Renegade (2013) (25 page)

Bracing himself against the wall for extra leverage, Pike shoved the knife wielder backward and drove the man with the pistol like a football tackling dummy toward the desk with his weapons. All three of them smashed into the desk, and it broke under the impact.

Pike tracked his M9 as he dropped to one knee. The two ANP officers were down in a heap, the knife man mostly unconscious but the other one trying to heave his comrade’s slack weight from him. He fired his pistol twice, but the bullets went wide of Pike.

Scrambling, Pike closed his fist over the M9, brushed the safety off with his thumb, and fired two rounds into the gunman’s face as he brought his weapon around. A bullet tore through Pike’s collar, letting him know how close he’d come to dying. With the adrenaline singing through him, thinking about the times he and Petey had ended up in similar situations, Pike couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face.

He turned his weapon toward Zarif. The captain stood with a two-handed grip on his pistol. The man didn’t look so calm and controlled now, but he didn’t freeze up. Two bullets came close enough to Pike’s face that he felt the heat, and a third ripped through the material over his right shoulder.

Pike sighted by instinct, aiming for Zarif’s chest the way he’d been trained in the military. Both rounds ripped into the Afghan National Police captain’s center mass.

With a shocked and pained expression on his face, Zarif stopped firing and looked down at the blood spreading across the front of his
shirt. Then he forced himself to fire again, managing to get off two more shots before Pike put a round between his eyes.

Zarif stumbled back and sat down in the chair behind him. The pistol slid from his nerveless fingers and thumped against the floor.

The man with the knife started to come around and retrieved a gun just as Pike was getting to his feet. Pike brought his pistol to bear and fired a single shot. The man lay still. Grabbing his M4A1, Pike slung the assault rifle over his shoulder and crossed the room to Zarif. The Afghan National Police captain sat in the chair with unseeing eyes.

Shoving the pistol into its holster, Pike knelt and quickly searched the dead man, knowing the gunfire would draw someone. At the very least the other Afghan policeman would return to the room.

“You don’t have time for this. You gotta get out of here.”

Pike still didn’t know if the voice in his head was Petey’s or his own. Those times with Petey didn’t seem so far away right now, not when he was playing in the sandbox. Death could lie on the other side of the next heartbeat.

He went through Zarif’s pockets but didn’t find anything that looked like it might have come from the dead Russian. Zarif’s contact on the phone had seemed to want his property back, though. There should have been something.

“Doesn’t mean it was small enough to be on this guy, Pike. Get moving.”

Despite the ringing in his ears from the gunshots confined to the office, Pike heard running footsteps out in the hall. Cursing in frustration, knowing tonight’s events had gone a lot further than he’d thought they would, Pike abandoned the search and went to the window. He peered into the street. The drop wasn’t far. He shoved his head and shoulders through, holding on with his hands, and flipped himself outward.

Arcing his body, Pike propelled himself away from the building so he wouldn’t get ground to hamburger against the rough exterior. He hit and went down at once, rolling to dissipate his momentum, coming to his feet effortlessly.

Only to be blinded by a sudden flare of lights. He reached for the M4A1, but an American voice brought him up short.

“Stand down, Marine.” The command came from the Humvee that rolled out of the alley. The powerful searchlight plucked Pike out of the inky darkness.

Releasing his assault rifle, Pike started to dodge to the side, thinking he might still get away. Only two Marines stood there as well. Both of the men were young and had their weapons to shoulder. He knew that if he moved, they would shoot him.

Slowly Pike raised his hands over his head and dropped to his knees. There was nowhere to run—and a whole room full of dead people he couldn’t explain.

“THIS IS A MESS,
Lieutenant Bridger.”

Standing in that business office with the dead Afghan National Police lying where they’d fallen, Heath had to agree. “Yes sir. It is that.”

Major Lee Hollister glared at the carnage. He was in his forties, a short, powerful man with angular features and prominent cheekbones. He was liaising between the Marine Corps and the Afghan National Police.

“And I’ve got to clean it up because our allies among the Afghan National Police are
not
happy with Marines gunning down their people.” Hollister glared at Heath as if he were responsible. “Which means you’re going to do your best to help me.”

