Renegade (2013) (6 page)

“WHEN YOU GO
through the door, Hasan, there must be no hesitation. If you hesitate, you may well die. Do you understand?”

Hasan nodded, but Yaqub could see the fear in the boy’s eyes. Hasan believed in God and he believed in Yaqub, but he did not yet believe in himself. That was the gift Yaqub intended to give him today.

The boy was fourteen, older than Yaqub had been when his father had first placed a rifle in his hands and taught him to kill the Russian soldiers who had invaded Afghanistan. Yaqub had only been eleven, but he had been blessed with a love of his God, a desire to see his enemies killed, and steady hands.

Leaning down so that his face was level with the boy’s, Yaqub held Hasan’s gaze with his own. “You will not hesitate, for I have chosen you to be one of my warriors. You are one of the few that I permit to follow me wherever I go. Do you understand this?”

“I understand.” Hasan’s voice cracked. “I will not fail you.”

“You will not fail me because you will not fail God. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded.

“You serve God, as I do, and we have been given the task of ridding our country of the Westerners who would kill us and destroy our faith. This is not to be allowed.”

“I will not allow it.”

“Good, and know that if the time should come that you must give your life in pursuit of serving God, you will ascend immediately to heaven and know delights that will never be yours here in this world.”

“I know these things, Mullah.”

Yaqub smiled and once more stood straight. “Of course you do. I have taught them to you.” He turned from the boy and stared at the building across the street where the CIA team was holed up.

It was early morning. The sun was only now lighting the sky in the east. Pedestrians filled Parachinar’s streets, all of them wanting to finish their morning chores and shopping so they could get back inside and escape the chill that had fallen from the mountains.

Running the Americans to ground had taken only a few hours. Zulfigar’s grandsons proved very adroit at scouting through the streets. The question remained, however, whether they had accomplished their goal without alerting their quarry.

The three Americans and their two Pashtun guides stayed to the shadows of the city, but they were foreigners and foreigners got noticed in Parachinar, no matter how desperately they tried to fit in. Yaqub still did not know what the CIA team’s objective was, but that did not truly matter. His objective superseded their goal.

Now that he had the missile launchers, Yaqub needed the bait to set his trap. The American spies could serve as a distraction.

Standing inside a small store on the corner of the street across from the CIA agents, Yaqub saw Borisov step out onto the street. Once Yaqub had explained the Russian’s part in the subterfuge, Borisov hadn’t been enthusiastic, but he had agreed.

Yaqub turned to Hasan. “Remember, warrior, that you are doing God’s work, that you are smiting his enemies.”

“I will.” Hasan seemed more calm now that the moment was upon them.

Yaqub remembered that feeling too, when the first Russian soldier
had settled into the sights of the old single-shot rifle he had carried into battle. He could still remember the man’s face—the young features before the bullet had struck him, and the bloody ruin that it had become. Over the years, his appetite for the blood of his enemies had only grown stronger.

“Do not meet their gaze, Hasan. Look at their hands, their bodies, the way they stand. Eyes can lie to you and make you the fool. But a man’s body will reveal his truth to you.”

“I know.” The boy gave a small nod. “You have taught me.”

“Today will be the proof of your ability to be a warrior in God’s name.”

“I know this also.”

“Then do not fail. And do not kill the Americans unless you have to. I want them alive.”

“It shall be as you say.”

“Good. Then let’s go.”

Hasan, looking small and frail, followed Yaqub. Yaqub had chosen the boy for his task because he looked so vulnerable—not even the slightest hint of beard growth—and yet he was a crack shot, one of Wali’s finest pupils. Yaqub had instructed the boy’s faith, but Wali had coached him in handling guns and knives, intending him to be a bodyguard for their leader in public places. Hasan would be able to pass as his son, not another man.

Borisov stood his ground at the corner. “Five of them. Just as you said. Three American agents and two Pashtuns.”

“Good. What have you told them?”

“That I was supplying you with munitions.” Borisov started walking back into the building. “They were not surprised. I have history of doing such business. Sometimes I have sold to the CIA when agents needed weapons that would allow them to blend into the surrounding countryside.”

