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Lost Platoon (9)

“I’m going to need any names you can give me, Hugh," River stared at Hugh. "Coworkers, superiors, friends, lovers. I’ll dig as much as I can but you understand that a detective I ain’t.”

“You know how to get information, how to find intel. I mean, Jesus Christ, the CIA came to you during the partisan war in Iraq.”

River, held up his hand, silently commanding his friend to keep his voice down. Hugh looked almost as if he’d been slapped.

“I’ll be digging into your son’s life, top to bottom, Hugh," he said. "I find in situations like this, the victim’s own life is as shadowy as the people who’ve abducted him. I’m just warning you, you may not like what I find.”

Hugh appeared deflated, an abstract of the commanding figure Gen. Cross was during the war. The transformation disturbed a part of River that was used to constancy and dependability.

“I don’t care. Just find him.”

River glanced back down to the phone and studied those last enigmatic text messages again. AIASP.

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