“Yes sir.” Only Heath didn’t know how he was going to do that. He’d been laying out plans for tomorrow with Bekah and Towers. Now it technically
was
tomorrow, and the day promised to be much different than he’d envisioned.

“This private, he belongs to you?”

Heath’s gut reaction was to point out that Pike didn’t belong to anybody, but he quelled that because it wasn’t an answer Hollister was looking for. And Heath wasn’t going to sell a member of his team down the river. If Pike was in the wrong on this—and it looked like
he was—Heath, as Pike’s commander, was still prepared to stand beside him. “Yes sir.”

“What was he doing with Zarif?”

That was news to Heath. He’d been summoned, then pulled into the room while Hollister’s investigative team took over. No names other than Pike’s had been mentioned when he’d gotten the notice to come running. But the man’s name struck an immediate chord.

“Zarif?” Heath pulled out his iPad and flicked through his after-action reports. “Captain Ashna Zarif?”

“Yes,” Hollister growled irritably. “Stay up, Lieutenant.”

Heath curbed an impulse to point out that this was the first time he’d heard Zarif’s name and that he’d never met the Afghan National Police captain. Having him not prepared was Hollister’s choice. Heath wasn’t there to argue, and doing so could put him in the same brig as Pike. “Yes sir. I will, sir. Which one is Zarif?”

Hollister pointed to the dead man seated in the chair near the window.

Heath approached the man and took a couple pictures with the iPad for later comparison. “There was an altercation between Zarif and a group of our people earlier today.” He paused. “Correction—yesterday.”

“What kind of altercation?”

“Zarif executed a Russian male our Marines had taken into custody.” Heath used
our
as a subliminal reminder to Hollister as to whose side he was supposed to be on.

“Executed?” Hollister frowned.

“Yes sir. The Russian had been taken into custody following a raid on a site that turned out to be a bomb-making facility. A lot of the ordnance was Russian.” Heath left it up to Hollister to connect the dots. An attorney learned not to oversell the logical parts of an argument. Of course, it didn’t hurt to underscore parts of that logic,
either. “I’ve been told some of the assembly also showed Russian influence.”

That was a little leading because no one had reported anything about the techniques employed to put the bombs together. Then again, if someone used Russian ordnance, it only stood to reason that some form of Russian technique would creep in.

Hollister cursed. “Do we know anything about the dead Russian?”

“He’s a member of a criminal organization.”

“How do you know that?”

Heath brought up pictures, then tilted the iPad so the lights in the room didn’t glare off the screen. He let the tattoos speak for themselves. “My specialist says this guy was probably on the outs from the organization.” He didn’t mention that the specialist had been Pike.

Hollister grimaced and wiped his face with a big hand. “I’ve seen tats like that before. And I’ve seen Russians in Kandahar before too.” He heaved a sigh. “Do we have a name for that man yet?”

“No.”

“So your private wasn’t out here on your orders?”

“No.” Heath had decided to tell the truth, but he also wasn’t going to let Pike swing in the breeze.

Hollister swiveled his attention to one of the men supervising the evidence collection team. “Lieutenant Simms, what did Zarif have on him?”

Simms, a slim African American, gestured to one of the desks. “Got it all bagged here.”

Hollister stepped toward the desk. Heath followed discreetly behind, then took a couple images of the contents on display.

Zarif had been carrying a thick wad of local currency and one nearly as thick that had American, Chinese, and Russian notes. Keys, spare magazines for his pistol, change, breath mints, and a smooth stone completed the personal effects.

“The captain was carrying a large bankroll.” Hollister riffled through the currency with a ballpoint pen, spreading the bills out.

Heath didn’t say anything, but he knew that both of them recognized that the presence of so much cash offered mute testimony to the fact that Zarif was conducting some kind of business on the side.

Hollister put the ballpoint pen back in his pocket. “It appears Zarif might have been doing some business on the side.”

Heath didn’t say anything.

Hollister addressed Simms again. “What did the private have when you took him into custody?”

Simms guided them to another desk.