“Do you know any of these men in the room?”

“No.”

That was good. That meant they would not be able to read Borisov in any way.

“It occurs to me that I will need to have a reason for surviving this encounter.” Borisov crossed the big room and headed up the narrow steps against one wall.

“If asked later, you can say that you were ransomed back to your companions.”

“Just make sure that you really sell this. I do not want to appear on the CIA’s terminate-on-sight lists.”

“All will be well. Draw your weapon as we discussed. I will take care of the rest.”

“Wali is across the street?”

“Yes. With a sniper rifle. No harm will come to you.” Yaqub followed the Russian up the steps with Hasan at his heels.

Stomach knotting as he watched the action playing out from the control center in Creech Air Force Base, Captain David Carter presented a calm exterior to his cyber team. Everyone in the room knew what the stakes were. Zalmai Yaqub was near the top of the most wanted al Qaeda terrorists. If they could bring Yaqub down, alive or dead, it would be a feather in Carter’s cap, a certain commendation in his file.

In his late thirties with neatly cropped brown hair and freckles, Carter was one of the oldest people in the room. Most of the cyber specialists piloting the unmanned aerial vehicles were just out of high school or in their early twenties.

When the UAV pilots weren’t in the control center pulling reconnaissance, waiting for that instance when they got to fire a kill shot with either a rifle-equipped or bomb-equipped, they were usually
piled in someone’s house racking up kills in Halo, Counter-Strike, or other online video games. The gaming was good training for the jobs they held in the control center, and the United States Air Force had chosen these individuals for those very skills.

“Prentiss, do we have an ID on the individual with Yaqub?”

“Negative.” Prentiss was twenty, a blonde who probably broke hearts all over the base. When she wasn’t breaking hearts, she was shattering egos. She was rumored to be pure death on every console game known to man. With rapt attention, she studied the flat-screen panels in front of her.

She held a joystick in her steady hand, controlling the General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper flying high recon over Parachinar, Pakistan. The drone was relaying a satellite link from the CIA team embedded in the country.

Not so long ago, the Pakistanis had booted the CIA drone base out of Shamsi Airfield. The spy agency hadn’t been set back. They were organizing new drone bases inside Afghanistan and farming some of their work out to the Air Force. Most of those assignments were scut work, but the apprehension of Yaqub was a career builder.

“I got a partial face as they entered ground zero. One of the CIA team sent me the image.”

Ground zero was the building where the CIA team lay in wait for Yaqub.

The main screen in front of Prentiss was a top-down view from the Reaper. The UAV circled overhead at twelve thousand feet, less than half of its possible operational altitude. The onboard cameras were nothing short of spectacular. The cost of the MQ-9 was $36 million-plus per unit. With the present magnification, it was possible to easily scan the rooftops.

On the screen to Prentiss’s right, a face was slowly taking shape. As she had said, the image was only a partial, shot from the side, but
the computer program was extrapolating the data and slowly guessing what the other profile looked like based on the image. When it was finished, it would build the frontal view of the face; then that would be run through facial-recognition databases.

“He looks like a boy. Maybe ten years old.” Prentiss spoke quickly, absorbed by the control of the UAV.

“You sure about the age?”

“Pretty sure. I have a younger brother about the same age.”

Carter watched Yaqub, the Russian, and the boy disappear into the building. If the boy wasn’t known now, he’d be known later. Everything they were getting, they were uploading to intelligence databases throughout the United States.

“Have we confirmed the Russian?”

“Affirmative. His name is Pavel Borisov. One-time
spetsna
z–turned–black market weapons dealer. Apparently the Durand Line is one of the places he does regular business.”

“And nobody’s put a leash on this guy?”

“He’s a killer. Runs with a hard crew.”

“How did the CIA get onto him?”

“They aren’t saying.”

Carter accepted that. Silence on the CIA’s end only meant that they did business with Borisov themselves. “The Russian just shows up to the CIA agents, says, ‘I’ve got Yaqub—were you looking for him?’”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Although Carter had been in intelligence long enough to know that such things did happen, he’d also been in the business long enough to know that sure things could sometimes still go awry.

