Page 8 of The 9th Man

Find Jillian before the bad guys did.

First, though, he needed to become a little ghostly. True, his Magellan Billet–issued smartphone was state-of-the-art, operating off an isolated government server that was not subject to public access or scrutiny. Its incoming and outgoing transmissions were scrambled by a highly sophisticated program created especially for the Billet. And it was untrackable. About as private and secure as one could be on the open airways. One of the rules of Stephanie Nelle, his boss at the Magellan Billet, required that all field officers keep one on them at all times.

But this was not official business.

A quick Google search told him Belgium accommodated four primary cell phone carriers—Base, Orange, Proximus, and Telenet—all of which had retail stores in Charleroi. He noted the ones closest to him and their hours, then checked his watch. He had almost three hours to kill. Might as well get his head down while he could.

So he climbed out of the car and headed for the hotel lobby.

He found sleep elusive, so he stared at the ceiling. A whole mess of questions with no answers rifled through his brain. First, what could’ve spooked Jillian so badly that she left? The woman was no shrinking violet. In the history of the U.S. Marine Corps she was one of a handful of females who’d not only bested the grueling Infantry Officer Course, but gone on to serve as an 0302 platoon commander. Add to that three tours in Iraq and you had yourself a genuine American soldier. If Basra, al Kut, and al Anbar hadn’t shaken her, what the hell had? Next, the dead man on Jillian’s bathroom floor? Who was he? A hole to the head signaled execution. That meant personal. And what he’d heard her cry out.No, stay there. Behind my cover.Followed by a single shot. Then,Oh, God. No. No.That had sounded personal too. Third, what was Jillian doing in Genappe, Belgium, of all places? Not exactly a tourist hot spot. And then there was—

He stopped himself.

His thoughts were running wild.

Which is never good, Malone would say.

But there was something else gnawing at him.

This one was close to him.

Though he and Jillian had only been involved briefly, there was a not-so-small part of him that’d always wondered if she was the one who got away. She was a smart, sassy, brave woman who didn’t mind using her femininity when necessary. He’d enjoyed their time together and had thought of her more than once over the past few years. Their communications had been sporadic, but steady. Two friends catching up every once in a while through texts and emails and an occasional call. Nothing in person, though.

So of all the people in the world she could have called, why him?

He forced his brain into neutral and closed his eyes.

Eventually, sleep came.

He was up and showered and at the hotel’s breakfast bar by 9:20, where he was disappointed to discover Belgian waffles weren’t exactly a thing in Belgium. But Liège waffles were, and there was plenty of hot coffee, toast, and marmalade. Ranger-rested from a quick snooze, his belly full, he left the hotel a few minutes before the nearest cell phone store opened at 10:00. The unit he bought was cheap and barely smart, its minutes expensive, but it would do the job. Back in his car, he punched in the number Jillian had used the night before and texted,It’s Luke, call me.

Five minutes later his phone pinged.Prove it.

He thought for a moment then replied,You spilled bug juice on your IOC patch.

Bug juice was navy slang for the sugary drink served on ships. It came with no nutritional value whatsoever, but it tasted good and polished brass wonderfully. The day Jillian graduated from the Infantry Officer Course she’d spilled a glass of it on her brand-spanking-new IOC shoulder patch. Embarrassed, she’d told only Luke.

That tidbit should be enough identification.

But when five minutes passed without a reply he texted,Go silent on this number. Get yourself a prepaid cell and call me.

Another ten minutes went by then,okay.

An hour later his phone rang.

“Tell me it’s a coincidence,” Jillian immediately said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You, and that death squad, all showed up together.”

“Not together. At the same time. There’s a difference.” He then explained the sequence of events, starting with Whistler climbing out of the van and ending with the driver killing one of the intruders then fleeing.

“You didn’t hear me calling your name?” he asked.

“As soon as I realized he was dead, I was out the window. I never heard you.”

“Who’s ‘he’?”

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