Renegade (2013) (27 page)

Outside the cave, Yaqub stood in the new-fallen snow that came up to his knees. The air tasted thin and sharp. He studied the fortifications the men there in the village still prepared and felt satisfied with what had been done. The stone walls would slow those who came for him, and they would cost the American military lives. The snow would further impede the would-be rescuers who could only arrive too late.

And then die.

Yaqub intended that many of them die. His only regret was that he would not be here to see it happen.

Turning back to the cave where his father lay, he traipsed through the snow, following a path made by a donkey carrying firewood that still stood out of the wind near the entrance. He passed the guards where they sat in front of the fire and went to his father.

Quietly, without a word, Yaqub sat beside his father and listened to his hoarse, irregular breathing. The last few days’ excitement had been too much for his father. The strength he’d saved for so long was finally giving out on him. He was dwindling, slipping away. It was a terrible way for a warrior to die.

As he sat there, Yaqub contemplated the broken shell of the man, contrasting sharply with the warrior who had trained his son to fight
and plan and kill his enemies. He missed the shaggy old warrior he had grown up with. But he did not miss the dangerous man his father had been; that had
never
gone away. Sabah was still dangerous, and Yaqub was putting teeth back in his father’s bite.

After a moment, Yaqub grew aware of his father’s single eye staring at him. That fierce anger still burned within him, banked into coals that would not extinguish till life itself was ripped from his body.

“My son.” Sabah’s voice was a hoarse croak, thick with phlegm.

“Father.”

“Things are well?”

Yaqub took his father’s withered claw into his own hand, feeling the frailty and the merciless strength of it at the same time. “Things are well, Father.” He took a breath. “I have dispatched the CIA agents.”

Sabah smiled. “Then the time of my revenge is upon us.”

“Yes.”

The old man’s smile went away. “You are troubled.”

“Only a little.”

Sabah took back his hand and patted his son’s hand gently. “Do not take that burden upon yourself, Yaqub. I would die as a man, striking at my enemies. Not as a cripple gasping for my last breath.”

“I know, Father.”

“And know that I will not die before my part in this is played. I gave you my word.”

“I do not worry about that, Father.”

“I am proud of you. You have found a way to put a weapon in my hand after all these years. I will make you proud of me.”

“I have always been proud.”

Sabah squeezed Yaqub’s hand. “Then, when you leave, know that you have provided me this thing, and know that you are stepping into your destiny.”

Yaqub bowed his head. “I know this, and I look forward to the day when I drive the Westerners from Afghanistan.” His voice thickened. “When I do, I will make certain your name will always be remembered.”

“Kill our enemies, my son. This is your heritage, and it will be their doom.”

PIKE WAS LOUNGING
on the thin bed in the brig for the fifth straight day since his arrest. He was plowing through a copy of a history of the Mongols that Heath Bridger had brought by. The book had been part of a stack the lieutenant had brought in. There’d been no comment, just the delivery.

When he’d seen the books, Pike knew that Heath had been poking around into his personal life. Not many people knew he read or that he preferred histories over anything else when he did read. Pike had never really cared for fiction stories because after the life he’d had in the system and in the orphanage, he knew those stories never happened. Good endings belonged in fiction.

History was different, though. Those things, most of them, had happened. Of course, there was some conjecture about what
really
happened. One book would put forth an idea, and another book would tear the first one down. Pike enjoyed the arguments, too—that sometimes historians and research people weren’t certain what truly took place—because then he could figure out what he thought about an event or the people involved.

Pike had read about the Mongols before. Genghis Khan was a favorite subject. The Mongols had lived outside of the growing cities and civilized areas, and they had instilled a fear in the Chinese
that was big enough to cause the Great Wall to be built. That was something, a fear that big and that deep. On their stout little ponies, always traveling from place to place and taking what they wanted or needed, the Mongols weren’t that much different from a motorcycle gang. In fact, one of the outlaw biker gangs had even named themselves after the Mongols, but they weren’t anywhere near as fierce as their namesakes. Genghis Khan had changed the face of Asia and beyond.

Stretched out on the bed, Pike wore camo pants and an OD green tank top that revealed the tattoos normally covered by his BDUs. Usually he wasn’t so open with his ink around the Marines, keeping that side of himself private. But since his arrest, some of the old rebelliousness had returned to him. He’d decided to fly his freak flag. If he was going to be treated like a criminal, he was going to look like a criminal. He’d let his beard grow too, and it was coming in heavy, darkening his chin with sandpapery stubble.

His head was clear, and his heart beat steadily. Before he lay down to read, he’d done an hour of calisthenics to burn off the excess energy and to keep himself in shape. Strength and speed were everything to a guy on his own. They were the only assets a survivor truly had, and once they were gone, it was hard to get them back.

