Facing the Storm (Brice Bannon Seacoast Adventure Book 1) Read online

  “The worst. He’s dead. Shot himself in the head.”

  “Oh, Brice, I’m sorry.” She reached out and rubbed his arm.

  “Yeah.” He finished his beer and slipped the empty bottle into the plastic crate under the bar. Eric Church had yielded the jukebox to Toby Keith who sang about his love for red Solo cups. “But, there’s something more. Something’s bothering me.”

  “Oh, no. Every time you say that, people end up shooting at us.”

  His cell phone rang. He held his finger up to stop the retort already on her lips. He answered. “Bannon. Not every time.”

  Tara drew the surfer dudes three draught beers. “Every time.”

  “Not every time what?” Kayla Clarke asked through the phone.

  “Nothing, just Blades giving me a hard time. What’ve you got?”

  “Your tail,” Kayla said. “The vehicle’s from the 701st Military Police Group motor pool out of Quantico, Virginia. Brice, what are you involved in?”

  “Damned if I know. Thanks, kid. I owe you one.”

  He hung up as she said, “More than one.”

  He pocketed the phone.

  “What was that?” Tara asked, dunking used glasses in the sudsy water under the bar.

  “Damned if I know,” Bannon said again. He told her about the government car and what Kayla said. “They’re surveilling me. I just don’t know why.”

  “It’s about that kid. Sadler,” she said. Not a question but a conclusion.

  “Can’t see how it’s not,” Bannon agreed. “But what do they want?”

  “One way to find out,” she said, revealing an icy grin.

  Tarakesh Sardana only knew one way to do things. Direct and head on. Damn the torpedoes.

  He smiled back. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

  She rubbed her hands together with a gleeful expression on her face. “Great. I’ve been itching for some excitement.”

  “Sorry, Blades, but I’ve got this.”

  He ignored her disappointed look as he grabbed a blue, white, and yellow striped, soft shell cooler from a shelf under the register and stood three icy cold bottles of Coors Light in it.

  At Tara’s curious expression, he said, “Carrot.”

  He surrounded the bottles with ice. Then he withdrew the Sig Sauer from his holster and laid it on top of the ice and bottles. “And, if necessary, stick.”

  He zipped up the thermal cooler. Still wearing his bomber coat from earlier, he threaded the cooler’s strap over his shoulder and headed for the door. “Be back in a jiffy.”

  “If you’re not,” Tara called out, “I’m bringing knives.”

  “Don’t you always?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she called out, adding, “be careful.”

  The sun had set. The stars had begun to sparkle in the night sky and the temperature had rapidly dropped from its afternoon high of thirty-two. A lone car drove along Ocean Boulevard. When it passed, Bannon jogged across the street.

  As he did so, he discreetly glanced down the side street to see if the government car was still there. It was. But only one person remained inside. That didn’t surprise Bannon. The second occupant was most likely somewhere along Ocean Boulevard with eyes on the front entrance of the Keel Haul, maintaining the surveillance on him.

  Across the street, Bannon made his way through the empty parking lot next to the band shell.

  At the retaining wall between the sidewalk and beach, Bannon climbed up on a park bench. Sitting on the back of it, he planted his feet where people sat so he could watch the dark waves of the Atlantic lap up onto the wet stretch of sand and the white ribbons of foam roll quietly out again. The seas were calm and the new moon shimmered brightly on the waves.

  He placed the cooler between his feet.

  The streetlamps were on and the beach was empty except for a few gulls fluttering around and scavenging for any last morsels of food to be found. To his rear was an illuminated bus stop shelter.

  He opened the cooler and took a beer out of the ice, leaving the top flap unzipped and his gun within easy reach. He twisted the top off the bottle and took a healthy swallow of beer as he stashed the cap in the pocket of his bomber coat.

  In doing so, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His always reliable, early warning system. He counted to ten and said, “Interest you gentlemen in a beer?”

  Behind him, a voice said, “We’re not here to socialize.”

  Bannon took another swallow of beer and shrugged. “Your loss. Bet it would sure taste good after a long day on the road, driving all the way up here from Virginia and all.”

