No Remorse Read Online Free Page B

investor in one of Marvin’s condos in southern Baja.
    Mac jogged across the road to the old Confederate cemetery where he stopped to recover, his face flushed with thumping blood. The freshly mown grass had a minty scent and the early morning dew caused clippings to cling to his sneakers. He found a dry area and started doing sit-ups. The Suburban pulled over and the two men inside sat watching. Maybe they were just there to make sure he didn’t skip town before tomorrow’s Article Thirty-Two hearing.
    In darker moments of his confinement over the past two weeks, Mac had reflected on how some guys in a similar situation might eat the barrel of a pistol. But taking the easy way out wasn’t him. In the bathroom mirror one morning, he’d been jolted by the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and the furry tongue. He was determined to expunge the crap that had been filling his mind and his time in custody. He’d had it with accepting what the politicians at the Pentagon were dishing out. Time to fight. He would tough it out. Whatever he had to do, he was prepared. Any deal, so long as it enabled him to continue the search for Sophia and Danni.
    He had made the call to his Commanding Officer, Colonel Matheson.
    Back on his feet, he jogged off along the track into a thicket of trees. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men step out of the vehicle and begin to walk quickly after him. An average-height moon face in uniform, early thirties, and a tall suit, late forties, shiny scalp, John Lennon glasses, trimmed graying goatee. He doubted they were here to kill him. A minute later, after they hurried past where he was hiding, he stepped out onto the track.
    “Looking for me?” he said, jogging on the spot.
    The two men swung around. The tall one with glasses moved his hand towards his waist, then relaxed. He was carrying. But if someone wanted to eliminate the problem called Lee McCloud, there were plenty of better ways to do it. He sized them up. They both had the physiques of office workers. No contest.
    “Sergeant Lee McCloud? I’m Captain Bryce Taylor from JAG. This is Derek Wisebaum.”
    “A Confederate cemetery’s a hell of a place to offer a plea bargain.”
    Taylor brushed aside a low hanging limb. “As you’re aware, Sergeant, your case has created some difficulties in Washington...”
    Mac held up his hand. “Guys, I don’t want to hear this bullshit, all right? My lawyer told me someone wanted my scalp for a career hump. Whatever, I don’t care.”
    “You’ll want to listen to our offer,” Wisebaum said coolly, “if you care at all about your buddies.”
    “Excuse me?” Mac’s muscles tensed at the implied threat. Wisebaum was a player—it was obvious from his eyes. That ruthless glint. Probably a spook, he decided, or some General’s shit cleaner. Mac made it plain by the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes and the hands on his hips that he did not take kindly to threats.
    Taylor spread his palms in a peace gesture and shot a disapproving look at Wisebaum. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to give us five minutes to explain, so we can all stop the posturing.”
    “You have two,” he said. He took a swig from his water bottle. “And do us all a favor. Tell it like it is.”
    Taylor swatted at one of the plentiful early morning mosquitoes. “All right. If tomorrow’s hearing goes as expected, you’ll face a general court-martial in a year’s time, at which you’ll be found guilty of the two charges of negligent homicide relating to the girls. You’ll be sentenced to two to five years’ incarceration, loss of rank and dishonorable discharge.”
    “You can’t possibly know that. You’d have to own the jury and the judge.”
    Wisebaum took off his glasses and shook his head.
    “It’s politics, Sergeant.” Taylor continued: “Let’s say I’m wrong and you’re found not guilty. The powers in Washington will bring a murder charge for the four Mexican national police you