“His name was Saint Preux, moron. And it was just a memo, not an actual operation. The idea was for the U.S. military to stage terrorist activities at Guantanamo and blame them on Cuba, which would draw the United States into war with Cuba.”
“Get out.”
“Seriously. The first wave was to have friendly Cubans dressed in Cuban military uniforms start riots at the base, blow up ammunition at the base, start fires, burn aircraft, sabotage a ship in the harbor and sink a ship near the harbor entrance.”
“Sounds like a plot for a bad movie.”
“It gets better—or worse, depending on your perspective. They talked about having a ‘Remember the Maine’ incident where the U.S. would blow up one of its own ships in Guantanamo Bay and blame Cuba.”
“But how could they do that without hurting their own men?”
“They couldn’t. And this was actually in the memo—I couldn’t believe what I was reading. It said, ‘Casualty lists in U.S. newspapers would cause a healthy wave of national indignation.’”
Theo winced, but it might have been the tequila. “They didn’t actually do any of this shit, did they?”
“Nah. Somebody in the Pentagon came to their senses. But still, it makes you wonder if Jean was trying to tell us something about a twenty-first-century Operation Northwoods.”
Theo nodded, seeming to follow his logic. “A plane crash on the base, a few U.S. casualties, and voilà! The burning question of what to do with six hundred terrorists is finally resolved. Could never happen, right?”
“Nah. Could never—” Jack stopped himself. President Lincoln Howe was on television. “Turn that up, buddy.”
Theo climbed atop a bar stool and adjusted the volume. On screen, President Lincoln Howe was delivering a prime-time message with his broad shoulders squared to the microphone, his forceful tone conveying the full weight of his office. The world could only admire the presidential resolve of a former general in the United States Army.
“The FBI and Justice Department have worked tirelessly and swiftly on this investigation,” said the president. “It is our very firm conclusion that Mr. Saint Preux acted alone. He filled a civilian aircraft with highly explosive materials to create the equivalent of a flying eight-hundred-pound napalm bomb. Through means of deception, which included a fake medical emergency, he gained permission to land at the U.S. Naval Air Station in Guantanamo. In accordance with his premeditated scheme, the plane exploded and created a rain of fire over Camp Delta, killing six U.S. Marines and over six hundred detainees, and injuring many others.
“Naturally, our prayers and sympathies go out to the victims and their families. But I wish to emphasize that the speed with which we addressed this incident demonstrates that we will pursue terrorists and terrorist groups in whatever criminal guise they take, irrespective of whether they target American soldiers, innocent civilians or even foreign enemy combatants whom the United States has lawfully detained and taken into custody.”
The president paused, as if giving his sound bite time to gel, then narrowed his eyes for a final comment. “Make no mistake about it. Although most of the victims were detained enemy combatants, this attack at Guantanamo was an attack on democracy and the United States of America. With Mr. Saint Preux’s death, however, justice has been done. Good night, thank you, and may God bless America.”
Jack remained glued to the television as the president stepped away from the podium. Reporters sprang from their seats and started firing questions, but the president simply waved and turned away. The network commentators jumped in with their recap and analysis, but Jack’s mind was awhirl with his own thoughts. Was Operation Northwoods for real? Did Jack’s client do this as a favor to the U.S. government? Or did he do it to embarrass the Howe administration, as a way to make the world think that the president had put him up to this? None of those questions had been answered.
Or maybe they had.
Theo switched off the television. “Guess that settles it,” he said, laying on a little more than his usual sarcasm. “Just another pissed-off Haitian crashing his airplane into a naval base to protest U.S. immigration policy.”
Jack lifted his shot glass of tequila. “I’m ready.”
“For what?”
He glanced at the lemon and saltshaker, then stiffened his resolve. “I’m losing the training wheels.”
J.A. Konrath
J. A. Konrath is relatively new to the thriller scene. The Lieutenant Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels series features a forty-something Chicago cop who chases serial killers. Konrath’s debut, Whiskey Sour, was a unique combination of creepy chills and laugh-out-loud moments. Bloody Mary and Rusty Nail used the same giggle-then-cringe formula—likable heroes in scary situations. Konrath believes that a lot of the fun in writing a thriller series comes from the supporting characters. People are defined by the company they keep. Jack has a handful of sidekicks who both help and hinder her murder investigations.
Phineas Troutt is one of the helpful ones.
Introduced in Whiskey Sour, Phin operates outside the law as a problem solver—someone who takes illegal jobs for big paydays. Jack is never quite sure what Phin does to earn a living. Konrath himself didn’t know, but thought it would be fun to find out.
Forsaking the cannibals, necrophiles, snuff filmers and serial killers of his Jack Daniels books, Epitaph revolves around a more familiar and accessible evil—street gangs. The result is something grittier, darker and more intimately violent than the series that spawned Phin. No tongue in cheek here. No goofy one-liners. Konrath has always enjoyed exploring where shadows hide when the sun goes down, but this time there’s no humorous safety net. What motivates a man to drop out of society and kill for money? Is there a tie between morality and dignity? And most important of all, what is Phin loading into the shells of that modified Mossberg shotgun?
Let the body count begin.
Epitaph
There’s an art to getting your ass kicked.
Guys on either side held my arms, stretching me out crucifixion style. The joker who worked me over swung wildly, without planting his feet or putting his body into it. He spent most of his energy swearing and screaming when he should have been focusing on inflicting maximum damage.
Amateur.
Not that I was complaining. What he lacked in professionalism, he made up for in mean.
He moved in and rabbit-punched me in the side. I flexed my abs and tried to shift to take the blow in the center of my stomach, rather than the more vulnerable kidneys.
I exhaled hard when his fist landed. Saw stars.
He stepped away to pop me in the face. Rather than tense up, I relaxed, trying to absorb the contact by letting my neck snap back.
It still hurt like hell.
I tasted blood, wasn’t sure if it came from my nose or my mouth. Probably both. My left eye had already swollen shut.
“Hijo calvo de una perra!”
You bald son of a bitch. Real original. His breath was ragged now, shoulders slumping, face glowing with sweat.
Gangbangers these days aren’t in very good shape. I blame TV and junk food.
One final punch—a halfhearted smack to my broken nose—and then I was released.
I collapsed face-first in a puddle that smelled like urine. The three Latin Kings each took the time to spit on me. Then they strolled out of the alley, laughing and giving each other high fives.
When they got a good distance away, I crawled over to a Dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. The alley was dark, quiet. I felt something