“Permission to speak freely?” I asked.

“Permission granted,” Lt. Colonel Martin said. “Have a seat, Staff Sergeant Briggs.”

I sat down across from his desk. “Sergeant Shephard was a good operator. Why was he shipped out?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss this matter in detail,” he said. “The decision was in the best interest of the Corps, the program, and our Nation’s security.”

“May I ask where his new duty station is?”

“You may. Sergeant Shephard has been attached to a detail in Somalia with a team of hand-selected SEALs. A warlord has reared his respective head, and our beloved Corps has been assigned to see to it that his days on earth are limited. Maintaining world peace is a never-ending job.”

I told myself Shephard was being sent to Somalia because of his strengths, but any Marine sniper could eliminate a warlord. I couldn’t help but wonder if Wallace’s questions about Shephard’s mental health had to do with the changes that were made. If he had become mentally unstable.

I decided in lieu of mentioning Wallace’s comments to Lt. Col. Martin, I would go directly to the source. Wallace could only learn of mental health concerns from one person.

Doctor Rhoades.

“Will Shephard be replaced?” I asked.

“It is my intent to continue with six Marines, staff sergeant. Be advised, procurement of a new able body is not an easy task. Rest assured, in time, Sergeant Shephard will be replaced.”

“Good to know, Sir.”

He gave me a quick once-over and then leaned away from his desk. Through thinning eyes, he peered down his nose at me. “Is there a problem, staff sergeant?”

“No, Sir.”

“I’ve been privy to your body’s language for some time, Briggs. Either your mouth is lying, or your eyes are. Speak or forever hold your peace, Son.”

“Was there a specific reason Shephard was reassigned, Sir?”

His lips thinned. After a few seconds of glaring, he drew long breath through his nose.

He exhaled. “Be it known that Sergeant Shephard was a damned fine operator, and an asset to our beloved Corps. I realize you two were in combat together, but the decisions he made while on assignment were often a matter of contention with men well above my pay grade. Shephard was a gung-ho Marine, often to his own detriment. On paper, he was reassigned because he would be an asset to the mission in Somalia. Off paper, he was reassigned as a matter of national security. This program has no place for a cowboy, staff sergeant. Celer, Silens, Mortalis.”

“Celer, Silens, Mortalis,” I repeated, citing the Force Recon Marine motto, Swift, Silent, Deadly.

“Shephard was a bull in a china closet,” he said. “Although he doubled up on deadly, swift and silent he was not.”

“Understood, Sir.”

He glanced around his desk and then met my gaze. “Is that all, staff sergeant?”

I stood. “My assignment in Arizona will be a three-man team. Considering Wallace’s inability to compile accurate information on the intel sheet, is there anything I need to know about this mission that may not be detailed?”

“The targets are high-ranking Sinaloa cartel,” he said. “Sinaloa has been at war with the Tijuana cartel over territory for some time. Nogales, Arizona is unclaimed by cartel, and Sinaloa is attempting to lay claim to it. Intel indicates they’ve been setting up in an abandoned home for the last week. Be advised, you will be met by an opposing force. That is an assurance. El Gordo Ortiz is amongst the targets.”

“The El Gordo Ortiz?” I asked. “The mass-murdering kingpin of the Sinaloa Cartel who has an affinity for young American girls?”

The US and Mexican governments had been chasing Ortiz for two decades. Their attempts to catch him had proven unsuccessful on every occasion they tried. He was always one step ahead of his captors. His willingness to be a billionaire that lived in squalor made finding him more difficult than if he drove a gold-plated Mercedes-Benz and lived in a mansion as did many of his competitors.

“That is correct. His nephew is alleged to be setting up this operation. This mission needs to be a complete success. It is imperative that not one living breathing body escapes that home. Local police are not on board, and the last thing we need is for one of those dope-slinging turds to be talking to Shithead the Sheriff about what happened. To local authorities, it needs to look like a dispute over territory. It needs to be a bloodbath, not a one shot, one kill operation.”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

“What portion of that was in your intel sheet?” he asked. “I haven’t had time to look.”