But that was why the Reaper program was so important. Even if Yaqub somehow got away, the man couldn’t escape from UAV recon. The al Qaeda leader was hosed now. Yaqub just didn’t know it.

“DID THEY MAKE
you go to school in juvie? Or did you just learn how to cook while you were there?”

Startled, Pike took a moment to figure out his response. He and Hector sat in one of the booths at the diner. The boy’s math book lay open in front of them, and Pike was studying one of the homework sheets that was bleeding red. He looked at Hector.

“They make you go to school in juvie.”

“Real school or juvie school?”

“Both sometimes.”

Hector’s eyes rounded. “At the same time? Amigo, that’s a lot of school!”

Surprising himself, Pike laughed. Sometimes that was how it went with Hector. The boy could make him laugh no matter how bad things were. And considering that the Tulsa PD plainclothes guys were still in the diner with them and that Monty was going to be spending money upgrading his house security, things were pretty bad.

“Not at the same time, buddy. Sometimes I went to regular school. Sometimes I went to juvie school.”

“Which was better?”

“Regular school.”

“Why?”

“Because there were girls in regular school.”

Hector grimaced and stuck out his tongue. “Girls are loco.”

“Trust me, there’s gonna come a time when you don’t mind so much.”

“My sister is
muy
loco. She makes all the guys around her so mad, but they keep coming back. It is
estúpido
.”

“That’s what you’ve said.” Pike turned back to the page of homework.

“What was juvie like?”

Pike was conscious of the boy’s body warmth next to his. Normally he didn’t like anyone invading his personal space, but having Hector around reminded him of how it had been when he and Petey were young. That was the only time he’d ever felt close to anyone. He didn’t like the way Hector’s being there, talking to him, kept bringing those memories back. Remembering those times was like juggling shards of glass. He’d put that old pain away.

“Juvie was a pain in the—” Pike stopped himself short, remembering who he was with. “Juvie was a pain. Why are you asking so many questions about that?”

“Because until you said it the other day, I didn’t know where you were from.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me some stories.”

“Stories about what?”

“About what it was like there. When you were little. Like me. My mom sometimes tells me stories about when she was a little girl.”

“She probably has good stories to tell.” Pike only remembered all the foster homes, the fights, the harsh authority, and the prophecies of doom and gloom that everyone wanted to promise him because of his attitude. The way he remembered it, his distant attitude—his willingness to be a loner—was the only thing that had gotten him
through those times. He’d remained a loner. If he never made the mistake of depending on somebody, no one could disappoint him or hurt him, and even lies didn’t matter because he didn’t believe anything anyone ever told him.

“No, her stories are all boring. Except for the one when she had me in the hospital and brought me home.”

“You like that one, do you?”

“Yeah. That’s a good one. Very funny.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“You should come to dinner some night and let my mom tell it to you.”

Thinking that might ever happen left Pike feeling awkward. He didn’t like being around families. Monty had asked him over for dinner and even to Little League games on several occasions. Pike had always claimed prior commitments or a work thing he wanted to finish up. Gradually Monty had figured out that dinner with the family wasn’t going to happen and had let it go. Nobody’s feelings had gotten hurt. “Your mom and I both work late, Hector. I wouldn’t want her to have to fix dinner for me. She comes home tired.”

“She can make my sister fix dinner.”

“I don’t think your sister would be too happy about it either. Besides, like I said, I work a lot.”

“You’re not working now.”

“Only because I’m helping you with your homework. People depend on me to get their cars fixed.”

“Like Mrs. Garcia.”

Pike nodded. “Yeah. Exactly like Mrs. Garcia.” He slid the homework paper over to the boy. “Take a look at this problem and rework it.”

Without complaint, Hector took the paper and reworked the problem. He wrote down the numbers without hesitation, speeding through the steps without missing one.

Pike looked over the work. “Good job. Why didn’t you do this the first time?”

Hector lifted his thin shoulders and let them drop. “I don’t know. It’s easier doing math when you’re here.”

