“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you intend to make this statement by yourself and with no counsel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

General Sawyer says, “Then you may proceed.”

Cornwall says, “Ma’am, all of these events occurred while I was in the process of rescuing my family. And—”

The general gently raps a knuckle on the table. “I’m sorry, Captain, that’s not the Army’s concern. Do you have anything else to say?”

The room is silent. Cornwall’s face looks like it’s been carved out of cold, gray granite.

“You bet your ass I do,” she says. “General.”

CHAPTER 90

MAYBE THE people in this closed and stuffy office think they’re going to intimidate me, but I doubt any of them—with the exception of one—has ever been in a shelter at an FOB in Afghanistan, knowing you’re completely surrounded by enemies who would delight in slitting your throat.

So I have nothing to lose. My career in the Army is about to crash in one big, impressive ball of flame and debris, and the next five minutes will determine whether there’s going to be a surviving parachute or not.

I say, “General, my apologies for the last statement. I wanted to make sure you and everyone else in this room are paying attention.”

With a dry tone in her voice, the general says, “I think you can count on that. Proceed. You have your five minutes.”

I look at each and every face—including my boss, Colonel Denton, who looks like he wants to leap across the table and throttle me—and I say, “This entire series of events began at FOB Healy in Afghanistan. A number of months ago, a prisoner in my custody, Mohammed Noor, was found dead in his holding cell. At the time, Mister Noor claimed to have been a simple farmer, but later research on my part revealed that he was an agronomy expert who was in the employ of a transnational organization called Mercador Holdings.”

Everyone is paying attention, but it seems the near civilian—with a deep tan—is now paying strict attention indeed.

“Mercador Holdings is linked to a Mexican criminal organization, the Veracruz cartel. Members of this cartel kidnapped my husband and daughter six days ago from our home. I was then contacted by the head of the cartel, a Pelayo Abboud, who at the time was based in Beachside, Florida. In exchange for me kidnapping an individual in the custody of a competing cartel, the El Baja cartel, and bringing him to Abboud in Florida, my husband and Denise would be released.”

One of the civilian males says, “And you didn’t contact the CID? Or FBI?”

“No,” I say. “I was specifically warned not to do so. I had no choice. It was my husband and daughter.”

“But why were they taken, and how were you involved?” the same civilian asks.

“My husband, Tom, is a journalist. He was working on a book about the international drug trade, the cartels, and the banks that support them. His work took him to the El Baja cartel. They offered him a former bank official as a news source that knew the intricacies of their rival, the Veracruz cartel. They did this in the hope of crippling their competition. But Abboud of the Veracruz cartel acted first, kidnapping my family and having me, in turn, kidnap the news source to bring him to Abboud.”