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CHAPTER
8
DEVINE WAS DROPPED OFF BACK at his home. He went to his room, looked up Emerson Campbell online, and saw the same stern face staring back at him. A Vietnam platoon leader involved in some of the most hellish battles of that long, ugly war, Campbell was the recipient of nearly every combat medal under the sun. He was also, like Devine, Ranger tabbed and Ranger scrolled. He had been engaged in pretty much every combat situation the United States had during the intervening years, including the First and Second Gulf Wars. He’d ended up a two-star commanding Fort Benning in Georgia, where Devine had earned his Ranger status, though their paths had not crossed there.
He had the rep of being iron hard but fair, a soldier’s soldier. He cared more for his troops than he did for the next star on his shoulder. Then his career had seemed to stall. One article reported that Campbell had been brutally honest during some congressional testimony, and the Army brass hadn’t liked that level of candor from one of its senior officers. He’d then been apparently forced into retirement and gone into the private sector. He’d resurfaced a few years later with some civilian position at the Pentagon. After that, he’d dropped off the radar.
Well, the old man was back on the battlefield, it seemed.
Devine stripped off his running clothes and changed into jeans, heavy boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then grabbed his motorcycle helmet and went downstairs and out the back. In the one-car garage was Tapshaw’s hunter-green Mini Cooper. She was the only one with a car, for her one-mile jaunt to work. Speers took the train into the city like Devine did, and Valentine performed his heavenly hacking remotely from his room. Or the couch.
Next to the Mini was Devine’s BMW motorcycle. It was the only thing he had ever splurged on. He’d bought it used with money saved up from his Army pay.
He fired up the motorcycle and soared off into the night. He had been given a mission, and as a soldier, he had never liked to let time lapse between an order given and its execution. The problem was the file that Campbell had on Cowl and Comely was very thin. But there was enough there that Devine could understand someone like Campbell being deployed to see what was up.
And now I’m right in the middle of it, sink or swim.
He zipped along curvy roads going faster than he should have at night, but he didn’t really care. At least he was finally flying along with a purpose beyond making money for Brad Cowl, a man who already had far too much wealth.
Ten minutes later he arrived at Cowl’s private enclave, the rear of which he saw from his train every morning. It was ablaze with lights, like a movie premiere, for all to see. High-dollar showroom-level cars were parked in the palace’s motor court. Wrought iron gates kept out the uninvited, of which Devine was assuredly one. He took off his helmet and watched.
The people he had seen from the train earlier were filtering out now. No doubt they had to get back to their fabulous homes and do fabulous things before getting up the next day to continue being fabulous. But maybe he was just being fabulously cynical and envious.
As he continued to watch, his focus suddenly centered on one man. It was the thick-chested and skinny-legged Bradley Cowl in the flesh. He slid clumsily into the driver’s seat of a deep blue Bugatti Chiron that probably cost more than Devine would earn in ten years, even if he did make it at the firm.
Cowl fired up the engine, and it sounded like a Boeing 777 powering up to takeoff thrust.
He slid it into gear and in two seconds made it to the gates, which barely had time to open on the motion sensor before the muscle car blew past. He turned right and headed south. Devine knew Cowl had a penthouse on the top of the building where Devine labored every day. He might be going there tonight, swapping a palace in the burbs for sleeping closer to the sky.
Devine kicked the bike into gear and raced after the Bugatti.
He had a second job now. It was called serving his country once more and keeping out of prison.