“Uh-huh.”

Narrowing his eyes, Hector studied him suspiciously. “You sure you don’t have any good stories from when you were a kid?”

“No.”

“Not even one?”

“I lived. I got out of there. That’s a pretty good story.”

“The juvie people let you out?”

“No. I let myself out.”

“How?”

Pike looked at the boy and put on a serious face. “One night I was very sneaky.”

Hector laughed. “Like a ninja?”

“Just like a ninja. I escaped and never went back.” Pike tapped the homework. “C’mon. We gotta pay attention here.”

The server who had been taking care of them came back to their table. She brought a fresh soft drink for Hector and a glass of tea for Pike. She smiled as she put the glasses on the table. “Hi, Pike.”

“Hi.” Pike felt guilty because he didn’t know the woman’s name. With everything that had been going on the last few days, he was getting irritated at how his everyday life was becoming complicated and starting to chafe. Everybody was a lot more involved with him than he liked them to be. He wanted things to go back to the way they had been, when he was a stranger to the neighborhood and the neighborhood treated him like an outsider. Things had been less tense then.

The server nodded at the papers. “Math?”

“Yeah.”

“I never liked math. Too many numbers, and when they started getting to be imaginary, I just got completely lost.”

Hector looked up at her and grinned. “Math’s okay, but I like reading best. Especially the imaginary parts.”

“Is that right?” The server was about Pike’s age, but she was too slim and too pale. She worked a lot of evening and night shifts. Pike had noticed her over the last few months. She usually stuck to the job, only talking to the other servers and to guests. He recognized the hurt child in her because he’d grown up around that and knew what to look for, but he didn’t know her story. He just knew that there was a story. More than that, he didn’t want to know her story. He’d heard it all before. It wasn’t special to anybody but her. She’d learn.

“Yep. When I grow up, I’m going to write stories.”

“Well, look at you.” The server gave him a big smile. “I can tell people I knew you before you got to be a celebrity.”

“Yep.”

The waitress ruffled Hector’s hair and looked at Pike. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He nodded, and she continued on her rounds. Getting special attention from the waitress bothered him. He liked coming into the diner, getting something to eat there or taking something to go in those Styrofoam containers. A business transaction without any strings, nothing social. He didn’t want to be visible while he was there.

Hector hadn’t given up. “Did you have a friend when you were in juvie?”

Pike considered the question, wanting to put an end to all the curiosity but not wanting to hurt Hector’s feelings. “Maybe talking about juvie isn’t such a good idea.”

“Why?”

“A lot of people don’t like guys who were in juvie.”

“Why?”

“Because people think guys who went to juvie were bad guys.”

“Why?”

“Because most of them are.”

“You’re not a bad guy.” Hector smiled and shook his head as if that were the weirdest idea he’d ever heard. “You fix people’s cars and you’re in the Army.”

“Marines.” That correction was out of Pike’s mouth before he knew it. He took more pride in being a Marine than he wanted to some days.

“Okay, Marines. But you’re not a bad guy.” Hector frowned and lowered his voice. “But we don’t have to talk about juvie anymore.”

“Good.” Pike sipped his tea.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Did you have a friend when you were a kid?”

Pike thought about that and didn’t want to shut the boy down again. “Yeah, I had a friend.”

“What was his name?”

“Petey.”

“That’s a weird name.”

Pike chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it was, but that was what everybody called him.”

“Was he cool?”

“Big-time cool. Coolest guy I ever knew.”

“Are you still friends?”

That hurt more than Pike expected it to, probably because Hector asked with such innocence and there was so much guilt associated with all of that, but Pike quickly covered it up. “Petey died.”

A shocked and embarrassed look filled Hector’s face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been asking so many questions.”

“No, it’s okay.” Pike told the boy that, but it really wasn’t okay.
The argument with the witness protection program attorney was still fresh in his mind, and it had brought back those old memories of Petey lying there bleeding out in Pike’s arms. Pike had tried in vain to stop the bleeding, but he didn’t have enough hands and there hadn’t been anyone else around. In the end, all he’d been able to do was hold Petey till he was gone, just slipped right through Pike’s fingers while he was trying to get him to the hospital and left him alone all over again. No one ever stayed.