“Gotta keep the tools sharp, bro.”
Once again, the ideas in Pike’s head were exactly what Petey might have said.
“If you get the chance, you gotta bust outta here. No matter where you go, here or in the States, you can make it on your own. Just get out, get away, and get gone. There’s an open highway out there. You never shoulda gotten complacent. Not in Tulsa. Not in the Marines. You don’t belong anywhere. You’re a rolling stone, bro. You’ve been fooling yourself.”

Pike had been thinking about that. Provided he could get away from the base, which wouldn’t be all that hard during a transport detail, he could slip across the Durand Line and into Pakistan. Once
he was there, he could set himself up any way he wanted to. All kinds of illegal operations were going on in Pakistan that were open to foreigners willing to get their hands dirty, and not all of them involved terrorists. People needed muscle there, someone who could stick when things got tough and pull the trigger when it came to that. He figured he could cut himself in somewhere, get some money together, and get to wherever he decided to go.

He didn’t have to return to the States. In fact, the more he’d thought about it, the more he felt certain he’d limited himself by staying in the US. There were a lot of places he’d read about in Europe but had never seen. He thought maybe he’d like to see Russia and Asia too.

It was a plan, and he liked it. Getting caught killing Captain Zarif and his flunkies had been the best thing that could have happened to him. It was a double bonus. He’d woken up from the stupor he’d been in since Petey’s death. He’d dropped Zarif, and he had an out planned from the hole he’d dug for himself. He’d played the game with the witness protection program only to get stymied and stuck in Tulsa. Once he got himself set up, once he was ready, he knew he could slip back into Texas long enough to kill the men who had killed Petey.

Then that debt would be off his head. After that, he could get back to living life on his own terms.

The only thing that nagged at him was that little secondhand compass. He’d tucked it under his pillow so it would be out of sight, but it wasn’t out of mind. Apparently not thinking about it was impossible. And once he started thinking about the compass, he started thinking about Hector, wondering how the boy was, whether he was okay, if anybody was helping him with his math homework.

“You’re thinking about math homework? Bro, you ain’t domesticated. You ain’t even civilized. You’re a beast. A caged animal waiting to get out. You need to remember that. Eye of the tiger, bro. That’s you.”

Mulvaney’s voice cut into his thoughts too, though, and it haunted him.
“I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.”

Pike still didn’t know what that meant or even if it applied to him, but touching on it for a minute left him unsettled, like he needed to do something. Only he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

Pike was trying to focus on his book again, knowing he’d read the same paragraph at least four times, when the knock sounded on the door. He closed the book and put it away, determined that Heath wasn’t going to catch him reading it.

One of the MPs peered through the grille at the top of the door. “Stay back, Private.”

Pike remained prone on the bed and folded his hands behind his head. He didn’t even look at the door. He didn’t want company, and he planned to make that clear to whoever stepped inside the holding cell.

Only it wasn’t Heath Bridger who entered the brig. It was Bekah Shaw. She looked at him lying there on the bed and smiled.

The smile irritated Pike. He resisted the impulse to sit up or make space on the bed. Her unexpected appearance made him feel uncomfortable and slovenly. “You see something funny, Corporal?”

“For a guy looking at getting charged with murder in the first degree, and getting tried in a military court at that, you seem awfully relaxed.”

Pike shrugged and kept staring at the ceiling. “I am relaxed. This ain’t no thing. Been here before.” He’d noticed the brown bag she carried into the cell, and now the aroma of freshly baked food and spices tickled his nose. His stomach growled noisily, embarrassingly loud. The tips of his ears burned, and that irritated him even more.

“You’re also hungry.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am. I’m on my lunch break.” Bekah sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the bag. “I also have enough for two. Actually, I have enough for three, but it should share out okay for both of us.”

“What are you doing here?” Pike refused to look at her. It was childish and he knew it, but some mannerisms from the orphanage and foster care stayed ingrained forever.

“Like I said, lunch break.”

“They got other places around camp where you eat.”

“Yeah, and those places are a lot more welcoming and festive. So I was thinking to myself, who needs that crap?”

Despite Pike’s mood, her unabashed sarcasm made him smile. She wasn’t shy about eating, either. She opened a Styrofoam container and dug into some rice and meat dish that smelled absolutely fantastic. His stomach growled again.

Bekah didn’t say anything. She just kept eating.

Pike frowned. “You’re just going to sit there?”

“I’m eating. And I’m enjoying the silence. You know, most places around the camp get noisy. Everywhere you go, people are talking. I can see how the quiet in the brig fits that alpha-male thing you do so well.”

Pike snorted. “I don’t
do
anything.”

“Yeah, you do. Most guys do. They reach for some tough-guy facade, and they do it mostly when they don’t know what else to do. Like when they get in over their heads.”

“Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

“Of course I do. I know I know stuff. I’m a woman. I think about stuff, about the way people go together, about why some guys talk and why some guys go dark, and because I think about them, I know stuff about them.” Bekah took another bite. “You know stuff too.”

Intrigued, just a little, Pike looked at her.