  The silence that followed told Bannon he’d scored a hit. He knew more than they thought he did. It put them on the defensive.

  “Don’t be a putz, Yarber,” a second voice said. “I’ll have one, you still offering.”

  A tall, thin man with fair skin stepped around the bench and stood facing Bannon. He wore camouflage ACUs with an Army Combat Uniform patrol cap. On his sleeve was a transportation branch insignia. On his cap and collar he wore silver captain’s bars.

  Bannon pulled a beer out and handed it to him.

  As the man opened it, the other one—Yarber—came around to the front of the bench, too.

  Shorter than the captain, but just as reedy, he wore a gray pinstriped suit. Good quality but it was rumpled from the daylong drive north. His hair was sandy brown, wispy, and pushed the limit of military regulation. Neither man looked older than twenty-five.

  Kids, Bannon thought, though he was only thirty-two himself.

  Yarber held out his hand. “Screw it.”

  Bannon stuck a beer in it. “Now, mind telling me who you are and why you’re interested in me?”

  “I’m Captain Allan Newkirk.” The officer looked at Yarber, giving him the opportunity to properly introduce himself. Yarber remained silent and drank his beer. Newkirk shook his head, like he was dealing with a disappointing child. “He didn’t want to approach you.” Newkirk said it like that should excuse Yarber’s behavior. “He’s Special Agent Craig Yarber, Army Criminal Investigation Division.”

  Each branch of the military has their own criminal investigations function. NCIS for the Navy and Marines, the Air Force has the OSI, Office of Special Investigations, and for the Army, it’s CID.

  Bannon cast Yarber with a hard stare. “How come special agent?”

  Yarber arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “With you guys,” Bannon said, “the FBI, DEA, Treasury. You’re all special agents. What makes you special? Why can’t you just be agents?” He looked at Newkirk. “He’s not a special Captain. Are you? Maybe he is, I don’t know, but you get what I’m saying.”

  Newkirk smirked and Yarber’s face turned red.

  “And are you a special Commander, Commander Bannon?” Newkirk asked.

  So they’ve done their homework, too. Bannon shrugged, playing along with the banter. “Special? Naw. But some have gone so far as to call me extraordinary.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Yarber complained.

  “Hold on,” Newkirk said. “We’re here, let’s see it through.”

  “I agree.” Bannon flipped the top of the cooler closed with the Sig inside, reasonably certain the U.S. Army wasn’t there to kill him. “What do you want with me?”

  “Richie Sadler,” Newkirk said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know,” Bannon said.

  “Why’d the cops call you?” Yarber demanded.

  Bannon saw no harm in telling him. “I was listed in his emergency contacts. Procedure, I guess. My turn. What’s it to you two?”

  Again the exchange of looks, the indiscernible nod from one to the other, then Newkirk said, “We don’t think Sadler killed himself.”

  “I’m listening,” Bannon said.

  “We can’t say anything more than that,” Yarber said.

  Bannon zipped up the cooler and slung it over
his shoulder. He stepped off the bench. “Enjoy the beers, gentlemen.”

  Yarber called out, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Three years ago I resigned my commission. That means I don’t have to put up with what you guys are trying to dish out.” He pushed past Newkirk and started to walk away.

  “Wait.” It was Newkirk. “Sadler was one of mine. I owe it to him.”

  Bannon stopped.

  “Help me do right by him.”

  Bannon turned. “You want my help, fine. But, you two come clean with me or you can both go scratch.”

  Seconds ticked off in silence. Finally, Newkirk said, “Deal.”

  Bannon looked at Yarber. “What about you, special agent?”

  Irritated, Yarber looked like he’d been force fed a lemon. “He said deal, didn’t he?”

  Newkirk leaned against the concrete retaining wall separating the parking lot and the beach. He crossed his arms over his chest. Yarber turned his back on them and looked out over the empty beach and further out over the dark Atlantic Ocean.

  Waves washed gently to shore. Gulls circled low over the sand and cawed.

