The Accused Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible ®, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)

  The verses in chapter 61 are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright ©1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. It is the intent of the author and publisher that all events, locales, organizations, and persons portrayed herein be viewed as fictitious.

  THE ACCUSED

  Copyright © 2003 by Craig L. Parshall

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Parshall, Craig, 1950–

  The accused / Craig Parshall.

  p. cm. —(Chambers of justice ; bk. 3)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-1173-3 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6040-3 (eBook)

  1. Chambers, Will (Fictitious character)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.A77A64 2003

  813’.54—dc21

  2003004365

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  To the memory of my father, Richard Palmer Parshall, who served as a catapult officer in the United States Navy in World War II on the USS Makin Island, a Casablanca Class escort aircraft carrier, during the fierce battles in the Pacific theater.

  And to my father-in-law, Vince DiFrancesca, who ably served as a PFC in the United States Army Air Force in the same war, on the Marianas and other Pacific islands.

  And finally, to my brother, Richard Parshall, who served in Vietnam as a first lieutenant in the United States Army, and whose return—as was regrettably true of too many of our brave soldiers in that conflict—was greeted with far less honor than his dedicated service deserved.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Missing Witness

  About the Author

  Custody of the State

  Acknowledgments

  Much like the first two novels in this series, this one is a legal thriller and a love story of sorts—as well as a spiritual odyssey. But unlike the others, it is a tale of war. It describes the journey of a military hero faced with enduring the personal, as well as the geopolitical, crucible that results from a tragic exercise of judgment during our War on Terrorism. As a result, I relied heavily on the expertise of men who have served our nation in the armed forces, and whose keen insights, I hope, have kept this tale within the bounds of realism. I am profoundly in their debt.

  David Tanks, a 25-year military veteran and an expert in matters of missile and satellite defense, as well as national security, gave me superb pointers on overall military logistics—as well as some great technology information. Thomas Rumping, a retired Marine Corps intel officer, combat pilot, and counterterrorism expert, and now a defense and security consultant (and an aspiring author in his own right), was incredibly helpful—especially in the operational aspects of the military assault that leads to the criminal case at the center of this story. And I also owe much thanks to Lt. Col. M.J.K. Maher, U.S.M.C., Judge Advocate—Marine Corps HQ. My experience in criminal defense of U.S. Marines at Quantico has been, admittedly, very limited—and Lt. Col. Maher filled in the numerous lapses when it came to the Article 32 proceeding. I have tremendous admiration for the U.S. Marine Corps, the other branches of service, and our intelligence agencies. I hope this story confirms that admiration. If there are any failures in military accuracy, they are solely mine—and are not the responsibility of these men who shared with me their time, expertise, and the fruits of their brave service to our nation.

  Marilyn Clifton, as always, brought her Marine Corps experience—and her paralegal acumen—to bear on this project, more, perhaps, than any other to date. I am in debt to her and to Sharon Donehey, who slaved on this manuscript under crippling deadlines. Lastly, thanks to Janet, my wife, for lovingly putting up with the life of a lawyer/writer. Our life together continues to inspire the most important things that are written here.

  1

  INSIDE THE BLACK HOOD that was tied over his head, Frederick Kilmer, United States Secretary of Commerce, was sucking in the stale air. His face was dripping with sweat in the moist heat of the Mexican jungle. He was tied up in the back of a vehicle—that much he knew. And it was moving fast over potholes and ditches, jarring his teeth together with each bump. Wherever it was, this road was not paved.

  He also knew that two of his captors were with him as well. He could hear the two Middle Eastern men banging their automatic weapons on the metal surface he was sitting on and talking excitedly together.
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  In his dark, confused world, Kilmer was clinging to the image of his wife with her gentle smile, who was still back in their condo in Bethesda, Maryland. And the image of his two lovely daughters, who were attending college—sitting in the quiet safety of a classroom somewhere, listening to a lecture on Restoration literature or perhaps on the current theories of political science. The idea of never seeing his family again was almost too overpowering to comprehend.

  But he was smart—and he knew the score. And he knew these terrorists had gotten this far—and they were not afraid to go further. To find some forsaken part of the Yucatán jungle—haul him out—and then slowly torture him while one of them grinned behind the eyepiece of a video camera, capturing his gruesome death for all the world to witness. That was the worst part—the thought that his wife and daughters might see that.

