Lamp Black: Second Edition, Disaster, Preparedness, Survival, Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 2) (49 page)

The Afghani drew his U.S. Army issued pistol, and shot and killed three MP’s, and wounded three more, before Pete dropped him with a single shot from his own pistol. Pete would have acted much quicker, but division policy stated that all weapons had to be cleared before entering the headquarters building. So, in the time it took Pete to load and fire his service pistol, the insurgent sympathizer killed three of his co-workers. Pete would have shot the man again, but his first shot hit him in the head and the man dropped like a slaughtered pig.

Pete survived the encounter without a scratch, but he was forced to face a humiliating army criminal investigation. Of the eighteen people in the room with him that day, he was the only one who acted quickly enough to eliminate the threat. Though he saved the lives of fifteen people it was determined, by the investigating officer, that Pete acted inappropriately and with excessive deadly force, and that he violated the division’s weapons policies.

It didn’t seem to matter that he saved American lives, only that he killed a well-connected Afghani linguist. Later, in a private meeting with the commanding general, Pete was lauded for his actions. But he was also told, off the record, that because the government didn’t want to upset the political balance with the leaders of their host country, the army had to make him look like a bad guy.

Pete mentally retired that same day. He was done with the army, and made it official as soon as he returned to Fort Hood, which was exactly what the army wanted him to do. He always knew he was little more than a number to the army, expendable and all that, but he never forgave them for violating what he believed to be a mutually supportive commitment of trust and loyalty. The army, it seemed, was no different from any major cooperation in America. It was more concerned about its reputation, than the truth. For Pete, his disaster started the day he shot and killed the Afghani linguist. He didn’t want to retire from the army. He loved it, but it turned its back on him, so he turned his back on it.

Pete crossed the narrow one-lane bridge over a dry creek bed and stopped the cruiser. He got out and walked over to talk with Bonnie. “There’s a dirt road over there that will lead down to the creek bed. I’ll take the cruiser down first, and then come back and drive the truck down. Wait here till I come back. OK?” Bonnie nodded and set the parking brake.

Pete returned to the cruiser, and just managed to negotiate the narrow and deeply rutted dirt road as it wound down through dense thickets of mesquite and cedar that lined the dry creek bed. He drove the cruiser until he found a large enough break to hide the cruiser, and then pulled in until all but the back couple of feet of the cruiser’s rear end was visible from the dirt road. Satisfied with his concealment efforts, Pete jogged back to Bonnie and climbed in the driver’s seat.

“Did you see anyone,” he asked?

“No,” replied Bonnie. Pete saw that she looked much better. “Do you still need to pee?”

“No. I took care of that when you were moving the car.”

Pete wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a smart move to go off unprotected, but knew better than to chastise her actions given all that happened. “You didn’t go far I hope?”

“No. Just behind the truck.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Is that all you can say?”

Bonnie turned to look at him, “You’re asking me nothing but “no” questions,” she replied. “Ask me a “yes” question and I’ll answer with yes. Like, are you scared . . . yes, are you tired . . . yes, do you want to go home . . . yes. Those are questions that earn a yes. Or how about, did I scare you to death? That would be a resounding, yes,” replied Bonnie.

“Bonnie, I know this is all new to you, but it’s not new to me. This kind of world,” said Pete with a wave of his arm, “is not new to me. I’ve lived in it before . . . many times even. I’ve grown accustomed to it, but I am not insensitive to your needs.”

“What are you going to do with that guy?”

Pete took a second to consider how to best answer Bonnie’s question, but he realized nothing he said would be easy for her to hear. He decided to speak openly and honestly. “First, I’m going to talk with him and find out what he’s been up to, and what he was planning to do with us,” said Pete. “And when I find out what I need, I’ll either shoot, him, or leave him tied up in the cruiser. Either way, it’s a death sentence, only one is more merciful.”

“Please, Pete . . . promise me you won’t shoot him,” asked Bonnie, with alarm mingled with concern. “I don’t want you to murder that man. I don’t care what he did to deserve it.”

