A Soldier's Honour. Regan BlackЧитать онлайн книгу.
local team,” the general said. Barrel-chested, with a long, confident stride, he stood a couple inches taller than Matt, who was six-one. His gaze continuously scanned his surroundings, proof that lessons learned in combat didn’t fade easily.
“Isn’t the phrase ‘When in Rome’?” The night had turned crisp while they’d been inside the bar, and Matt turned up his collar against the chilly breeze, and then tucked his hands into his pockets.
“It is,” Knudson replied. “You know, the Army has sent me all over the world, and I’m still the little kid from the West Coast who wants to stand up and do a wacky touchdown dance when my team comes through.”
“Wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Matt joked.
Knudson gave him an assessing glance. “You’d plaster that all over the internet.”
“No, sir,” Matt said, earnestly. “I’d only send it out as an internal memo.”
The general’s booming laughter carried through the clear night as they approached his car. “Need a lift home?” His driver hopped out of the front seat and opened the door for him.
“No, thank you, sir.” Matt pulled out his cell phone. “The app says my ride is only a few minutes out.” His one complaint with his Washington, DC, assignment was leaving his treasured, newly restored 1967 Camaro in a parking garage six days out of seven and letting someone else do most of the driving.
“Tired of my company already?”
Squealing tires interrupted Matt’s reply and headlights momentarily blinded him as a car barreled toward them, narrowly missing parked cars. Matt and the general came to alert and the driver moved into a protective position.
Matt shoved the general into his car through the open rear door, cutting off Knudson’s bellowed protest. “Stay low!” He barked the order at his superior officer and closed the door.
Huddled behind the protection of the car with the driver, Matt told him to call the police.
“On it,” the driver replied.
“Good.” Matt reached for his sidearm before he remembered they weren’t armed and this wasn’t a war zone. He didn’t have enough information to decide if that was good or bad news. The car had screamed past them, but was turning up the next closest aisle. Matt popped up long enough to confirm an escape route and hopefully get a license plate number.
An object hurtled through the air, forcing him to duck. He swore. The police would need more than the make and model of the dark sedan to track down this idiot. Black or dark blue cars with four doors were far too prevalent in this area. The erratic driver might as well be invisible.
A loud crack sounded when the object the driver had thrown hit the windshield of the general’s car before bouncing to the pavement near Matt. “What the hell?”
Tires screeched again and Matt peeked over the top of the trunk just enough to glimpse the sedan speeding away, taking the most direct route to the main street that looped around the hub of restaurants and stores. Thankfully sirens were close.
“Should I stay or go?” the driver asked.
“I’d feel better if you waited for an escort back to the general’s house.”
With a nod, the driver scrambled into the car and started the engine. He must have told the general the threat was over, because the back door flew open, nearly clipping Matt’s knees. Knudson lunged from the car. “What was that, Riley?”
“I’m not sure, sir.” He held out the object that had been thrown.
It was a baseball with a note scrawled on the side.
You will pay.
The ball wasn’t new. Grubby and battered, with several stitches popped, it looked as if it had been through as many campaigns as the general. Matt wasn’t an investigator, but he didn’t think this would give the authorities much to go on.
Emergency lights spilled over the pavement, glaring off the nearby cars while Matt, General Knudson and the general’s driver relayed every detail they could recall about the incident to the responding officers from both the Alexandria, Virginia Police Department and the Metropolitan Police from Washington, DC, who turned out after hearing who had been attacked.
The team from Alexandria sealed the baseball into an evidence bag and labeled it. Based on their grim expressions, it seemed they weren’t confident an old baseball thrown by an unseen assailant in a nondescript car was much to work with either.
“Drunk driver maybe?” One officer wondered aloud.
“Doubtful,” Matt said. “He didn’t clip a single car as he raced up and down the lanes. His reaction time on the corners was spot-on.”
The officer took detailed notes and gathered both work and personal contact information for each of them before letting them go. Matt exchanged business cards with the officers as well. Watching the general’s car drive off, he was pleased to see two metro police cars providing an escort.
Checking the app on his cell phone, he saw the ride he’d called for had waited five minutes at the pick-up point and left. On a sigh, Matt paid the nominal fee for missing his ride and walked back to the bar to call a cab, his mind recycling the incident and reviewing it from every angle.
The attack in the parking lot seemed like an over-the-top effort to break a windshield when such a bland, three-word message could have been sent anonymously by mail, phone, email or even as a text message. The ball could have been thrown with more accuracy and equal impact by someone standing a few yards away. The baseball had to be significant. He’d mention it to Knudson tomorrow.
When the cab dropped him at his building, he was weary and more than a little grateful the Tuesday briefings were always scheduled an hour later in deference to their Monday-night schedule. Accommodating Knudson’s request, he sent a text message that he’d arrived safely.
He took the elevator up to his floor and walked into his dark condo, facing another wave of what might have been. The sensation struck him whenever he took on a new stateside assignment. Though he’d been here almost three months, the persistent melancholy lingered. Working a more nine-to-five role in a vibrant city full of parks, museums and monuments only emphasized what he was missing most: family to unwind with at the end of the day.
It was easier to forget what he didn’t have—what he’d chosen not to pursue—when he lived and worked on Army bases or when he was deployed. Not that he didn’t encounter plenty of families on Military installations; it was just more obvious in civilian surroundings.
A Military brat and proud of it, Matt felt more at ease within the necessary structure of an Army post. He flipped through the mail he’d dropped on his counter when he’d come home after work to change for the game, and then he tore open the envelope with the formal letter about the recent cyber-security attack on Military personnel records and swore. He’d known it was coming, but in his mind the successful breach remained a black mark against the world’s finest Military.
After opening the envelope, he read the precise statement on the first page. The dispassionate phrases were laced with legalese carefully worded to avoid any true claim of responsibility or liability, while promising to track down the culprits.
“Good luck with that,” Matt murmured.
The second page offered instructions on how to register with the selected identity-protection monitoring service.
He laughed. Were people really supposed to trust a recently hacked department to make the right choice on protective measures? The idea seemed counterintuitive to him. Matt wasn’t sure it made much difference these days. Personal information, from social security numbers to credit cards, seemed to be at risk every day, and clearly this incident proved no system was foolproof.
That didn’t make it any easier for Matt to accept. The men and women in uniform should be able to expect that their service records and their personal details, as well