It Came Upon A Midnight Clear

Crash met the man’s angry gaze steadily. “I feel sick about that, sir. I made the mistake of trusting my captain.”

“Oh, so now it’s your captain’s fault.”

Crash fought a burst of his own anger. Getting mad wouldn’t do anyone any good. He knew that from the countless times he’d been in battle. Emotion not only made his hands shake, but it altered his perceptions as well. In a battle situation, emotion could get him killed. And Foster was clearly here to do battle. Crash had to detach. Separate. Distance himself.

He made himself feel nothing. “I didn’t say that.” His voice was quiet and calm.

“Whoever shot Robinson wouldn’t have gotten past his security fence without your help. You brought them in, Hawken. You’re responsible for this.”

Crash held himself very still. “I’m aware of that.” They—whoever they were—had used him to get inside Jake’s home. Whoever had set this up had known of his personal connection to the admiral.

He’d barely been three hours stateside, three hours off the Air Force transport he’d taken back to D.C. when Captain Lovett had called him into his office, asking if he’d be interested in taking part in a special team providing backup security at Admiral Robinson’s request.

Crash had believed this team’s job was to protect the admiral, when in fact there’d been a different, covert goal. Assassination.

He should have known something was wrong. He should have stopped it before it even started.

He was responsible.

“Excuse me, sir.” He had to check on Jake’s condition. He had to sit in the waiting area and hope to hear continuous reports of his longtime mentor’s improvement, starting with news of the admiral finally being moved out of ICU. He had to use the time to mentally sort through all the information Jake had passed to him in that file. And then he had to go out and hunt down the man who had used him to get to Jake.

But Tom Foster blocked the door. “I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant. You’ve worked with SEAL Team Twelve for how long?”

“On and off for close to eight years,” Crash replied.

“And during those eight years, you occasionally worked closely with Admiral Robinson on assignments that were not standard SEAL missions, did you not?”

Crash didn’t react, didn’t blink, didn’t move, carefully hiding his surprise. How had Foster gotten that information? Crash could count the number of people who knew he’d been working with Jake Robinson on one hand. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“You don’t have to say. We know you worked with Robinson as part of the so-called Gray Group.”

Crash chose his words carefully. “I don’t see how that has any real relevance to your investigation, sir.”

“This is information FInCOM has received from naval intelligence,” Foster told him. “You’re not giving away anything we don’t already know.”

“FInCOM takes part in its share of covert operations,” Crash said, trying to sound reasonable. “You’ll understand that whether I am or am not a part of the Gray Group is not something I’m able to talk freely about.”

Reasonable wasn’t on the list of adjectives Tom Foster was working with today. His voice rose and he took a threatening step forward. “An admiral has been shot. This is not the time to conceal any information whatsoever.”

Crash held his ground. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve already given you and the other investigators all the information I’m able to provide. The names of the deceased, as I knew them. An account of my conversation with Captain Lovett that afternoon. An account of the events that led to one of the men in the team opening fire upon the admiral—”

“What exactly is your reason for concealing information, Lieutenant?” Foster’s neck was turning purple.

“I’m concealing nothing.” Except for the shocking information Jake had sent him in a top-secret, high-level security-clearance file.

If Crash wanted to get to the bottom of this—and he did—it wouldn’t help to go public with all that Jake had told him. Besides, Crash had to treat the information in that file with exactly the same care and secrecy as he treated every other file Jake had ever sent him. And that meant that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t talk about it with anyone—except his Commander-in-Chief, the President of the United States.

“We know that Jake Robinson sent you some kind of information file on the morning of the shooting,” Foster informed him tightly. “I will need you to turn that file over to me as soon as possible.”

Crash met the man’s gaze steadily. “I’m sorry, sir. You know as well as I do that even if I did have access to this alleged file from Admiral Robinson, I wouldn’t be able to reveal its contents to you. The status of all of the work I did for the admiral was ‘need to know.’ My orders were to report back to Jake and to Jake only.”

“I order you to hand over that file, Lieutenant.”

“I’m sorry, Commander Foster. Even if I had such a file, I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance rating necessary to make such a demand.” He stepped dangerously close to the shorter man and lowered his voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see how Jake’s doing.”

Foster stepped aside, pushing open the door with one hand. “Your concern for Robinson is heartwarming. At least, it would be if we didn’t have indisputable evidence that proves you were the man who fired those first shots into Admiral Robinson’s chest.”

Crash heard the words Foster said, but they didn’t make sense. The crowd of men standing outside the bathroom door didn’t make sense, either. There were uniformed cops, both local and state police, as well as dark-suited FInCOM agents, and several officers from the shore patrol.

They were obviously waiting for someone.

Him.

Crash looked at Foster, the meaning of his words becoming clear. “You think I’m—”

“We don’t think it, we know it.” Foster smiled tightly.

“Ballistic reports are in.”

“Are you Lt. William R. Hawken, sir?” The shore-patrol officer who stepped forward was tall and young and humorlessly earnest.

“Yes,” Crash replied. “I’m Hawken.”

“By the way, the bullet taken from your arm was fired from Captain Lovett’s weapon,” Foster told him.

Crash felt sick, but he didn’t let his reaction show. His captain had tried to kill him. His captain had been a part of the conspiracy.

“Lt. William R. Hawken, sir,” the shore-patrol officer droned, “you are under arrest.”

Crash stood very, very still.

“The ballistic report also shows that your weapon fired the bullets that were found in four of the five other dead men, as well as those removed from the admiral,” Foster told him tightly. “Does that information by any chance clear up your foggy memory of who fired the first shots?”

“You have the right to remain silent,” the shore-patrol officer chanted. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—”

This was impossible. Bullets from his weapon…? That wasn’t the way it had happened. He looked into the blandly serious eyes of the young officer. “What exactly am I being charged with?”

The young officer cleared his throat. “Sir. You have been charged with conspiracy, treason, and the murder of a United States Navy Admiral.”

Murder?

Crash’s entire world tilted.

“Admiral Robinson’s wounds proved fatal one hour ago,” Tom Foster announced. “The admiral is dead.”

Crash closed his eyes. Jake was dead.

Disassociate. Detach. Separate.