Chapter Seventeen

I SAT BACK in my seat and let it wash over me, the story Nick told me about the night in the desert, the little house two down from the goat pen. I saw Nick crouching in the dark while Dorrich smashed in the door. The gunshots pulsed in my ears. I saw children sitting on the floor, mixed in among the adults; three generations of a family lounging together, reading, talking, safe and secure in their home in the desert until they were unceremoniously blown apart, all eight of them.

The IHOP waitress avoided us and no one moved in our booth as the story trailed off, dread weighing heavy on us, keeping us still and silent as the diner buzzed and bustled with activity.

I knew Nick and Breecher were waiting for a response from me, but for a long time I didn’t have one. I had to swallow the horror and disgust that captured my mind first, because I knew those feelings were valid but not useful to me right now. I needed to know more. During my time as a cop, I’d sat with dozens of confessed killers around tiny tables like this, trying to set aside my human response before it interfered with my real job. I was the investigator. The listener. The consumer of secrets. I would decide what to do with what I was hearing later.

“It sounds to me,” I said carefully, drawing both their gazes, “like Dorrich and Master killed a bunch of innocent people. Not you two.”

“Doesn’t matter. We were there,” Breecher said.

“Yes, but the way you tell it,” I said, “you couldn’t have stopped those two from—”

“There’s no putting a good spin on this, Bill,” Nick said. “We were there that night, and we kept quiet about it afterward. We’re complicit.”

“But you didn’t know,” I insisted.

“I knew something wasn’t right about the situation.” Breecher swallowed hard. “And I went along anyway. You knew the whole thing was off as well, right, Jones?”

“It was very out of the ordinary,” Nick said. “How it was planned. How we got there. You don’t just suddenly dump your routine patrol for a side mission. And we would never have been sent to do something like that alone.”

“So the story about the missing piece of drone, and the two kids who’d stolen it,” I said. “Romeo 12, was it?”

“Yeah,” Breecher said.

“Was that all a lie?”

“Not completely,” Nick answered. “Some local kids really did hold up another company that was on a mission from our base. They did steal a piece of drone from them, and some weapons. But nobody ever found those kids. They disappeared into the hills.”

“So why did Dorrich and Master cook the story up? Why did they kill that family?” I asked. “And why did they sucker you two into coming along?”

“Man, isn’t it enough just telling you this?” Nick suddenly snapped. The tables around us fell into shocked silence. He lowered his voice to a growl. “You want to know more? You want me to draw you a goddamn sketch?”

“You’re right.” I put my hands up. “You’re right. I’m trying not to overwhelm you, I’m just… I’m a little overwhelmed myself.”

“All you need to know is, we killed a family.” Nick’s eyes were fierce, full of tears, skewering me in my seat. “Yeah, Master and Dorrich pulled the triggers, but Breecher and I, we covered it up.”

“We were scared,” Breecher said, under her breath. “That night. It all unfolded so… so quickly. We just did what Dorrich and Master told us to. But then the next day, we didn’t come clean to our superiors about what really happened. And then we still didn’t the day after that. And now…”

“If anybody finds out about this, we’re going to prison for the rest of our lives,” Nick said. “Master and Dorrich for doing it, Breecher and me for protecting them. There. Are you satisfied? Are you involved enough now, Bill?”

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say,” Breecher said.

I wasn’t there,I thought. I couldn’t know.

We fell silent again. I remembered Nick from last night, his paranoia about being betrayed, recorded, about someone finding out what he had done.

“What happened to Dorrich?” I ventured carefully.

“Suicide,” Breecher said.

“Why?” I asked. “Was he depressed?”

“It’s worse than that.”

She took out her phone and put it on the table in front of us.

“Dorrich called me the night before he killed himself,” Breecher said. “My phone was in the shop. I’d dropped it and the microphone was broken. When I didn’t get back to him by morning, he left me a message and ate a bullet.”

For the first time, I saw Breecher’s hard exterior crack. Her lip trembled. “I’m kicking myself. The one night that I wasn’t available. Maybe I could have talked him out of it.”

“Play the message,” Nick said.

Breecher woke the phone screen, found the message, and put the phone on speaker. The recording was silent for a few seconds, like the caller was thinking about what they wanted to say. We all leaned in.

“Breecher, it’s me,” a deep male voice said. “I need to talk to you. They know what we did. OK? Somebody knows. And they’re coming for payback.”