As he studied the desk, Heath noticed immediately that Pike didn’t carry much other than essential equipment, and all of that showed evidence of well-tended care. The only thing that caught Heath’s eye was the compass. That wasn’t regulation Marine equipment, and Heath didn’t know what to make of it.

“I don’t see anything incriminating, Lieutenant Simms.”

“Nor do I, Major.”

“When you took the Marine into custody, was there any indication of alcohol or drugs?”

“No sir. Straight as a board.”

“Except that he came in here and killed these men.” Hollister waved a hand around.

Heath took pictures of the bullet holes in the walls and the weapons lying on the floor next to the dead men. “Did Pike fire all the rounds?” He knew that Pike hadn’t done all the shooting unless he’d deliberately shot in every direction. Judging from the wounds on the dead men, Pike hadn’t wasted a bullet.

Hollister looked at Simms for the answer.

Simms shook his head. “No sir. The Afghan police got off some
rounds too. You ask me, from what I’m reconstructing here, Pike was fighting for his life. He was just better than these guys.
Way
better.”

“Did Pike say anything when you took him into custody?”

“No. The sergeant who caught him said once Pike knew he wasn’t getting out of the situation, he gentled down immediately.”

Heath figured he could make a point of that in Pike’s favor. “Pike didn’t want to hurt any Marines.”

Hollister cursed. “Or maybe he just knew he was going to get shot.”

Resisting the impulse to offer a quick rebuttal, Heath bit back an observation. Thankfully, Simms couldn’t keep his own thoughts to himself.

“Begging the major’s pardon, but this guy, sir, he wasn’t afraid of getting shot. These ANP guys had him cold.” Simms pointed to the wall by the door. “Looks like they had Pike here, probably held him at bay with this knife.” The lieutenant indicated a combat blade on the floor nearby. “Only he didn’t stay put.” He pointed to the bullet holes in the wall. “This second guy shot at Pike.” He approached one of the dead men, squatting down to point out a bullet wound high on the man’s right shoulder. “He shot his own guy in the process. Then Pike got loose.” He stood and looked around the room. “My guess is that it was over pretty quick after that.” A small smile flickered across the lieutenant’s lips. “Three-on-one odds, sir, and they had their weps locked and loaded. Impressive.”

That was Pike all right. Heath studied the dead police officers. The problem wasn’t what he knew about Pike. It was what he didn’t know about the man.

Hollister cursed again, then focused on Heath. “Lieutenant Simms is going to work the scene re-creation here. Even if he’s right, which I think he is, that still leaves the question as to what brought Pike here. I want that question answered. So do the Afghans.”

“Yes sir. Can you clear it so I can talk to Pike?”

“It’ll be done before you can get there.”

“Thank you, sir. If you would, I need to clear another person to talk to Pike.”

“Sergeant Towers? Not a problem.”

“Actually, I was thinking Corporal Shaw.”

Hollister thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

“
Her
, actually.”

Hollister’s eye twitched. “Her.”

“Yes sir.”

“The Marines aren’t any place for a woman. Someone should have told her that. Still, I suppose you need someone to talk to the Afghan women.”

Heath held his irritation in check. There was a lot of controversy over women in the military, but they’d been there since Vietnam. Not as many had volunteered for service in hot spots back then, but he knew an Air Force colonel who had been excellent at
her
in-country post. “Corporal Shaw is a good Marine, sir. And I think she can be of help with Pike. She’s got a way of getting people to open up.”

“It’s your call, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Heath fired off a salute, then turned and headed for the door.

“Just get back to me the minute you find out what went on here. I’ve got to talk to these people, and if I don’t have an explanation for this mess, heads are going to roll. Starting with your private’s.”

“Yes sir.”

LYING ON A THIN MATTRESS
in the brig, Pike slept with one arm folded over his face. Only faint streams of light bled through the grille on the door. He still smelled the gunpowder on him from the encounter with Zarif and his men, and the odor made him restless, tainting his dreams as fragments of memories wove in and out of his imagination.

“Hey, bro. About time you got here. I’ve been telling our new friends all about you.” Petey sat at a table in the back of the bar. He was grinning and acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. In reality, he was eight thousand dollars short on inventory for a delivery to the man seated across the table from him.