  Bannon returned to his place on the park bench. “I spent time with Sadler’s unit in the sandbox. You weren’t his CO.”

  “I took over after Captain Teague got promotion and transferred state-side. I heard about you, Bannon. You and that team of yours—what were they called? Dawgs.”

  “DOG. Deployable Operations Group.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Newkirk looked at Yarber. “The entire battalion wouldn’t shut up about him and his unit. Took out an entire nest of dug-in insurgents one night, damn near single-handedly, they said.”

  “Just doing the job,” Bannon said.

  “Yeah, yeah, great,” Yarber said. “Enough with the hero worshipping, can we get on with it?”

  “Sure. Sure,” Newkirk said. “After the Iraqi withdrawal, the 112th got deployed to Afghanistan, to a forward operating base in Kabul. One night the men were returning from a routine supply run. As they were cleared through the first checkpoint, two trucks driven by Taliban suicide bombers dressed in Afghan military uniforms breached the gates. The trucks were rolling IEDs.”

  Newkirk swallowed hard and looked away. He cleared his throat. “After the vehicles exploded, the shooting started. Pinned down, my men returned fire. The men on the checkpoint were firing, too. We managed to repel the attack. When the smoke and the noise cleared, several people were wounded and three soldiers were dead. One of ’em was one of mine. A young man named Iannuzzi.”

  Newkirk kicked at a crumpled fast food wrapper that tumbled past.

  Bannon waited. There had to be more.

  Yarber glanced over at Newkirk. His expression suggested he was firmly against talking to Bannon. Yet he didn’t say anything. A second passed and he returned to staring out at the sea.

  Way out on the horizon the lights of a tanker ship could be seen.

  “Questions arose,” Newkirk said.

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Some of those involved in the firefight were private contractors.”

  “Civilians?”

  “Yup. Good men, most of ’em. With troop levels so damn low, we were relying more and more on groups like them. Maybe too much.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have been left so exposed.”

  “All in or all out?” Newkirk asked. He shrugged sadly. “Not for me to say.”

  “Me either, unfortunately,” Bannon said. “Go on.”

  “There’s not much more to it. It was a damn scary nightmare. A free for all. Shooting and shouting, smoke and explosions. Screaming. Impossible to tell the good guys and the bad.”

  Bannon’s stomach twisted. “A friendly fire situation?”

  Yarber pushed away from the wall to rejoin the conversation. “Accusations were made.” Bannon caught the exchange of sharp glances between Yarber and Newkirk. “CID investigated and found nothing to substantiate the charge.”

  “The investigation was flawed.” Newkirk turned his back on the CID agent and faced Bannon. “Night Wing wounded my men, killed Iannuzzi.”

  “Night Wing?”

  “The Night Wing Defense Group. They were the defense contractor involved.”

  “A thorough investigation was conducted,” Yarber insisted. “No wrongdoing was found.”

  The tension between the two men was thick enough to cut with a knife. Must’ve been a fun ride up from Virginia, Bannon thought.

  “Sadler gave a statement at the time,” Newkirk said. “We all did. Since then, I’d heard Sadler knew something, had evidence that he concealed at the time. Evidence that proved Night Wing was responsible for killing Iannuzzi, for what happened to the others.”

  “What evidence?” Bannon asked.

  “We don’t know,” Newkirk admitted. “All I know is Sadler reached out last week and said he needed to talk, had to make things right. He said he had irrefutable proof against Night Wing.”

  “What kind of proof?” Bannon asked.

  Newkirk shook his head. “A recording, audio or video, maybe both. Something tangible.”

  “You’ve got no basis for that,” Yarber said.

  “Bannon,” Newkirk said, ignoring Yarber, “CID’s conclusion never sat well with me. But at the time no one disputed the findings. Sadler’s had…issues since returning home. I think keeping this secret was what was eating him up, destroying him inside.”

  What Newkirk said made sense and it jelled with Ellen Appel’s assessment of Richie’s condition. Guilt could be a very self-destructive emotion.

