“Did you say his name while still sitting with the other guys in the lounge?” asked Brodie. “Or did you get up and approach first?”
Simpson hesitated, realizing that his story wasn’t matching up with what he’d told the other CID guys. He glanced at his wife, who put a supportive hand on his shoulder.
“Wait. Sorry. It’s been a couple weeks. He didn’t see me at first, actually. Because he wasn’t facing me. He was facing away, at the bar. I saw his tattoo first. Of the snake.”
Brodie had caught him—and importantly, Simpson knew he’d been caught. He proceeded to tell the same story he’d told the other agents, that he saw Mercer from behind, recognized the tattoo, approached the bar, and said his name. Then they made eye contact. Brodie decided to proceed as if nothing had happened, rather than call him out in front of his wife. “So now you’re looking at each other,” said Brodie. “Then what happened?”
“He just kinda stared at me. Cold. Pissed, maybe. My colleague, Pete, and the oil guys were looking at me, and then back at Mercer, and it felt kind of awkward and tense. Then Kyle just gets up and walks out of the bar.”
“That’s it?” asked Taylor. “You just let him walk off?”
“What was I supposed to do? We’d just closed this big deal, we were celebrating. That’s where my head was at.”
“Did Pete ask you about who you saw?” asked Taylor.
“No… yes, and I said case of mistaken identity, or something.”
“Okay,” said Brodie. “And what was he wearing?”
Simpson thought a moment. “A dark T-shirt and jeans.”
“What was he drinking?” asked Taylor.
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Where were you before the hotel?” asked Brodie.
“A restaurant in the area.”
“What was it called?”
“I don’t remember. Spanish name.”
“How many drinks did you have before seeing Mercer?” asked Taylor.
Simpson again looked at his wife. This was taking on the tempo of an interrogation, not a friendly and voluntary interview. Brodie needed to pump the brakes.
“Let’s step back a minute,” he said. “How well did you know Kyle Mercer?”
“We went through basic and advanced infantry training together,” replied Simpson. “So, I’d say well, but it’s been awhile. Kinda lost touch after he went to OCS and I got assigned to the Fourth Brigade at Fort Carson.”
“What kind of man was he?”
Simpson thought on this. “Kyle was intense. Some guys grew up hunting, some came from military families, but he was none of that. I mean, he didn’t know shit about how to shoot a rifle or follow orders. But he was jacked, you know, really strong and fit, like he’d been training for this. This kid from SoCal who’d lifted weights every day and learned everything he thought he knew about war from watching movies and playing Call of Duty.”
“This doesn’t sound like the makings of an elite soldier,” suggested Brodie.
“You don’t understand,” said Simpson. “He wanted to be that elite soldier, more than anyone I’ve ever met before or since. In his mind, he already was. What I’m saying is, he had the will. So, Delta Force? No surprise there. No surprise at all.”
There was a silence in the room. Brodie thought about the redacted mission details in Mercer’s file. Just who was this guy? What had he done, and what was he capable of? Well, he was capable of five decapitations, which meant he was capable of anything. Brodie looked at Simpson and asked, “Why do you think a man with Captain Mercer’s survival skills… a man who is a wanted fugitive all over the world… would be sitting in the bar of a hotel frequented by an international clientele?”
Simpson understood that this was not a rhetorical question. In fact, he understood that Brodie was calling him on his bullshit story.
Simpson stood. He shot Brodie a look. “I think I need a cigarette.”
“I’ll join you.”
Brodie didn’t smoke, but that wasn’t the point. He got up and followed Simpson to the back deck, which overlooked an artificial lake. Simpson shook out a cigarette from his pack and offered one to Brodie, who took it to share the bond of the addicted.
Simpson lit him up, and Brodie watched him as he lit his, hands unsteady, and took a deep drag.
Simpson said, “I didn’t know what to say.”
Brodie didn’t reply. When a man’s about to confess something, it’s best to keep quiet.
“I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the two guys who got killed looking for him. I