Pike didn’t say anything. Road dust from south of the border covered him. Early that morning, they’d closed the cantinas in Juárez after crossing the border the hard way to bring in a load of merch for the local banditos.

For the last few months, Pike had been rebuilding engines and doing other mechanic work on sleds over in Austin. He’d been doing fine for himself, staying off the outlaw trails and making a legitimate living. Pike hadn’t planned on the semiretirement from the criminal life. It had just happened.

A guy in a shop had loaned him the tools he needed to fix his Harley, then talked to him about a project bike he’d been having
trouble with. A conversion for a guy who’d lost the use of his legs but still wanted to feel the wind in his face.

Curious and maybe a little challenged, Pike had hung around. Petey was off hanging with some chick he’d found, spending the money they’d made on their last transport job. Every now and again, Petey would call and check in, surprised that Pike was still working at the garage. Petey told Pike about the work he was doing with a guy who specialized in identity theft, told Pike there was a position open for him if he wanted.

Pike didn’t want. Petey liked the tech jobs. He had a head for hacking and stuff. He’d learned that at one of the foster homes he’d stayed in. Before the man and wife got carted off for identity theft. They hadn’t made any other mistake than to leave the computer where Petey could get to it. Petey hadn’t known as much back then. He’d only been twelve. He still had a lot of learning ahead of him.

He’d told Pike about it, about the way the cops had broken in and thrown the foster ’rents on the floor, handcuffed them right there while some of the other kids screamed and cried like it was the end of the world. Petey had laughed when he told the story. Pike had laughed too.

But Pike hadn’t been feeling it then. He was getting over a whaling by his latest “father figure.” The guy didn’t like the way Pike looked at him, but he’d ordered Pike to look him in the eye when he was talking to him. There was no winning a deal like that. So Pike hid his bruises and laughed at Petey’s stories because that was what Petey expected. Petey always wanted people to join in the fun.

Petey was laughing that day in the bar too. And Pike wasn’t feeling that either.

“Got a problem, bro.” Petey shook his head and kept his hands on the table in front of him. “Franco—this guy—” he nodded toward the guy across the table—“he thinks we’re short on the merch.”

That was when Pike knew they were short on the guns. He remembered the underground casino not far from the hotel where they’d crashed. He noticed the dark circles under Petey’s hollowed eyes. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together.

Petey had a thing for long odds, and it almost always got him on the wrong side of the balance sheet. That was what had ended the “job” working the identity-theft ring too. One morning he’d shown up at the bike garage five minutes ahead of a hard crew looking to make an example out of him. They’d warned Pike to stay out of it, but it was Petey, and nobody worked Petey over on Pike’s watch.

Pike grabbed a set of tire tools and waded into them. Minutes later, after he’d pulled them off Petey and put a couple guys in critical condition, he and Petey were on the road again. Juárez, Petey had said, because he knew a guy there who needed somebody to run contraband into Mexico. They’d done work like that before.

Pike missed the bike shop, and he missed the old guy who ran it. He’d seen the old man in the shop while he helped Petey back to his bike. The old man knew the score. Judging from the tats on his forearms, he’d ridden the outlaw trails himself.

“You don’t gotta go, brother.” The old guy, Jonas, talked softly. “You don’t gotta run.”

Pike shook his head. “Got no choice. Cops’ll be here soon.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “These guys are connected to somebody. They won’t stay beat down. The trouble Petey gets into usually has long arms and an even longer memory.”

“There’s another way.” Jonas tapped the blue lines of the cross tattooed on the inside of his left forearm. That tat was the last one he’d gotten, the last he was ever going to get. “You just gotta wrap your head around which way you want to go.”

Pike smiled. “Got the church message before. Didn’t take then.
It’s been good working with you.” Then he’d climbed on his bike and ridden out of there with Petey.

Now, four days later, he was looking at Petey across the table from Jorge Franco, a guy who didn’t take prisoners and had a habit of leaving people who’d betrayed him scattered across highways for buzzards to feed on.

