The Deserter (Scott Brodie & Maggie Taylor #1) - Nelson DeMille Page 0,12

feels safe there. Maybe he has a business. Drugs. Arms. Maybe he’s a hit man for the government or the opposition.”

Brodie had thought about all this, and concluded that speculating without a clue was a waste of time. “I’ll let you know.”

“My point is, if Mercer has a business there, he’s got bodyguards like everyone else in Venezuela who has a few bucks.”

Brodie didn’t reply.

“Mercer by himself is a one-man army. Mercer with armed hombres is not going to be easy to apprehend.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Just so you understand… you need to make every effort to take him alive… but you are authorized to use deadly force if necessary.”

Brodie nodded, wondering if he understood the subtext.

“And don’t forget that the Venezuelan government is hostile to U.S. interests.”

“Right.”

“If you get arrested… you got a problem.”

“Understood.”

“And do you understand that this assignment is voluntary?”

“I do, sir.” But Brodie also understood that Hackett’s office had secured their visas yesterday. Sometimes in the Army, volunteering was mandatory.

“You good to go?”

“Always good to go.”

“And make sure Ms. Taylor understands everything I just told you.”

“Will do.” He asked again, “Anything further?”

“No. Dismissed.”

Brodie walked away from the bar toward the double doors.

Colonel Dombroski called out, “Make me look good, Brodie.”

Well, he would find and apprehend Captain Mercer, and he’d let his boss take all the credit he wanted. But there were probably other people in the Army or the government who didn’t look forward to a soldier like Captain Kyle Mercer standing before a court-martial on trial for desertion. Bad optics. Bad publicity. Better if he stayed missing. Or turned up dead.

Brodie exited the Officers’ Club into the bright summer day.

CHAPTER 7

They drove north along I-95 in Brodie’s 2014 Chevy Impala, which was functional and boring enough to be inconspicuous, but handled well at high speeds for the moments when his job got more interesting. The trunk was full of their hastily packed luggage. The drive from Quantico to West Orange, New Jersey, was a little over five hours, and they were already about four hours in.

Taylor had changed out of her uniform into jeans and a blouse, which was a better look when interviewing a voluntary civilian witness. She pulled up the Simpson home phone number that they’d gotten from the Fort Dix CID report and called on speaker.

A woman answered, and Taylor asked, “Is this Mrs. Simpson?”

“Speaking.”

“Mrs. Simpson, this is Warrant Officer Maggie Taylor from Fort Dix.”

A pause, then, “Yes?”

“May I speak to Mr. Simpson?”

“He’s at work.”

“I’ll be at your home in about an hour, Mrs. Simpson. It would be good if he was there waiting for me.”

“Well…”

“Or I’ll go to his place of work, which may not be convenient for him.”

“I’ll call him… to come home.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I won’t keep him more than half an hour.”

“All right…”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Taylor hung up.

Brodie said, “You told two lies. We’re not from Fort Dix, and we’ll keep him as long as we need to.” He added, “Also, you forgot to mention me.”

“Women are perceived as nonthreatening.”

“You threatened to bust into his place of employment.”

“Simpson is a voluntary witness, but he could decide to stop talking at any time.”

“His personnel file shows he served honorably.”

“And now he’s a civilian.”

“Old soldiers never die, and they do the right thing when the Army calls.”

“We’ll see.”

They rode in silence for a while. Brodie had learned early that Taylor wasn’t the sort for idle conversation, which was fine by him. She took out her tablet and started reading through articles about Venezuela that she had bookmarked. At some point she put on a playlist from her smartphone. An old fiddle scratched out an up-tempo folk tune as a man sang in a distant, high-pitched wail. Something about farm hogs and a deal with the devil.

“I discovered this on vinyl while cleaning out my grandpa’s basement,” said Taylor. “Some of these recordings date back to the Twenties.”

Throughout his military career, Brodie had met his share of hillbillies and country kids who had risen far above their station. The Army was good for that. But never had he met anyone like Maggie Taylor. She’d grown up in the hill country of eastern Tennessee, raised by her grandmother after her mother discovered her father with another woman and took care of them both with a double-barreled shotgun.

“Didn’t even need to reload,” Taylor had boasted during a disturbingly dispassionate recounting at the O Club after not nearly enough drinks. Either Taylor had buried it deep, or she was crazy. Probably both.

Mama went to prison,