“None of it, Sir.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not one iota?”

“That is correct, Sir. Other than the city, that is.”

“Frag Wallace’s worthless ass when you get a chance,” he deadpanned.

It was all the invitation I needed.

“Will do, Sir,” I responded. “First chance I get.”

I peeked inside Doc Rhoades’ door. “Are you busy?”

Sharpening one of her many pencils with an old-school hand-held sharpener, she looked up. Her eyes smiled. “Never too busy to talk to you.”

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. “My head is in a good place, but I’m a little frustrated right now. Just wanted someone to talk to before I go on assignment.”

She swept the pencil shavings into her palm and dumped them in the trash. “I’m here to listen.”

I sat down. “AD Wallace asked me about Shepard’s mental health a few weeks ago. The next thing I know, Shephard has been reassigned to a detail in Somalia. Mental health reports come from one place, and one place only. I’ll be blunt.” I crossed my arms. “Did the directive to ship Shephard out come from you?”

“I don’t have the authority to make such recommendations,” she responded. “I provide a copy of my bi-monthly mental health reports to AD Wallace, who in turn provides them to Director Martin as he sees fit. So, Director Martin sees only a portion of my reports. Only what Wallace sees fit to show him. After Martin’s review, they go to DNI’s office.”

“It’s obvious that there was something in your report that caused Wallace to raise a red flag. I guess my concern is this.” I sharpened my glare. “How long will it be before there’s something similar in my file?”

“The differences between you and Shephard are vast,” she responded. “Shephard’s actions and decisions put this program—and every man in it—at risk.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“That, Briggs, is fact.” She crossed her arms in a huff. “There are reasons Shephard’s actions were listed as putting the program at risk, and your arrest in Texas never made it as far as your personnel file. Shephard was a loose cannon.”

“Give me an example,” I demanded.

“You know I can’t do that.”

I glared.

“In the grand scheme of things, how does Shephard’s absence change things?” she asked. “I realize you were close to him, but I don’t see how his reassignment changes things for you. Help me understand why you’re so frustrated.”

I needed to know what changes came about to warrant his reassignment. Convincing her to reveal that information wasn’t going to be easy.

“I have an assignment in a few days that will require me to take two men with me. Shephard was one of those men assigned to that mission. Shephard’s saved my ass more than once. Of the four men that are left, none have his combat experience, his courage, or his uncanny ability to identify and eliminate a threat.” I stood and turned toward the door. “I’m not happy about this. Not at all.”

“Don’t do this to me,” she said.

“Do what to you?” I faced her and glared. “You did this to yourself.”

“You have a job to do, and I have a job to do,” she said. “My job is to prepare accurate reports on the mental health of the men in the program, and then provide the reports to Wallace for review. What happens from there is out of my control.”

I took a step toward the door.

“Briggs…”

I took another.

“Briggs, please.”

I took two more.

“Mister Briggs!”

Door handle in hand, I paused. “What?”

“Sit down, please.”

“I’d rather—”

“Sit down!” She let out a sigh. “We’re off the record.”

“Pfft.” I chuckled. “Does that even mean anything?”

“To me, it does,” she replied. “I guess it gets down to whether you can be trusted to keep your mouth shut. I’m of the opinion you can be trusted. I guess time will tell.”

I wasn’t thrilled about her implications regarding my trustworthiness. I forced an exaggerated sigh. “I’m listening.”

“What information did Shephard share with you about his assignment in Philadelphia?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Not one thing?”

“Correct. Nothing.”

“He was assigned to eliminate the threat away from his home, because of the consistent presence of the target’s wife. Contrary to orders, Shephard chose to do it at the target’s residence. In doing so, he also eliminated the target’s wife, and the neighbor, another woman.”

In the fog of war, things happen. If anyone knew it, I did. Rarely did an assignment go exactly as planned.

“What’s your point?” I asked.

“Are you aware of his assignment in Henderson, Nevada in the spring?”

“I guess not.”

