CHAPTER 22
CSTC Headquarters, Maryland
Back stateside in Maryland after a long-ass flight, Tristan and a fleet of CSTC Range Rovers were waiting for us at the airport in Easton.
I rode with the boss in his Maserati, while the rest of the team piled into the spotless Rovers. We all headed off to the compound. No reason to wait around for our baggage; I saw our things getting loaded directly into a large cargo truck parked outside the fence.
Tristan and I drove straight to his private office. The rest of the teams would begin end-of-tour administrative work, getting paid and processed out.
We sat on one of the office’s leather couches and reviewed every detail of the ambush. Tristan asked a lot of questions—more than usual. He wanted to make sure we had followed the rules of engagement to the letter of the law.
I was about to ask some questions of my own about why my team had been brought back early when Tristan threw a fastball directly over the plate.
What he told me about our next mission kept the two of us talking for longer than I had expected.
* * *
Still processing my conversation with Tristan, I walked out to give some last-minute instructions and say goodbye to the team, who’d been waiting for me to finish with our boss.
Oliver, Meg, Wolf, and JP all assured me they’d be descending upon my place in Nantucket by the weekend, so I thanked them all again and headed to our parking garage to pick up my Defender.
My bags and guns had been stacked neatly in front of my parking space.
I loaded my gear, cranked up the old engine, and began the almost nine-hour drive up the Eastern Seaboard.
With any luck, I’d catch the last ferry to Nantucket and be sleeping in my own bed before midnight.
I arrived at the Steamship Authority loading dock in Hyannis with an hour to spare before the last ferry.
Though it was beach season, not too many cars were going across.
The motor vessel to Nantucket was an old ferry capable of transporting fifty passenger vehicles and two hundred passengers each way.
While one ferry was leaving Hyannis, its sister ship was leaving from Nantucket.
I always wondered why there never seemed to be any searches of passengers or vehicles by TSA or the local cops.
I guess islanders were beyond suspicion when it came to matters of national security.
At least it meant I wasn’t going to be bothered about why I was transporting an assault rifle, a submachine gun, two pistols, a few knives, and way too much ammo.
A little over two hours later, I rolled off the ferry at the boat basin.
Even on a weeknight, the sidewalks were packed with vacationers in search of late-night food and drink.
The contrast between this wealthy island and Baghdad was dramatic.
Instead of burkas, the women sported Prada.
Instead of ox-drawn carts, they drove Porsches.
I wove through the cobblestone streets and made my way past the cranberry bogs to Sconset. The eastern side of the island was famously quiet compared to the hubbub of town, which was why we year-round residents liked it so much.
I fell into a category somewhere between the wealthy summer vacationers and the locals. I had fallen in love with the place the first time I ever came out here, then used my first bonus from CSTC to buy a humble house on Baxter Road. This island was my sanctuary between deployments.
There was a stretch of about six miles where the land on both sides of the main road had been saved from development by a land trust. There were no other cars on the road this time of night.
With no streetlights and no moon—only my headlights to show the way—the sense of isolation was relaxing. It was nice to finally be alone.
I rolled past the rotary and the market and made the turn onto Broadway. I was almost home.
The reflective paint on the Nantucket Police car up ahead on Broadway took me by surprise.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a police vehicle out here.
Was there a fire? I slowed to look around.
I couldn’t see any flames or smell any smoke.
Another police car sat farther north at the next intersection, but no fire trucks or ambulances.
The state trooper shined his flashlight and headed toward me, signaling me to stop. I hadn’t been speeding, and my headlights worked fine. This was odd.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this road is closed for a few more hours. There is an event,” he said with as little enthusiasm as he could muster. It was late, and he was stuck on a shit detail. I knew the feeling.
“Hey, sir, that sucks. But that house right over there, like fifty yards from here? That’s mine, and I’d really like to go home.”
The officer shook his head from side to side and gave me the mean-mug stare.
“Listen, bud, the road’s closed until they tell me it’s open—probably a couple more hours. Come back then.”
The guy was really starting to piss me off.
“Officer—”
“Buddy,” he interrupted. “The place is locked down for people more important than you. You’re not getting by, so turn your ass around and go away. They went house-to-house and told everybody all last week. Guess you missed the memo.”
“I just came home from fucking Iraq.” I knew I was about to get sideways with this guy. “Listen, you can walk me to the door. It’s right there. Just give me a break here, man.”
“I’m not gonna tell you again: Get your ass out of here, and don’t come back bothering me.” Another dose of mean-mugging.
I tried to throw daggers with my eyes, but he wasn’t budging. Defeated, I started to back up, muttering profanities at the dashboard.
That’s when I noticed the cop pointing at me and laughing into his radio.