“You knew about the Russian, that Zarif had killed him and stolen
some evidence . . . or just to shut the man up. You knew about the tattoos. I didn’t know any of that. Neither did Lieutenant Bridger or Gunney Towers. So, yeah, you know stuff.”

Feeling uncomfortable with all the closeness inherent in the conversation, Pike looked at her and decided to push her back to create distance. “You call him Lieutenant Bridger when you guys are alone?”

Bright spots of color appeared on Bekah’s cheeks, and her eyes wouldn’t meet Pike’s. He’d decided he wasn’t pulling any punches. He wanted her out and gone.

“I mean, since we’re on the topic of stuff I know, I thought I’d point out that I’d picked up what’s going on between the two of you.”

“Nothing’s going on between the two of us.”

“But you wish it was.” Because he wanted to hurt her for invading his privacy, Pike kept going. “He’s out of your league. That guy? He’s used to flashy society women, cut his teeth on cheerleaders and sorority girls. You’re from some hick town and you’ve got a kid. You’re nothing but a lot of headaches. You think you’re anywhere on his radar?”

Bekah picked through her rice for a piece of lamb. Her lower lip trembled a little, but she got it back under control again pretty quickly. Pike was impressed because he knew he’d hit the target dead center.

“Don’t want to talk about the stuff I know anymore?”

Bekah lifted her eyes to his and returned his gaze full measure. “If I knew for sure what was going on, and if you were civil, maybe I would talk to you about it. But since you’re not being civil and I don’t know what or if anything is going on—
or even if I want anything like that going on
—we’re not going to discuss that particular topic.”

Pike wanted to strike back and hit her again, push her away, but he heard the emotion buried in her words and knew the subject was a tender one.

Sighing, knowing he didn’t have the heart to hurt her more and that he was being weak, he pushed himself into a sitting position and looked down at her. “The offer for lunch still open?”

“You’re lucky you’re not wearing it.” Bekah passed the other Styrofoam container over.

Pike took the container, then nodded at the other end of the bed. “I got a seat up here if you want.”

She was stiff and not so open, but she wasn’t leaving either. “I’m perfectly comfortable where I am.”

“You’re stubborn.” That was something Pike respected. It was a survivor skill.

“And you’re a jerk.”

In spite of the situation, Pike laughed. He opened the container and sorted through the food, picking out a piece of lamb and popping it into his mouth. The juice was delicious. “The Marines pay for this?”

She looked at him in puzzlement.

“If you paid for this, lemme know what my part is. In fact, I’ll buy lunch since you brought it. You got a kid to feed. I don’t want to be taking nothing off his plate.”

“My son is just fine, and I’m just fine. I can afford to buy you lunch.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“I didn’t have to.”

Pike rolled up a ball of rice and ate it. “You’re here because you were told to be here.”

“Actually, I’m here because I wanted to be. I could have gone to Lieutenant Bridger and let him handle this.”

“Handle what?” Pike didn’t really care. He already had his game plan in place, waiting to put it into play. But he was a little curious.

“Briefing you on the investigation.”

Pike shook his head. “MPs already do that. I hear them talking. A couple of the young ones act like they’re holding some kind of international terrorist in here.”

“You’ve got a reputation as a dangerous guy.”

Pike didn’t say anything to that.

“And I wasn’t talking about Hollister’s investigation into the shooting. That’s pretty cut-and-dried. I was referring to the investigation Lieutenant Bridger, Gunney Towers, and I are making into Captain Zarif.”

Pike kept eating.

“As it turns out, Captain Zarif is a component in the local black market. He’s been accused, but not successfully, of
misplacing
military ordnance that later turned up in the hands of people who shouldn’t have had it. The Russian guy?”

In spite of his decision to remain aloof, Pike nodded.

“His name was Emile Evstafiev.”

“Where’d you get the name?”

Bekah looked at him. “Did you know his name?”

Pike gave her a look and didn’t say anything.

“I’m not here to give anything other than lunch away for free, Pike. It works like this: I tell you something; you tell me something.”

For a long minute, the silence stretched in the cell and Pike occupied himself with his meal. The food was good and he was hungrier than he’d thought. He didn’t think Bekah could wait him out. The women he’d known weren’t much when it came to patience. They knew stuff—or even
thought
they knew stuff—they generally had to tell it or explode.

Bekah didn’t show any signs of that. She worked at her meal too and didn’t look at him.

Grudgingly, Pike gave in to his curiosity. “I knew the last name. Evstafiev. Didn’t know the first one.”

“You’d never seen him before that day in the machine shop.”

“Nope.”

“You went looking for Zarif because you knew he took something from Evstafiev.”

“Thought he did.”

“Did he?”

Pike hesitated again, remembering Petey’s constant advice.
“You can’t trust anybody outside your skin.”
Pike closed his mouth and saw his friend. This time Petey was dying in his arms, bleeding out, and there wasn’t anything Pike could do about it.
“Can’t trust anybody. Don’t be stupid.”