Renegade (2013), page 2
part #2 of Called To Serve Series
“Leave the backpacks.”
“Homes, you don’t know all the trouble you’re getting into.”
Pike trained his weapon on the man who had spoken. The gangbanger was the first to strip out of his backpack.
“Stay on the ground and crawl away.”
Fearfully, the three men clambered across the ground. Sirens echoed in the distance. Pike didn’t know if the sirens were coming to address the gunshots fired in the alley, but if they weren’t, he knew it wouldn’t be long.
Gray smoke rolled from the lower windows of the building where the glass had been broken out. Flames twisted and pushed the darkness inside the structure out into the alley.
Moving swiftly, keeping an eye on the three men to make sure they didn’t pull out another weapon, Pike unzipped the backpacks. All three held money and drugs. Evidently the men had split up the haul. Satisfied, Pike grabbed the backpacks by the straps, lifted them from the ground, and headed for the sleek SUV. Firelight gleamed off the spinner caps.
“What are you doing, homes? That’s my ride.”
Pike didn’t know which of the gangbangers had called out. He didn’t care. Using the butt of the pistol, Pike broke the glass in the driver’s-side window. The gangbanger cursed plaintively. Ignoring the cries, Pike hauled the backpacks up to the window and shoved them in.
Walking to the rear of the SUV, he pulled out a lockback knife and ducked down to slash the fuel line to the gas tank. Gasoline ran out onto the ground like ink, and the fumes filled Pike’s nose. He started walking back the way he’d come. Taking another road flare from his pocket, he struck it and tossed it under the SUV into the pool of gasoline.
Flames whooshed to life and latched on to the vehicle.
“No! You didn’t do that!”
Pike shot a look at the three men at the other end of the alley. “Tell the Sureños this neighborhood is off-limits.”
The man cursed him.
Wheeling, Pike fired a round that cut the air over the man’s head. The man dove to the ground, followed by his two buddies. At that point, the gas tank in the SUV exploded and the vehicle jumped off the ground slightly before settling back down. The interior was on fire as well, burning merrily. Most of the money and the drugs would burn before the fire department arrived, but he was willing to bet enough evidence would be left to get police investigators started on the operation. The neighborhood would be watched over for a time.
When Pike reached the unconscious man he’d left in the other alley, he caught the man’s collar and dragged him into the street. He searched the man and found a throwaway cell phone. Opening the phone, Pike punched in 911.
“Nine-one-one operator. State the nature of your emergency.”
“Fire.” Leaving the phone connected, Pike dropped it onto the unconscious man and kept walking. Even if the neighbors didn’t call in the fire, emergency units would be dispatched.
He walked away, feeling pretty good about the night’s work.
2
AT 6:20 THE NEXT MORNING, Pike was taking bacon from a skillet when someone knocked on his apartment door. He was clad in a pair of faded, oil-stained jeans, barefoot and shirtless. He took the high-capacity Glock .45 from the counter beside the stove, set the skillet off the burner, and padded to the door.
He didn’t peer through the peephole. A guy could catch a bullet in the brain that way as soon as the lens went dark and alerted a shooter on the other side of the door. Instead, he stood to the side of the door with the pistol in his fist.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mr. Pike. Hector.”
Hector was the young boy from the neighborhood who had first asked Pike to help with Juan Mendoza, who was part of the Sureños. Hector’s sister, Erendria, had gotten mixed up with the previous group Pike had “relocated.”
“What are you doing here, Hector?” Pike kept from growling the question, but only just. The kid was good, hadn’t taken up any bad ways, and he sometimes came by the garage where Pike worked. His mom worked a lot, and his sister was trying to manage community college and a job as well these days. She’d kept herself clean. Hector’s father had run away shortly after he’d been born.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Pike still didn’t reach for the door. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“School’s not till eight.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”
“I’m ready.”
“Does your momma or your sister know you’re here?”
“She’s at work. Erendria is at college. She has friends she’s studying with.” The kid made friends sound like leprosy.
“Kinda early for her to study.”
“I think she goes there for coffee and gossip. That’s what my mom says.”
Despite himself, Pike grinned sadly. Kid was caught between a working mom and a sister getting ready to take flight out into the world. That left him little family time.
“Can I come in?” There was a little whine in the boy’s voice. Not enough to be annoying, and it was subtle enough that Pike knew Hector was trying to hide it.
“You alone?”
“Yeah.”
Pike slipped the pistol into the back of his waistband and removed the lock bar he’d mounted in the floor, then unfastened the three locks on the door. When he opened it, Hector stood in the hallway.
The boy was nine going on ten. Hispanic and too thin for his age, dressed in a Batman T-shirt that was too big for him and hung almost to his knees, Hector was a good-looking kid with eyes that had seen too much. Innocence didn’t count for much in the neighborhood. Pike understood that. Hector’s black hair was unruly and his chin was too pointed. One of these days he’d be a good-looking young man, but he wasn’t there yet.
Hector frowned at Pike. “You gonna ask me to come in?”
“You a vampire or something?”
Hector’s frown grew deeper and he looked at Pike like he was loco. Then a smile cleared the frown in a heartbeat. “Oh, I get it. Because vampires have to be asked to come in.”
Pike shrugged. “Door’s open.”