“You
are
s
hort on the merch.” Franco spoke Spanish. He was a thickset man with big hands and a broad face. Mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes. A neatly trimmed goatee and mustache framed his mouth. His teeth were big, and there was a lot of gold in his grill. Pike had never seen a man with so much gold in his mouth. Franco’s hair was jet black and hung to his broad shoulders. Silver chains glittered at his throat.

Two other men, both of them big as well, stood on either side of the table, young guys who would do whatever they were told to do. They operated maybe a step above the guns they carried, and there would be no mercy at their hands despite their youth.

Pike had seen burnouts like them in the foster homes and the orphanage. Humans had the capacity to teach their young to feast on them and on each other.

“What I want to know is what you’re going to do about it.” Franco stared a challenge at Pike.

All of them knew what was going down. Franco was going to make an example of Pike and Petey. He was going to leave them spread across some street or alley. Franco thought Pike was there to beg for his friend’s life, knowing Pike wasn’t going to have the money either. Petey thought Pike was going to save him, betting on one of those small chances that he couldn’t resist.

Pike told himself that. The thought crossed his mind that Petey just hadn’t wanted to die alone, but that was more selfish than Pike was willing to believe.

Staring into Franco’s dark eyes, Pike spoke in a soft monotone. “I’m gonna ask you to let my friend go. He made a mistake. He won’t be doing business with you anymore, and you can afford to lose eight grand.”

Franco had laughed at that. “You’re out of your mind. I’m gonna kill both of you—” He didn’t get to finish his threat because by then Pike was in motion.

They’d frisked Pike for weapons. The problem was they didn’t realize anything could be a weapon. Pike snatched a longneck beer bottle from the table with his right hand, smashed it into the face of the man on his right. As the unconscious man spilled toward the floor, Pike rammed the broken end of the bottle up under the other man’s jaw and sliced his windpipe.

Franco only had time for a single shot that glanced off Pike’s side, cracking a rib before Pike had the man’s pistol in his hand and put three rounds into Franco’s head.

Rib burning, having to force himself to breathe because it hurt so badly, Pike swung to stare around the bar. People were already hustling outside. Nobody there owed Franco anything, and probably some of them were glad he was dead.

Crowing loudly, probably jacked on something, Petey came from behind the table and clapped Pike on the back. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, bro. You never have.”

“Gotta get out of here, Petey.” Pike knelt and picked up another pistol, shoving it under his belt at his back. “Cops’ll be here any minute.”

“Sure, sure. Just lemme get his stash.” Petey rummaged through Franco’s bloody clothes, taking money and drugs. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Breathing shallowly in an effort to keep the cracked rib from hurting too much, Pike followed Petey out of the bar.

Only this time they didn’t make it. Two police cars full of Diablo
bikers waited outside. Dust covered their cracked road leathers, and a few of them were just grinning skulls with the flesh pooled around their necks. They raised their weapons to fire, and Pike knew he and Petey were going to die this time.

“Told you, brother. Told you there was another way.” Jonas stood to one side, out of the field of fire. The tat of the cross was clearly visible on the inside of his arm. “You stay on that road you’re riding, Pike, you’re gonna die.”

The Diablos opened fire, and Petey staggered as the blood poured out of him.

Pike woke in a rush, heart pounding, and he could feel the phantom pain of that long-ago cracked rib lancing through his side. He blew the air out of himself, knowing he’d hyperventilate if he didn’t.

He sat up on the side of the bed, and his head spun like he was coming out of a bender.
Just a dream. Not real, bro. Keep it together.
He rubbed at his face, feeling the calluses wear against the stubble.

He stared into the darkness around him. Thoughts of Hector and the garage got all tangled with the memories of what had happened to Petey and the shooting with the Afghan National Police. It was getting hard to sort them out.

Gotta make life simple again. Things are getting too heavy. It’s time to drift. Just let it go and find a piece of the highway you ain’t been down before.

He settled back on the bed, putting his back against the wall like he used to do when he was in foster care. If anyone—any
thing
—came at him, they’d have to come at him from the front. Sitting there quietly, he listened to his heartbeat and worked on keeping it at a measured rate.

He was going to survive this. All he had to do was get back to the
States and let the witness protection people find him a new place. He’d crawl out of the sandbox one last time, maybe even crawl out of the protection program too, then get good and gone.