“Do you miss him?” Hector spoke only a little above a whisper.

“I do.”

Hector hesitated for a moment, then plowed on with what was on his mind. “Does he talk to you?”

“No.” Pike didn’t know where the kid got that. Dead people didn’t talk. They were dead; then they were in the ground or burned up, and they were gone forever. That was what being dead meant.

“I just wondered because my mom says that sometimes people you love talk to you when you need them most. She says her mom has talked to her even though she was already with the angels. That’s part of the story of when I was born. My grandmother spoke to my mom and told her that I was going to be special.”

“You are special, kiddo.”

“You are too, Pike.” Briefly, Hector looked at him as if expecting him to say something else, but Pike didn’t know what to say. The whole conversation had made him uncomfortable and angry, and he felt like he had when he’d been trapped in juvie, just waiting till he had something he could fight back against.

“Let’s get to your homework. It’s late. Your mom will be home soon and she’ll be worried about you. And I got Mrs. Garcia’s car to work on some more.”

“Okay.” Hector turned his attention to the math.

At the front of the diner, the plainclothes detectives evidently
decided that watching Pike teach math to a third grader was boring. Or maybe they were just getting off shift. They got up together, with a final look at Pike, and headed out the door.

For a few minutes, Hector worked quietly. Pike felt the old anger moving around inside him and tried to get it in hand, but it was whipping around like a broke-back rattler. He gazed at the boy and wondered how he could be so at peace with himself and his life when it was really hard. A missing father. An older sister who was about to leave the nest. A mother who worked too much because she had to in order to make ends meet. The kid’s balance sheet was stacked against him.

Yet . . . here he was. Doing his homework. Learning from somebody his mother shouldn’t even let him hang around with. Pike didn’t know why Hector’s mother let the boy come around the garage. He figured maybe she just didn’t know what the kid was doing. She couldn’t control Hector if she wasn’t there.

The bell over the diner’s door jangled, followed almost immediately by brief cursing from one of the female servers.

Pike glanced at the door and saw four men about his age enter the diner. They wore their hair long, trailing down their necks and brushing their shoulders. All four were clad in jeans, dirty baseball caps, and shirts with the sleeves torn off, their arms splotched with tattoos and their faces covered in beards and mustaches that had been allowed to grow untended.

One of them, a tall, rawboned man with pale skin that Pike guessed was a prison pallor, looked around the diner and spotted the server who had been taking care of Pike and Hector. The man wore his shirt open to midchest. An arrowhead necklace lay against the hollow of his throat. Two tattooed tears were on his cheek under his left eye.

The man looked at the server, who had drawn up into herself and
frozen like a deer in headlights. She stared at the man like she couldn’t believe he was standing there.

“I got out, Teresa, and you weren’t there.” The man smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. “Of course, I wasn’t really expecting you to be. You ain’t been to see me in over a year, and you said you wasn’t coming back.”

“Carl.” Teresa’s voice was strained, part hoarse whisper. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

“Why? This here’s a fine public establishment. Open to anybody that’s got money in his pocket. I got money.” Carl pulled out a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill.

Teresa shook her head, and unshed tears glimmered in her eyes. “You don’t want to do this, Carl. Truly, you don’t. You just got out.”

Tendons strained in Carl’s neck, and color flamed up from his chest to his face. “I
know
I just got out. Who do you think spent the last three years in that hole? Sure wasn’t you. You pled out when the cops came snooping around. Let me go down by myself. You didn’t mind spending all that money the meth brought in when I was cooking, though, did you?”

Tears leaked from Teresa’s eyes, but she still didn’t move a muscle.

Beside Pike, Hector got tense as a board. Instinctively, Pike dropped a protective arm over the boy’s thin shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay, kiddo.”

Hector didn’t say anything.

Carl grinned, and the expression looked like it had been carved onto his face. “Now I’m back, and I want to be fed. So get over here and take my order.”

Teresa didn’t move.