“You do know we’re going to jail for this,” a man with a Tennessee twang called out.
“Please tell me you got the file—and that you know when Chaplain Pete is coming back,” Zig said to the fortysomething Navy chief in full camo who was sitting on the edge of the desk.
“Wait, this is the chaplain’s office?” the man teased, holding up a thumb drive. “Forget jail. For this, we’re going to hell.”
39
Spring Grove, Pennsylvania
“I-I’m a reasonable man,” De’Veon pleaded. “I can . . . I’m reasonable.”
He wasn’t. If he was, he wouldn’t be tied to a chair in his kitchen, begging for his life.
Twenty minutes ago, De’Veon woke up from a video game nap on his sofa, surprised to find Nola standing over him. She flashed her stolen badge. Better to start by playing nice.
“Tell me what you know about Colonel Archie Mint,” she’d asked.
“Who?” De’Veon replied.
In a blur, she jammed her elbow into De’Veon’s Adam’s apple, knocking him unconscious.
Two minutes ago, De’Veon blinked himself awake, his shirt yanked over his head, his pants pulled down to his ankles. The shirt was to limit his sight. The pants were an old Army interrogation technique: take a man’s pants, and he’ll panic that you’ll cut off his penis.
“I-Is this about money? I can get you money,” De’Veon pleaded.
Nola believed it. She’d already picked through his three-bedroom apartment. Stainless steel appliances, but the ones you buy at Sears. Modern white sofa and a bronze African drum coffee table that Nola pegged as Pier 1. De’Veon was an assistant manager at the local Hyundai dealership. He was making money, but just starting.
“Wh-What’s that smell?” he asked.
“Brylcreem. And chlorine,” Nola said, opening her thermos, which held clear chlorine, like you’d find in a swimming pool. “Any idea what happens when you mix them together?”
Pulling out a heavy manila envelope, she squeezed the Brylcreem in one end, poured a splash of chlorine in the other, then turned the envelope so the chlorine was at the top. It started to slowly run down. Standing behind him, she slapped the envelope against De’Veon’s sweaty bare chest, where it stuck in place.
“It smells like . . . What in the . . . ! Is that burning!?” De’Veon asked, twisting his body to no avail.
“In Afghanistan, we’d put these in underground tunnels. After about a hundred and twenty seconds, the chemical reaction would start a fire, and any bad guys hiding inside would come running without us having to waste a single bullet,” Nola explained, still standing behind him. “I figure that leaves you about a hundred seconds. So. Again. Tell me what you know about Colonel Mint.”
“I told you—I ain’t hearda him!”
Another lie. Mint’s neighborhood was nice, with a fancy homeowners association that made sure everyone power-washed their roofs and maintained their landscaping. On a hunch, Nola thought that a posh neighborhood like that would also have a security camera at its entrance so everyone felt nice and safe. Sure enough, once Nola tracked down the head of said association and flashed her stolen badge, he was more than happy to share the security footage.
“De’Veon, I need you to be smart for once. Three nights ago, Colonel Mint and a parking valet were shot in the head in Mint’s driveway. Whoever pulled that trigger seemed to be hiding in Mint’s house, or at the very least, waiting for him there. Interestingly, Mint’s car was the only one parked outside, which means our shooter either walked all the way to Mint’s house . . . or had someone drop him off.”
“My chest . . . ! You crazy . . . ! You smell that!?” De’Veon was squirming now, trying to tip over his chair and knock the envelope from his chest. Standing behind him, Nola pressed down on the chair back, pinning him in place. “It’s starting to . . . It’s burning, you crazy bitch!”