited liability corporation, mainly as a way to funnel money away from his ex-wife, who was constantly suing him for child support and medical bills. He had lost contact with both of his daughters, who had opted to take on their mother’s last name, Wisenewski.

  Nix had given his relationship with his wife and daughters the college try, but at the end of the day marriage wasn’t for him. Truly, the military really hadn’t been his thing either. He just wanted to cruise through life, hammer some chicks as often as possible, and make more money than everyone he knew. Toys were important to him and so his collection of fishing boats, Jet Skis, and airplanes were his metrics of success.

  His fortunes had risen and fallen and they were on the uptrend again in the give-and-take of a business. If he was able to convert on just one or two of the product lines over the next week, though, it was game over, and that was what he was counting on. He had finally figured out that it was all about product lines and market diversification. In the beginning, he had said to his small crew, “Let’s keep the main thing the main thing.”

  Then, after the embarrassment he and his Copperhead employees had caused by allegedly abusing detainees in Iraq and Afghanistan, his company was radioactive. Nix’s singular focus on the lucrative private military contractor business had almost led them to insolvency. The US State and Defense departments banned them like lepers to a remote island. Court challenges led to one meager contract, the bomb disposal grunt work here on Dare County Mainland at the Dare County Bombing and Electronic Warfare Range.

  But the bomb-clearing contract had led to other unexpected opportunities and suddenly he was all about market diversification.

  As Vader One surfaced, only the glass bubble of the cockpit was evident to the naked eye. The MeshLink was loaded with 2400 pixels of color and constantly imaged its environment, like a chameleon, changing hues to blend.