She saves the information, toggles through her phone, fingers angrily sweeping across the screen and typing in names, until she finds what she’s looking for.

The phone number for Lieutenant Colonel Angus Macrae, commanding officer for the 502nd MP Battalion at Fort Campbell.

She waits.

Hesitates.

Then punches in the numbers.

Gets the secretary for Lieutenant Colonel Macrae, and then gets Macrae’s executive officer, Major Brian Coyne.

“Major Coyne? This is Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez, of the 701st Military Group at Marine Corps Base, Quantico.”

“Yes?”

“Is Lieutenant Colonel Macrae available?”

“For what reason?”

She thinks, To have me bow and scrape before him, and make him feel all right.

“I believe the colonel knows why,” Rosaria says.

“Well, he’s in a conference right now. And I can’t see him being available at all today. Tomorrow at eleven a.m. would be the soonest I could squeeze you in…if you could tell me what this is all about.”

“At the moment, I’m afraid I can’t,” Rosaria says. “But may I leave a message with you, sir?”

A slight grunt. “All right. Go ahead.”

“Tell him I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Rosaria says, “Tell him I’m sorry. No, tell him this: I’m really, really sorry.”

“Vasquez, is this some sort of joke?”

“No, sir, it isn’t. Will you deliver the message?”

“I will, but I don’t—”

“Thank you, Major, you have a good day now.”

Rosaria disconnects the call, checks the time.

If she hustles, she can make her flight back to Reagan International, and within a few hours, find out what Lieutenant Preston Baker knows about the missing Captain Amy Cornwall.

Rosaria gets up, starts briskly walking to the TSA checkpoint, glances over at the other side of the terminal, sees that the two soldiers and their happy families are gone.

CHAPTER 39

THE LITTLE metal object in his right hand is light but so devilishly simple and effective. Pelayo says, “Before, you thought you had a choice. Staying here or trying to leave. You chose wrong. Now you have a second choice before you.”

Tom says, “Please…”

Pelayo gestures to Hamid. “This young man is from a battered and poor province in Afghanistan. I know you’re aware of Afghanistan and its history of clans, tribes, and warfare. Hamid is orphaned. His family and village have been nearly destroyed. He’s here, working for me, and barely speaks English. Correct, Hamid?”

The young Pashto male—hearing his voice—smiles nervously and nods his head. Pelayo says, “Now. What would you think would happen if I were to leave him alone in this room with your daughter, and before I closed the door, I told him your family had his family incinerated last year?”

Tom feels like the concrete cube has closed about him, squeezing his shoulders and torso. No escape. He tries not to stare at the small and familiar metal object in the man’s right hand.

“What do you mean…my family?” he asks.

Pelayo gives a slight shrug. “You and your Army wife, don’t you think you have blood on your clean and soft hands? Your wife…she’s in the Army, but I don’t have to say anymore. But you, Tom Cornwall, you have killed with your words, your stories.”