“It wouldn’t be murder, not with the evidence I found. At most, you can call it vigilantism, but not murder,” replied Pete.

“Promise me, Pete. Promise me you won’t kill him,” pleaded Bonnie.

“OK, Bon, I won’t kill him. But I may have to hurt him a little to get the information I need.”

Bonnie nodded and said, “Why do you need information from him. Why can’t we just leave him cuffed in the back of the car and leave?” she asked.

“He shot a deputy, Bonnie . . . a law enforcement officer. I can’t turn my back to that. I’ll question him a bit and see what he says. If I
get nothing out of him in . . . say . . . ten minutes, then we’ll leave him here and be on our merry way . . . just like you want,” said Pete. “Will that work?”

Bonnie remained silent, but nodded her head ever so slightly. Pete took that as full consent, and proceeded to drive the big truck down the narrow dirt road. He broke off a few small branches as he went, but otherwise, he made it to where the cruiser was parked without any trouble. Pete then passed the cruiser and continued down the road until he came to an open field. He turned the truck around and parked just past the cruiser, ready to quickly leave the area if needed. Pete killed the engine, set the parking break, and turned to face Bonnie. “You don’t have to stay in the truck, but if you do you should try to rest. Take a little nap. I know you’re tired. But if you do decide to get out . . . please let me know. OK?” asked Pete.

“I think I’ll climb in the back and lay down for a little while. I’m really tired,” said Bonnie.

“That’s my swee . . . that’s my girl. This won’t take long,” said Pete, as he climbed out of the truck. He retrieved a pair of leather gloves from under the seat and said, “Just try to rest a little. We should be out of here in a few minutes. Then we’ll go look for a place to rest for the night.”

P
ete opened the driver’s door of the cruiser and peered in at the man sitting on the bench seat behind the polycarbonate shield that divided the cruiser’s interior space. The man stared at Pete with hatred in his eyes. “Do you have something you want to say?” asked Pete, sharply.

“I’m gonna kill you,” said the man.

Instantly furious, Pete pulled his pistol, opened the rear passenger door, and put it against the man’s head. The response was immediate and sincere. “I’m sorry man! Please don’t kill me! I’m sorry!” cried the cop killer.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just shoot you now and leave you here for the coyotes?” asked Pete, in a low and menacing voice.

“Because I can share my stuff with you, man. You can have everything I . . . everything I found,” said the man.

“Look, scumbag, I don’t care what you have. You have nothing I want. But I do have some questions, so we’re going to get to know each other,” said Pete, as he reached in and pulled the man out by his collar. The man landed hard on his butt even with the layer of ash around him.

Pete rolled the man onto his stomach and the man cried, “Hey! What are you going to do to me?”

“We’re going to talk, and depending on your answers, the discussion will be short or long. The more you cooperate the quicker we’ll be done . . . and the quicker you can go free,” said Pete.

“You’re going to let me go?” asked the man, clearly surprised.

“That depends on how honest you are with me,” said Pete, “so let’s start with your name.”

“It’s Roy . . . Roy Henderson. It’s nice to meet you, mister . . .?”

“Shut up. I’ll ask the questions, here. Are you really that stupid?”

“Look mister, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, just don’t shoot me again. That really hurt.”

“You had on a ballistic vest, you idiot,” hissed John.

“It still hurts,” whined the man.

“I want you to start by telling me how you came to be a deputy sheriff?” said Pete, highly irritated with the man’s apparent concern for his own preservation, but his lack of respect for other people’s lives.

“I found the police car, it was abandoned, so I decided to take it,” said Roy.

Without saying a word, Pete put a knee on Roy’s back, grabbed his pinky finger in his left hand, and with a sudden twist, broke Roy’s finger. Roy puffed out a great cloud of ash as he screamed once, long and hard, into the ground. Pete flipped him onto his side and stared down at him. When Roy stopped screaming and cursing, Pete said, “Every time you lie to me I’m going to break one of your fingers, and if you scream like that again I’ll stuff a rag in your mouth. Now, let’s try this one more time. What happened to Deputy Morales?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll tell you. There’s no more law around anyway.”

