Whiskey Tango Foxtrot – Chapter Fourteen
His wife's body was found in the trunk of her car, beaten then shot in the head. He had been a police officer for ten years, a youth worker in a high school, had previous charges of sexual assault, and now was on the Federal Top 15 Most Wanted list. The Marshals Fugitive Task Force had been unlucky when they cornered him in Atlanta; he had escaped and taken a hostage. SOG was brought in. It was the last day of Tim's team's rotation at the top of the call list and he was lying prone peering through a scope between the rails of a balcony to the store front where the man was holed up.
"This is team leader. Does anyone have a clear shot?"
There were three marksmen on the team but only Tim answered in the affirmative. He was on the right side for a straight trajectory past the hostage.
"You have the green light, Gutterson. Take the shot."
He hardly had to think, a jarring in his shoulder from the recoil and it was over. The ground team swarmed in and the hostage was rushed out to a waiting ambulance and met by Victims Services. Tim picked up his rifle and headed down to the street.
The local police securing the scene mixed in with the SOG team and the other Marshals afterward, congratulations were extended, the event rehashed, stories swapped. Tim always hated the ritual. It was a slow-motion play-by-play of a necessary shooting that he'd really rather just live through once. He understood their need to talk about it. His needs were different. He wanted to be alone.
"Hey kid," one of the locals hailed the sniper of the day.
Tim took off his cap and scratched his head. He put it back on again, not bothering to smooth his hair out first and turned to greet the salesman of camaraderie.
"Nice shot. But by God, I hate the brain matter splatter. Dirt bag had it coming though, huh, after what he did to his wife?"
Tim nodded and looked around for an escape route.
"Where did you get your training?"
"Military."
The man wasn't deterred by one word answers. He nodded. "Iraq," he presumed.
"Afghanistan," Tim corrected. He never talked about Iraq.
"You weren't in Georgia yesterday, by any chance?" the cop asked, a mischievous twitch of the eyebrow accompanying the question.
Tim looked at him, said, "No, Tennessee," and waited for the punch line.
"Craziest thing. We had a two-bit pusher put down with a sniper bullet. Seemed a waste of such elegant ammo," he laughed and was surprised when he only heard himself. He shrugged.
Tim stared.
"That wasn't your first, was it?" the cop asked, suddenly concerned.
"Uh-uh. Tell me about the shooting," Tim prodded.
The policeman was happy to oblige and soon had a small audience. He explained that rival drug gangs had been escalating a turf war until the leader on one side was taken down walking out of his apartment by a 400 yard shot. He was a small-time dealer so the unusual and high-profile manner of his death made an impression with the local police and they were all talking about it, interested in Tim's opinion.
Tim wondered at the irony of it, tried to come up with a difference between his shot and the earlier one, a difference other than the okay through the earpiece. The results were the same; one less scumbag.
From the little details he gathered, he concluded it a likely fit to the pattern of the sniper the Feds were investigating. But with the victim a low-life drug dealer, Tim figured Tom Yoder was selling his talents pretty cheaply. That realization only served to strengthen his suspicions. Yoder was in it for the thrill, recreating the mad minute. War is a drug, anyone who was there could tell you that, and Tom was getting his fix.
He reminded himself that it was still just his suspicions. As soon as he got back to Lexington he'd make use of Rodney's information and try to contact the shooter, decide what to do after that.
Tim was glad to get to the motel. Alone, he had time to think, try to find flaws in his theory. Instead his mind kept going back.
His first deployment to Afghanistan, Tim had been assigned to a sniper team led by Sgt. Yoder, flown in at the last minute from Iraq when the Sergeant who was supposed to take charge was sent home on compassionate leave. Yoder was like a god to the young privates, an experienced NCO, confident, keeping them safe outside the wire.
One incident in particular he revisited often, an ambush in an abandoned village. They were pinned down within the perimeter, unable to get their snipers to a firing position. Yoder kept them moving, wary of providing a stationary target for an Afghani sniper or mortar fire. After an hour they had two wounded by lucky bullets, unlucky for the Rangers, and one of the team froze, refusing to break cover again. Tim wouldn't leave him, cajoling, pulling on his arm, yelling. Yoder ran back and talked calmly, like he was settling a horse, eventually getting the kid to stand and he and Tim half-dragged him forward to join the rest of the team.
Yoder didn't report it. He kept the kid on, encouraging him through the next two patrols until he found his legs, became a soldier and never balked again. It was a lesson in leadership Tim would never forget. Yoder wasn't with them long and Tim heard through the battalion grapevine that he'd been sent back to Iraq as soon as the other Sergeant returned to duty. He saw him again briefly at Fort Benning, Georgia and then one last time in Iraq.
By then they held the same rank. Sgt. Yoder's military career had stalled and it was rumored that he was taking greater and greater risks with his teams, increasingly and indiscriminately more aggressive. Tim found himself standing outside a vehicle at Joint-Base Balad in northern Iraq, geared up for battle and shaking hands with his former Sergeant. He had heard the stories but was still glad to be running this operation in tandem with Yoder's team. The man had experience on the ground here and you couldn't buy that.
