Free The Second Objective by Mark Frost Page A

to the toughest-looking guy in the group, slammed his head into the wall, and went to work on his kidneys. By the time he finished, the man was urinating on himself and four of the other five suspects had pens in their hands. Each was escorted to a separate, heated room down the hall, where they were told a hot meal and a cocktail of their choice would be served as soon as they finished their confessions.
    Grannit stayed in the cold room with Eddie Bennings, the one man who hadn’t picked up a pen.
    “You’re not going to write a statement?”
    “Fuck you,” said Bennings.
    Grannit ordered the other MPs out of the room and lit another cigarette.
    “I know you from someplace, Eddie?”
    “Where the fuck would I know you from?”
    “You ever been fingerprinted in a New York police station? Done any time? Eduardo DiBiaso, that’s the name you were born with, isn’t it?”
    “Where’d you get that?”
    “Right here on your paperwork, Eduardo. Why is that, you change it for the draft board to get the stink of garlic off you? Or were you dodging a warrant?”
    Bennings narrowed his gaze, working hard to show how little he cared. Grannit had known this pissant had a rap sheet the moment he laid eyes on him, strictly small potatoes, a wannabe who’d clocked enough time around the mob to lose his moral compass.
    “You got a wife and kids back home, Bennings?”
    “I got a wife.”
    “That where you’re sending the money? Home to the wife?” No response. “Which makes her an accessory after the fact. We could go after her, too. Send the NYPD to her door. What’s her taste been so far, five thousand? Ten?”
    “I got nothing to say till I talk to a lawyer.”
    “Lawyer? Where the fuck you think you are, Hoboken? There’s no justice system here. There’s no neighborhood capo back home taking care of the family ’cause you kept your mouth shut. Military courts don’t work that way. This ain’t some penny-ante beef, pinching rum off the back of a Seagram’s truck. These are war crimes, pal. People go to jail for life or face a firing squad. We got you on ice. You don’t play ball, you’re never gonna see your wife again.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “And once word gets around how you guys ripped off our troops in the field? Life in the brig is gonna be some hard fucking time.”
    The first crack showed in Eddie’s practiced tough-guy facade. “What about it?”
    “We know you got a relationship with the officers running this show. You brought some experience from home; they trust you ’cause you got things done. You’re a key man for them. You want to tell me anything different?”
    Eddie didn’t.
    “Help us put those big shots in the pokey and the system’s gonna treat you better. That’s common sense. Your boys are soldiers, not gangsters, so nobody’s coming back at you if you roll over, you might not even stand trial. A slap on the wrist, maybe. They transfer you into another unit with no jail time.”
    “What, so I can get killed on the front line? Thanks but no thanks.”
    “Okay, Eddie. So we’ll go with choice number three.”
    Grannit stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed Eddie by the collar and wrist, and marched him through the balcony doors.
    “What’s that? What the fuck you doing?”
    “I turn my back for a split second, you were so despondent you threw yourself over the rail. Tragic waste of life. No death payment, no gold star in the window, no folded flag for the missus—”
    “Wait a second, wait a second—”
    “You don’t think I’m pissed off enough? I’d be doing a favor for everybody in your life you’re going to fuck over if you live through this—”
    Eddie grabbed hold of the wrought iron balcony with both hands for dear life as Grannit muscled him to the edge.
    “Okay, okay, I’ll write it, I’ll write it, I’ll cooperate—”
    “You sure about that?” Grannit yanked hard on his arms.
    “I’m sure, I’m sure, Jesus Christ!”
    Grannit let him drop to the