  “If it turns out Night Wing was involved in a friendly fire incident,” Newkirk said, “It could jeopardize their military contracts, now and in the future. Contracts worth millions.”

  “And if CID got it wrong,” Yarber said, “Or worse, aided in a cover up…”

  “It’ll create a political scandal,” Bannon concluded.

  Yarber looked glum. “That’s not something anybody wants.”

  Bannon pressed his lips into a thin line. “You’re suggesting someone killed Richie because of this possible evidence.”

  “Yes.” Newkirk.

  “No.” Yarber. “We don’t know.”

  “What about you, Bannon?” Newkirk asked. “We know you were in contact with Sadler. Did he say anything? Give you anything?”

  “No. Last we talked was over six months ago. He never mentioned any of this. I wish he had.”

  “Either way,” Newkirk said. “We need to find out if this evidence exists. And if it does, what it is. Let the damn chips fall where they may. The truth needs to be told.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Yarber said. “If this gets out—”

  Bannon cut him off. “I don’t care about any of that. All I’m concerned with is Richie. If someone killed him, they won’t get away with it. Richie’s truth deserves to be told, too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AFTER NEWKIRK AND Yarber left, Bannon returned to the Keel Haul.

  Even though it wasn’t that late, the bar had cleared out except for Floyd and Tara. The couple in the back booth had left. The three surfer dudes, along with their boards, were gone. Yet, Floyd remained, sitting at the far corner of the bar. A shot and a mug a beer in front of him, he played a video game on his smart phone.

  From the jukebox, Garth Brooks sang about his friends in low places.

  Bannon climbed onto a stool. Tara twisted open a beer and put it in front of him.

  “Tell me,” she said, pouring a Boston Lager from the tap into a heavy glass mug for herself.

  They drank. “Those guys were Army. One was CID, the other was Richie Sadler’s platoon leader before he rotated out.” He pointed to a closed laptop computer on a shelf under the register. “Grab that for me, would you?”

  She handed it to him.

  He set it on the bar and powered it up. The screen glowed blue.

  “What’d they want?”

  “They th
ink Sadler was murdered.”

  “They know why or by whom?” She sipped her beer.

  “I wish. The working theory is it’s over a potential friendly fire incident Sadler was involved in, in Afghanistan. Newkirk thinks Sadler kept quiet about what he knew at the time, suggesting the guilt over that, and maybe what he saw, ate at him after he got home.”

  Tara nodded. “We’ve seen that before.”

  Connected to the Internet, Bannon pulled his cell phone from his pocket. With it to his ear, he started to scroll through sites online. Into the phone, he said, “Kayla, need you to check something for me.”

  The late hour and the firmness in his voice—what Tara called his command voice—kept Kayla from initiating their usual banter. “Shoot.”

  “A private military contractor called Night Wing Defense Group. I can get the public stuff,” which he was scrolling through on the screen, “I need you to dig up the dirt. Specifically, I’m looking for anything about a possible friendly fire incident involving Night Wing and the 112th Transportation Battalion. Took place at a FOB in Kabul. Killed a few soldiers, one of them was named Iannuzzi. Would’ve been after we rotated out in 2012 but no later than early 2014.”

  Sadler had returned state-side late summer in 2014.

  “I’ll get back to you,” Kayla said and hung up.

  As expected, he found the Night Wing Defense Group website to be generic and full of a lot of American flags and eagles and pro-patriotic rhetoric. The only thing missing was apple pie, and anything of any real substance. A pull-down menu told him about the founder and CEO, David Wayne, former Army Ranger and Special Forces who’d attained the rank of lieutenant general, and a one-time NFL running back. Can you say American hero, boys and girls?

  The rest was propaganda stuff about who they were, how professional their training operations were, and what parts of the world they operated in—mostly everywhere—along with a list of all the good they’d accomplished. Under the newsfeed tab was information about people promoted in the company, their sponsorship of a 10k run marathon in New York, and pictures from one of their annual summer company picnics.

  As he searched and read, he drank another beer and talked with Tara about what he was finding and filling her in on what Newkirk and Yarber had told him.