Yoder gave him confidence on this new battlefield. He talked him casually through a day in the life while they waited for the go ahead and Gutterson hung on every word. If he hadn't been so occupied trying to cover his own nervousness maybe he would have noticed the wild look, the symptoms of a problem that got Yoder shipped home a year later with a dishonorable discharge.
Art had turned Tim around and shooed him back out of the office with instructions to report to his SOG team in Atlanta as soon as he and Raylan had reappeared after their escapade in Tennessee. So Tim was at the airport while Raylan had explained their absence to the Chief. He had no idea what transpired during that conversation and was a little wary of the reception he would get when he walked to his desk two days later.
His butt hadn't touched his chair when Art called, "Tim."
Tim walked right into Art's office, shut the door and sat down without being asked.
"Well, that's about as strong an admission of guilt as I've ever seen," Art remarked. "What would you like to confess, my son?"
Art waited while Tim hung his head and studied his hands and was rewarded for his patience by a sentence.
"I don't know what to do."
It was evidently not a statement of boredom, there was too much of the world-weary and discouraged in it.
"About Tom Yoder?" Art supplied after a reasonable pause.
Tim's head shot up angrily.
"Yes, Raylan told me," said Art. "But before you get all huffy, understand that you should have come to me about this earlier. You're a talented investigator, Tim, and your analysis of evidence carries weight with me, like Raylan's neck hairs and Rachel's eyebrows."
He paused for a chuckle and was disappointed, but it was a good indicator of the level of disquiet in his young Marshal. Art frowned and carried on. "Now I know it's only suspicions but you would've been knocking me on the head for permission to chase it if was another case. You know this guy from the Rangers?"
Tim nodded.
"Uh-huh. Well, tell me what exactly you know."
Tim explained in more detail what he'd already related to Raylan then added, "I sent a message last night. I'm just waiting to hear back now."
Art leaned an elbow on his desk and sunk his chin on his hand. He sighed. "It's a tough call. You'll run up against these difficult choices all the time in law enforcement. Letter of the law versus spirit of the law. They're supposed to be the same thing but it's amazing how often they're not. You're a sworn-in US Marshal and a human being. It's hard to be both at once yet they expect it of us every day."
Art shuffled some papers around while he thought about the problem. He gave Tim a piercing look. "I'd probably be angrier if the Feds hadn't come down so hard on you from the start. They can be wrong with such enthusiasm."
Tim studied Art's expression, seeing compassion, understanding and the hard truth that he really had no choice in this.
"But it's in my face now," Art continued, "and we have to follow through on it. Letter of the law, son. I don't care if he's shooting scumbags." He sat up and pointed an authoritative finger. "I want you to write up a report, your conclusions based on your investigation into these shootings, and include your present actions trying to contact this fellow. We'll let the Feds and CID handle it from here. I don't want you taking the fall for any of this because of some misguided loyalty. You're a Marshal now, not a Ranger. Are we clear?"
"Yessir," Tim said, dull and dutiful.
Art eyed him thoughtfully. "Did this Yoder save your life or something heroic like that?"
Tim looked up, battle-weary, and replied, "That'd be about right."
Everyone took a wide circle to get to the copier that morning and into the afternoon. The dark cloud hanging over Tim's desk was evident to all. He finished up the report, hammering each key stroke, building the gallows. When he was done he went back through it and deliberately took out any emotive language, dropped a copy on Art's desk and went out for a late lunch.
Miljana walked into the bar around 4pm and sat across from him. The waitress came by and she ordered a drink and a sandwich, took another look at Tim and held up her hand indicating two sandwiches. The waitress was about to ask Tim if he'd like another drink, but Miljana caught her eye and shook her head, no.
When the food appeared, Tim dolefully eyed the glass of water that the waitress brought with it and glared across the table. Miljana grinned, no remorse.
"If you eat all your sandwich, you can have dessert," she teased.
He chugged back the water, smacked his lips then dug into his lunch. "I didn't think you got my message," he said.
"Back-to-back appointments, almost all day," she moaned. "I was surprised to find you still here. Skipping classes?"
He smiled, but not convincingly. "How were your clients?"
"You know I can't talk about my clients, Mr. Redirect. How was your day?"
He shrugged.
"If you don't tell me what's bothering you, there'll be no sex tonight," she threatened.
He covered his face with his hands and for a moment she thought she'd upset him. She reached over and pulled at his fingers. He was laughing. He wiped at his eyes then signaled the waitress for another beer. She didn't think it was that funny, her line, more likely he was that close to breaking down.
He shook his head and joked back. "I can't believe they let you practice. They really should take away your license."
Strings of sarcasm, she thought smiling at him fondly. He read through the look that his cover was blown and started talking.
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