  Kilmer did not know that the driver of the old, rusty pickup truck they were in and the man on the front seat next to him—separated from the camper shell on the back by a window—were both heavily armed Colombians. Unlike the others, they were in it strictly for the money. Speeding in front of the truck driven by the Colombians was a late-model Mercedes with four other Middle Eastern men.

  In just a mile or so both vehicles would arrive at an even narrower dirt road that would lead them to a path through the nearly impenetrable Yucatán interior, within a canopy of jungle so dense that helicopters could not find them.

  But before that, the Mercedes began slowing down unexpectedly. Up ahead, at the side of the road, there was a crumbling, deserted café with empty windows, sagging walls, and a faded sign that read “¡Mucho Gusto!” Beside the café there was something in the road. The pickup truck slowed too.

  Then the drivers saw it. A taxicab with its hood open—and jumper cables leading from its engine to under the open hood of an old bus. The bus and the cab were blocking the entire width of the road—so close to the thick, vine-covered trees on both sides that no car could pass.

  A Mexican man of medium height was standing in front of the taxi. A taller man, with his back to the approaching vehicles, was bending over the engine of the bus. He was wearing a straw hat and a multicolored poncho.

  The leader, in the Mercedes, stuck his head out and motioned frantically back toward the Colombians as the vehicles stopped about fifty feet from the taxi and the bus.

  The Colombian driver jumped out with his weapon in this hand, yelling and cursing. “Move it now or you die!” he screamed. Soon the other man dashed out of the truck, joining in the yelling.

  The man in front of the taxi nodded solemnly, looked at his companion, and raised his hands slowly over his head—moving around to the other side of the car.

  But the bigger man did not move—his back was still to the Colombians.

  The Colombian driver fired a round—sending two bullets through the multicolored cape and missing the man’s torso by inches.

  But the man in the hat and the cape did not move, except to turn slightly to view the bullet holes in the fabric—much like a bull would glance at a fly on his flank.

  Neither the Colombians nor the terrorists in the Mercedes were looking toward the rear—where an American special operations agent in black assault coveralls had scurried out of the abandoned café, straight to the back of the truck. The windows of the camper shell were covered with dirty curtains, so he reached his position without detection.

  He took a metal canister filled with pressurized, reconstituted halothane gas and clamped its rubber feet to the truck’s gate, holding it in place.

  Then he fed a rubber hose into an opening at the corner of the rear window where it met the gate and turned the control knob on. The odorless, tasteless gas poured into the compartment that housed Secretary Kilmer and his two captors.

  But up at the front—by the bus—the four men in the Mercedes were getting nervous. Then the driver of that car slammed it into gear and, throwing dirt and stones, spun it in a half circle and sped off in the opposite direction. The American special ops agent scuttled underneath the truck as the car flew past.

  The two Colombians were still staring at the man in the hat and cape, who was not moving. They began laughing and taunting him as they walked closer—“Loco, loco!”

  Then he stood up straight. And turned around fully and faced them.

  That was when the Colombians stopped laughing. The man in the hat had an iron-hard expression on his face. And he was not a Mexican—he looked like an American.

  Caleb Marlowe, Colonel, United States Marine Corps, pulled his Beretta pistol from under his cape and sent two deadly rounds into the chest of one of the Colombians, then turned the fury of his weapon on the other terrorist. The injured man managed to get off one shot after he was wounded by Marlowe, but was finished off as he tried to escape by the gunfire from two more members of the unit, who were shooting from their hidden positions in the café.

  The gas in the back of the truck had partially overcome the two men guarding Kilmer—but they still managed to swing open the gate, though dazed and drugged, and started shooting randomly.

  A third special ops sniper put both of them down with one bullet apiece.

  The operative at the rear of the truck pulled Frederick Kilmer out. He yanked off the black hood and allowed him to breathe in fresh air for a few minutes. Then his rescuer started talking.

  “Secretary Kilmer,” the man said slowly and calmly, “I am Master Sergeant Mike Rockwell—with a special unit from the United States. Can you understand me?”