“Then talk,” said Pete.

“He pulled me over.”

“When?”

“Huh?”

“I said when? When did he pull you over? And you had better answer these next few questions quickly and honestly,” said Pete.

“Yesterday,” said Roy.

“Where?”

Roy was silent for too long, so Pete pushed him onto his stomach and grabbed a finger. The man cried out and pleaded, “OK! OK! I’ll tell you the truth! Please turn me over! Please turn me over.”

Pete tipped him on to his side and said, “I’m waiting.”

“You said you won’t shoot me, right?”

“I’m about to change my mind,” said Pete. “I’m getting tired of dealing with you.”

“He came to my place.”

“Who did?”

“Morales. He came to my place and I shot him,” said Roy.

“Why’d you shoot him?” asked Pete.

“Because he came to arrest me.”

“And why did he come to arrest you?”

“He said I killed and robbed a family that lived near me,” answered Roy.

“Did you?” asked Pete. When Roy didn’t answer, Pete bent to roll him over.

“Yes. Yes, I did. I just wanted a little food. It was self-defense. The man tried to hit me with a baseball bat, so I shot him.”

Roy was making Pete sick, but he had to know more, so he asked, “So Deputy Morales was right to arrest you because you killed an entire family . . . for their food?”

“No, not the kids. I didn’t kill the kids. They ran out the back before I could shoo . . . they got away,” said Roy.

Pete guessed the kids somehow managed to get away and contact the sheriff’s office. “So the deputy came to arrest you, and you shot him?” asked Pete, with disgust.

“I wasn’t going back to jail,” said Roy.

“And what did you want with us?” asked Pete.

Roy threw his head back and looked up. Pete rolled him over and grabbed Roy’s index finger. Roy moaned and said, “I wanted you to follow me home . . . so I wouldn’t have to ditch the cruiser.” He breathed in heavy gulps of ash filled air while he waited for Pete to respond.

“You wanted my truck?” asked Pete, still holding the man’s index finger.

“Yes, that’s all. Just your truck.”

“And what would you have done with us?” asked Pete, in a low and serious tone.

“I would have let you go. I swear.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Pete, and he broke Roy’s finger. Pete let Roy yell in the ash for a minute before he turned him back on his side. He then knelt down by the man’s face and asked, “Roy, what am I going to do with you?”

“Seriously man, you can let me go,” he gasped between breaths. “I’ll mind my own business. I will. I won’t cause anyone more problems. I swear. I learned my lesson.”

“You’re right about that,” said Pete, with a pause. “What’s your address?”

“Huh?” said Roy.

“Your address, Roy. What’s your address?”

“What? Why do you want my address?” Pete reached behind Roy to grab another finger. “No! No! OK. My address, right. It’s . . .”

Pete pulled up his sleeve and wrote Roy’s address on his forearm with a black, fine-point, Sharpie marker. “How far is that from here?” he asked.

“About ten miles or so. I’ll show you where it is. It’s really hard to find,” said Roy, with hope rising in his voice.

“Nope. I don’t think so,” said Pete. “I’m gonna leave you here until I check it out for myself. Is there anything I should watch out for at your house?”

“What?”

“Is there anybody or anything at your house that I should know about?” repeated Pete, so completely irritated at having to repeat every question to Roy.

“No. I live there by myself.”

Pete reached down and grabbed Roy’s arm. “Stand up, dirt bag.”

With Pete’s help, Roy got to his feet. Pete walked him to the cruiser and sat him on the back seat. While searching for something useful, he noticed that the shotgun rack was empty and wondered where deputy Morales’ service shotgun was hiding. Thinking Roy had stashed it somewhere, Pete decided to forget about it. He was tired of dealing with Roy, and didn’t feel it was important enough to pursue.