“The target had the VX nerve agent in his possession. Intelligence indicted he intended to use it in a Las Vegas casino, through the air conditioning system. The outcome would have been catastrophic. Shephard was to use the nerve agent on the target in a warehouse where the chemical was being kept. It would look like an accident, and keep the chemical confined to a remote location.” She lowered her head and let out a sigh. When she looked up, she was visibly shaken. “Instead, he used a knife. A folding knife he carried on his person. According to the filed report, Shephard’s weapon malfunctioned, and the knife was his last resort. He killed the target, his wife, and two children, both of which were in high school. Each victim had antemortem ligature marks on their wrists and ankles. The autopsy revealed they didn’t die from damage to their internal organs.”

She looked like she was going to vomit. She swallowed heavily and looked away before meeting my gaze of disbelief.

“They bled to death,” she said. “Seated in a circle on the master bedroom floor, they died a slow, mentally excruciating death while watching their loved ones do the same. Shephard is a sociopath. He is also a sadist. He derives pleasure out of seeing people suffer. I’m sorry, but many of his recent actions while on assignment put this program, and the men and women in it, in danger.”

Shocked beyond belief at what she revealed, I stared blankly out the window. In hindsight, I knew Shephard was slipping into a dark place, but attributed it to combat-related stress. Had I known the true extent of his problems, I would have looked at matters differently.

“I have several more stories if you’d like to hear them,” she said. “His sociopathic tendencies have worsened in the last twelve months.”

The damage was done. Shephard dug his own grave. I shook my head. “I’ve heard enough.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“So am I.” Shephard knew how to kill with a knife. He’d been trained to do so. Allowing anyone to bleed to death was not only cruel, it put the program and the men in it at risk of exposure. The thought of him watching a family bleed out sent a chill the length of my spine. I shifted my gaze to meet hers. “I had no idea.”

“I’m not surprised that he kept those things to himself,” she said. “As disturbed as he is, he’s aware of what society deems as right and wrong. He didn’t want you to shut him out. He was protecting you.”

I exhaled a deep breath of regret. “What causes someone to do such…”

“There are brain-based causes for sociopathy, but we’re not sure where they’re derived from. He’s also a psychopath. And, he’s a sadist. It’s not his fault. Emotion is something he knows nothing about. Remorse, empathy, and shame are things he doesn’t feel. It makes the acts he commits different, in his eyes. For him to kill is no different than opening a door or eating a sandwich.”

I lowered my head. Despite it being a necessary step in the program’s progress, Shephard’s reassignment wasn’t an easy thing for me to digest. We’d been together since his inception in the Marine Corps.

“I know you care about him,” she said. “It’s caring that makes this so hard to accept.”

I gazed out the window. The sight of Wallace’s car reminded me of what an absent-minded idiot he was. As I felt my blood pressure begin to rise, I faced Doc Rhoades. “I appreciate it, Doc.”

“When is your next assignment?” she asked.

“Headed out Friday morning. It’s in Arizona. Should be back Sunday, if all goes well.”

“Will you do something for me?” she asked.

“Possibly.”

“Will you call me when it’s over?”

“Will you be here?”

“No, but you can reach me on my cell phone,” she said. “I’d appreciate it if you called me when the mission is complete. I’d like to know you’re safe.”

Emotion washed over me. It was Doc Rhoades’ responsibility to keep my mind cleared of all combat-related clutter.

My safety wasn’t her worry.

I grew up the son of a prostitute. I came and went as I pleased without ever being questioned about my whereabouts. My mother cared very little—if at all—about my welfare. Earning enough money to support her drug addictions was her only concern.

My childhood was spent longing for her affection. Filled with the belief that the only thing she would ever love was drugs, I grew up frustrated and angry that she couldn’t find a morsel of value in having a child. Her addictions eventually took her life—and my chance of salvaging a relationship with her.

Doc Rhoades’ simple gesture of concern gave me hope for what the future might hold. Before any progress could be made between us, there were many changes that would have to take place. They were changes, however, that I believed I was now willing to make.

I smiled. “Okay.”