Rosalind Noonan

One September Morning


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ONE SEPTEMBER MORNING

      ONE SEPTEMBER MORNING

      ROSALIND NOONAN

      image KENSINGTON BOOKS http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Prologue

      PART ISeptember 2006

      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

      PART IIDecember 2006

      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

      PART IIIJanuary–May 2007

      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

      Chaper 76

      Chapter 77

      Epilogue

      Acknowledgments

      My sister, Nurse Maureen, put the brakes on single parenting, her job at the hospital, and real estate ventures to advise me on medical issues and share what it’s like to work in a psych ward. Cory Noonan is my new sister, unofficial publicist, and generous source for all things marine and aquatic. To Sofia, wellspring of joy and purity—thanks for the inspiration, love bug! My good friends Nancy Bush and Lisa Jackson generously share the glory, the publicity ops, and the lunch special at Gubancs. Many thanks to my friend and free therapist Wendy Handwerger, who helps me laugh at life. A shout to my very functional siblings, Denise, Larry, Mo, Jack. Mom must have done something right. And to my mom, supportive, smart, and great company—you’re the best!

      I am eternally indebted to my editor, John Scognamiglio, who lets me seize stories that grab me and run like crazy with them.

      A big thank-you to my kids, who both have great writing instincts and will occasionally talk through a scene with me. My husband, Mike, former cop and born psychologist, is always generous with information he soaks up like a sponge. Thanks, Sig.

      Prologue

      Iraq, 2006

      The king is dead.

      Americans will no longer turn on their televisions to watch him run the ball through a pack of hulking football players, breaking free to lope into the end zone. Viewers of the nightly news will not see him in a combat helmet and desert khakis, flashing a smile and telling a reporter about a community program he facilitated to get school supplies for Iraqi children.

      He won’t come bounding into the barracks to roust the guys for a race or to hand out the candy or nuts or clean cotton sheets he just received in a package from home.

      No more soldiers gathering to bask in the presence of the king.

      No more jokes from the big guy.

      No more photographers aiming their cameras to capture the king in a battle stance, the almighty warrior.

      The king is dead, slain with this weapon cradled in the hand of the man who knows him so well. Chee-ee-oom! He pumped the hero full of lead. That was all it took to bring the big man down.

      Now the sweet, biting scent of oil stings his sinuses as the new king rams the cleaning rod down the barrel of his M-16, removing all traces of the crime.

      Not that it matters, as no one has a clue that he fired off the rounds that spawned a flurry of gunfire in the dark Fallujah warehouse.

      Nobody realizes he deliberately aimed and killed Army Specialist John Stanton, big-ass football player, All-American hotshot with a charmed life and a trophy wife.

      Nobody knows that a new king will soon take Stanton’s place.

      He checks the spring, and then lubes it—lightly. Oil it up too heavily and you’re in trouble—one of the tips he’s learned and heeded in military training. He learned from the best of them. His old man used to tell him, you never break the law unless you can get away with it. Well, he’s getting away with it now, and it feels damned good. He felt a surge of adrenaline when the bullets exploded from his rifle, a swell of satisfaction as the impact pushed the body back in the darkness. The first shot was nice and clean upper arm, in through the armored vest. Thank God for the NOD, the night operation device that illuminated hot spots, making it easy for him to find to his target.

      Just like a freakin’ Xbox game.

      And the sheer beauty, the perfection of the killing, is that no one will ever suspect him. Why would they? People