  Kilmer nodded.

  “Sir,” the sergeant said, “you are safe now.”

  In a few hours the secretary would be talking to his wife on the telephone while she sobbed in utter relief. His daughters—still at college—would learn later of his kidnapping and successful rescue.

  Colonel Caleb Marlowe shucked off his hat and poncho and shouted to his special operations unit—who were all assembling around the pickup truck and surveying the dead terrorists.

  “Okay, you bunch of heroes—game’s not over yet. We’ve got to get those last four bad guys who just got away.”

  Marlowe thought he knew the risks of that second phase of the operation. Their mission was to locate and kill four terrorists somewhere in the jungles of southern Mexico. It would not be easy. And it was guaranteed to be dangerous. For Marlowe and his unit, that much just came with the territory.

  But there was also something, even for Marlowe, that was yet unknown: evil in its brutal design—and waiting.

  What he did not know and could not have anticipated was the unexpected toll that was about to be exacted—as during some horrible, blood-cult ceremony before a stone god.

  In the sweltering green overgrowth of the Yucatán jungle, Caleb Marlowe, brave American warrior, was about to face the darkest sacrifice of all.

  2

  ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR OF THE LUXURY HOTEL, Fiona stood before the sliding glass door in her bathing suit, combing out her wet tangle of dark hair. She padded barefoot over to the door, slid it open, and stepped out onto the balcony. As she did, her senses were greeted by the roaring crash of the ocean surf far below.

  The trim, thirty-six-year-old woman leaned against the railing, and inhaled the mixed scent of sea air and the grilled shrimp that were being prepared somewhere down at the poolside café. The sun was hot, and the clear sky faded into the edges of an ocean brilliant with different blues—light crystal blue by the white beaches and stretching to the sandbar fifty yards out—then intensifying into aquamarine, and finally, from that point all the way out to the horizon, a glistening dark blue, like the surface of sparkling sapphire.

  She glanced down at the gold band that adorned her left hand and the diamond that accompanied it. She had been on her honeymoon for only ten days. But so much had changed. So many lessons learned, in such a short time—heart knowledge in the ways of friendship, passion, intimacy, and love. As she felt the ocean breeze and contemplated the paradox of having fallen in love with the ma
n she had, she found herself laughing out loud.

  A mariachi band began playing below. She gazed out at the ocean again, catching a glimpse of a red, yellow, and blue sail gliding over the ocean.

  She walked back in and picked up her watch from the desk. Her husband, Will Chambers, had been gone only forty minutes now.

  She smiled at that and at how she was already longing for his presence. How could she have ever doubted that the two of them should be married and spend the rest of their lives together?

  Of course there had been the usual communication problems…and the near impossibility of scheduling time together. The latter was particularly challenging, given the fact that Fiona already had an established music career as a gospel singer and recording artist, and that Will was a forty-three-year-old globe-trotting trial lawyer. But her greatest fear had always been the unseen, usually unmentioned, but ever-present ghost of Will’s first wife, Audra.

  Fiona didn’t know whether it was Will’s love for Audra or her tragic murder that had made his forgetting and moving beyond her death so difficult.

  But in those last ten days all doubts had vanished. Fiona was convinced her relationship with Will was no product of coincidence. It was the result of divine matchmaking.

  She had waited thirty-six years for the right man. She had had to be certain. But now she was. Not just because Will had come full circle—from an agnostic, former ACLU lawyer to a Bible-toting Christian. Beyond even that. God’s hand in their first meeting and in their courtship had been so clearly evident.

  She glanced over at the television, which had been left on with the volume turned down.

  Only one cloud darkened the incandescence of their honeymoon. The violence and chaos of the outside world had still managed to invade their lives.

  Fiona studied the INN news report and the ticker tape of information passing across the bottom of the screen. She was searching, now, for some recent news about the kidnapping of Secretary of Commerce Kilmer. She reached down and turned the volume up. But there was nothing new. It was the same news that had been flooding the television for the last twelve hours—that the Secretary of Commerce had been captured by a cell group of terrorists who were using Mexico as their base. They had spirited him out of a hotel in Cancún, Mexico, during an economic conference. Two Secret Service agents had been killed, and one injured.