Page 18 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Seven

Briggs

“Permission to speak freely?” I asked.

“Permission granted,” Lt. Colonel Martin said. “Have a seat, Staff Sergeant Briggs.”

I sat down across from his desk. “Sergeant Shephard was a good operator. Why was he shipped out?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss this matter in detail,” he said. “The decision was in the best interest of the Corps, the program, and our Nation’s security.”

“May I ask where his new duty station is?”

“You may. Sergeant Shephard has been attached to a detail in Somalia with a team of hand-selected SEALs. A warlord has reared his respective head, and our beloved Corps has been assigned to see to it that his days on earth are limited. Maintaining world peace is a never-ending job.”

I told myself Shephard was being sent to Somalia because of his strengths, but any Marine sniper could eliminate a warlord. I couldn’t help but wonder if Wallace’s questions about Shephard’s mental health had to do with the changes that were made. If he had become mentally unstable.

I decided in lieu of mentioning Wallace’s comments to Lt. Col. Martin, I would go directly to the source. Wallace could only learn of mental health concerns from one person.

Doctor Rhoades.

“Will Shephard be replaced?” I asked.

“It is my intent to continue with six Marines, staff sergeant. Be advised, procurement of a new able body is not an easy task. Rest assured, in time, Sergeant Shephard will be replaced.”

“Good to know, Sir.”

He gave me a quick once-over and then leaned away from his desk. Through thinning eyes, he peered down his nose at me. “Is there a problem, staff sergeant?”

“No, Sir.”

“I’ve been privy to your body’s language for some time, Briggs. Either your mouth is lying, or your eyes are. Speak or forever hold your peace, Son.”

“Was there a specific reason Shephard was reassigned, Sir?”

His lips thinned. After a few seconds of glaring, he drew long breath through his nose.

He exhaled. “Be it known that Sergeant Shephard was a damned fine operator, and an asset to our beloved Corps. I realize you two were in combat together, but the decisions he made while on assignment were often a matter of contention with men well above my pay grade. Shephard was a gung-ho Marine, often to his own detriment. On paper, he was reassigned because he would be an asset to the mission in Somalia. Off paper, he was reassigned as a matter of national security. This program has no place for a cowboy, staff sergeant. Celer, Silens, Mortalis.”

“Celer, Silens, Mortalis,” I repeated, citing the Force Recon Marine motto, Swift, Silent, Deadly.

“Shephard was a bull in a china closet,” he said. “Although he doubled up on deadly, swift and silent he was not.”

“Understood, Sir.”

He glanced around his desk and then met my gaze. “Is that all, staff sergeant?”

I stood. “My assignment in Arizona will be a three-man team. Considering Wallace’s inability to compile accurate information on the intel sheet, is there anything I need to know about this mission that may not be detailed?”

“The targets are high-ranking Sinaloa cartel,” he said. “Sinaloa has been at war with the Tijuana cartel over territory for some time. Nogales, Arizona is unclaimed by cartel, and Sinaloa is attempting to lay claim to it. Intel indicates they’ve been setting up in an abandoned home for the last week. Be advised, you will be met by an opposing force. That is an assurance. El Gordo Ortiz is amongst the targets.”

“The El Gordo Ortiz?” I asked. “The mass-murdering kingpin of the Sinaloa Cartel who has an affinity for young American girls?”

The US and Mexican governments had been chasing Ortiz for two decades. Their attempts to catch him had proven unsuccessful on every occasion they tried. He was always one step ahead of his captors. His willingness to be a billionaire that lived in squalor made finding him more difficult than if he drove a gold-plated Mercedes-Benz and lived in a mansion as did many of his competitors.

“That is correct. His nephew is alleged to be setting up this operation. This mission needs to be a complete success. It is imperative that not one living breathing body escapes that home. Local police are not on board, and the last thing we need is for one of those dope-slinging turds to be talking to Shithead the Sheriff about what happened. To local authorities, it needs to look like a dispute over territory. It needs to be a bloodbath, not a one shot, one kill operation.”

“Aye aye, Sir.”