Lt. Colonel Martin tilted his head toward the door. “Close the door and have a seat, staff sergeant.”

I did as he asked and took a seat across from him. “Is the guy with the tan and the fitted Italian suit a DNI investigator?”

He leaned over the desk. “That, staff sergeant, is Wallace’s replacement. Joseph Trevino. He arrived in a shiny new Chevrolet sedan about an hour ago. Hell, Wallace’s body is still on a slab in the morgue, and they’ve sent his replacement. If I’m the senior officer here, and I didn’t contact the Office of the DNI, how in the absolute fuck do they know we need a replacement?”

“That’s a good question, Sir.”

He glanced over each shoulder. “If I didn’t have these offices swept for listening devices once a week, I’d think these walls had ears.”

“I have the same suspicions, Sir.”

“Apparently, I’m not authorized to receive orders from the DNI,” he said. “They have to be filtered through mister Tre-fucking-vino.”

“They said you can’t receive orders from D.C.?”

He tilted his head toward the door. “They didn’t have to. Shithead showed up. It’s apparent they don’t want orders coming directly to me.”

“Do you ever see the orders? As they come in from the DNI’s office?”

“I do not. Orders were emailed to Wallace. Wallace assembled intel sheets, and I signed off on them before they were assigned to the operators. Why do you ask?”

“We know Shephard was being shipped out because he often went against orders. We also know he never arrived at his new duty station. You received word from the Office of the DNI that he was KIA in Somalia, correct?”

He gave a nod. “Correct.”

“Directly?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you interrogating me, staff sergeant?”

“No, Sir.”

“A moment ago, I advised you that I do not receive orders from DNI. That, staff sergeant, means I do not receive orders from the DNI. Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal, Sir.”

“I was advised from the now deceased Wallace that Shephard was KIA,” he said. “Wallace received said information from the DNI.”

“Did you see a copy of the paperwork?”

“I did not.” He scowled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the DNI sent you to question me, Briggs.”

I coughed a dry laugh. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on, Sir. Shephard was scheduled to ship out, but never made it. That, in itself, doesn’t bother me. The fact that you received word from the DNI that he was KIA—when he was not—bothers me. That order originated from somewhere. From someone.”

“Wallace couldn’t find him, but that man was inept.”

“Did he ever give you a name?”

“I’ve seen copies of the orders, staff sergeant.”

“A moment ago, you said you hadn’t seen—”

“I said I hadn’t seen the orders as they came from the DNI,” he barked. “I’ve seen copies of the sons-of-bitches.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared. “Despite the fact that you’re detached from the military doesn’t mean that I’m not your commanding officer, Staff Sergeant Briggs. Do not question me as if I’m some lowly private first fucking class.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The name in question is McMurphy,” he said. “There’s no McMurphy at the DNI’s Office. It doesn’t surprise me. I wouldn’t expect the Director of National fucking Intelligence to employ a man willing to use his God given name, would you, staff sergeant?”

“I guess not.”

“Wouldn’t be very fucking intelligent of office in charge of intelligence, would it?”

I chuckled. “No, Sir.”

His jaw tightened. “I intend to find this McMurphy prick and get my hands around his neck.”

“If he’s a ghost, how do you intend to—”

“As you’re aware, I’m computer challenged. Damned things baffle me. But. One of my drinking buddies from OCS works at the FBI’s Intelligence Branch,” he whispered. “I’m planning on meeting him for a beer and seeing if he can do a little digging for me.”

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“We meet once a week, for a beer or two,” he said. “I haven’t felt the need to discuss this particular matter with him, until now. With Trevino breathing down my neck, I’m not about to head to the FBI’s headquarters in the broad fucking daylight. I’ll meet him off-base for a beer. Hopefully, he’ll be able to shed some light on who’s at the other end of the emails.”

“You think McMurphy had Shephard killed?”

“I think he gave the order,” he responded. “Personally, I think someone in this very office is feeding the DNI information.”

I was shocked at his revelation. “Why is that, Sir?”

“I received word from 3rd Battalion, 6th Marines that Shephard was to ship out. His walking papers did not come from—or through—the DNI. They came from Camp Lejeune. For him to be killed prior to shipping out, someone in this office who knew of his orders to ship out had to advise the DNI of the same.”

“Who knew?” I asked.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “Eventually, every swinging dick in this office knew.”

“Makes it difficult to narrow down the search, Sir.”

“Amen to that, staff sergeant,” he said dryly. “Leaves us with no other option than to kill everyone and let God decide if we we’re in the right or in the wrong.”