Hector walked inside. “My mom told me it’s still polite to be asked into someone’s house.”
“I opened the door.”
“I don’t think that counts.”
Pike bolted the door shut. Hector took notice of all the locks, but he didn’t say anything. He took notice of the gun, too.
Around the neighborhood, Pike had a reputation as a guy not to be messed with. Occasionally he got involved in situations—domestic problems, thugs—but only because those events seemed to find him. He didn’t go looking for trouble.
Well, mostly he didn’t go looking for trouble. Last night had been the exception.
At the stove, Pike put the .45 back on the counter and replaced the skillet on the burner. He took the bacon grease that he’d saved and poured it into the skillet with the leavings from the last, getting a good half inch of grease in the bottom. He gestured Hector to the small kitchenette table with two mismatched chairs.
“Have you had breakfast?”
The boy sat. “Cereal. I can fix that myself.”
“Can you eat again?”
Hector smiled. “Yes. But only if you have enough.”
“I have enough. Eggs over easy work for you?”
“Yes.”
Pike took eggs from the carton on the counter, cracked them, and dropped them into the grease. They sizzled upon impact and the whites started to color up almost immediately.
He cooked quickly and efficiently, the way he did everything. When he finished, he filled two plates with eggs, bacon, and toast that he’d browned in the bacon grease–coated skillet at the end. After placing the plates on the table, he took grape jelly and hot sauce from the small refrigerator and put those on the table as well. He added two glasses of orange juice.
Pike sat, picked up his fork, and started to dig in. Then he noticed Hector staring at him expectantly, both hands clasped together on the table in front of him.
“Something wrong with the food?”
“No, the food looks very good. I was waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For you to say grace so that we may eat.”
“Oh.” Pike thought about that, even tried to remember the last time he’d said grace before a meal. It must have been sometime in juvie, but that had been a while ago.
He was twenty-nine now, and he and Petey had escaped at fourteen and started living on the streets. Mostly on the streets. Every now and again, they’d been busted on misdemeanors. Nothing serious enough to carry any real weight.
Pike nodded to Hector. “Why don’t you say grace. I made breakfast.”
“Sure.” The boy beamed and bowed his head.
Pike did likewise, feeling foolish. He didn’t believe in God, didn’t even think he had during the bits and pieces of his childhood that he could remember. He didn’t believe in anything beyond what he could do for himself, and he knew his limitations. That kept life simple.
Hector prayed quickly and fervently, and the words sounded familiar spilling from his lips. “God, bless this food we are about to eat. Bless Mr. Pike for cooking it. Thank you for watching over us. In Jesus’ name we pray.”
Pike was caught off guard as Hector abruptly raised his head. He felt odd for having sat there silent, but somehow hearing the kid pray hadn’t been so bad.
“Okay, now we can eat.” Hector picked up his fork and started moving food. For a little guy, he could put it away.
As he ate, Pike thought about the last time he’d eaten breakfast with someone. It had been in Somalia, with Lance Corporal—now Corporal—Bekah Shaw. He’d been part of her rifle team during the action over there. After his return to the States, he’d gone back to his routine at the apartment and the garage, but it always took a while to settle in. He enjoyed his time in the Marines as a reservist, but he liked his time alone as well.
Hector carefully spread grape jelly on his toast, then took a bite. A spot of jelly clung to his chin and he didn’t notice.
Pike pointed to his own chin. “You got something there.”
Hector picked up a paper napkin Pike had saved from a late-night Taco Bell run and wiped his chin. “Thank you.”
“No prob.” Pike bit into a piece of bacon, savored the flavor as he chewed, then swallowed. “So did you just come by for breakfast this morning?”
Hector shook his head. “No. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
“The crack house burned last night.”
Pike didn’t say anything.
“I thought maybe you had something to do with that.” Hector looked at him with those big brown eyes. “Did you?”
“Maybe there are some things you’re better off not knowing.”
“I can keep a secret.”
“Yeah, me too.”
They ate in silence for a little while, but Hector always had questions. Sometimes they were questions about his homework, which Pike occasionally helped him with down at the garage after school. Every now and again, Pike had gotten Monty—the garage owner—to help out. Monty had kids and knew more about homework. Pike knew how to do a lot, most of it self-taught, but he didn’t always know how teachers wanted homework done. He could usually get the answer, just not the right way or in a way that Hector could understand.
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“In juvie.” Pike wouldn’t lie about that. The crack house was a different story. “You know what juvie is, right?”
Hector nodded. “Yeah. Where they put the bad kids.”
“Yeah.”
“You were a bad kid?”
“Partly. I didn’t have any parents. So I got stuck in the orphanage and in foster homes. I didn’t like them. After a while, they put me in juvie.”
“Oh.” Hector took another bite of eggs, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. “They taught you how to cook real good.”
“Thanks.”
Hector looked at him. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt last night.”
Pike thought a minute about how to best handle that. Finally he just nodded. “Me too. Now finish your breakfast. You don’t want to be late for school.”
3
PIKE’S CELL PHONE rang at 7:17 a.m. while he was at the bodega a few blocks from his apartment building. He’d gone in to pick up a newspaper and a cup of coffee to take to work. Monty was a master with engines, but his coffee-brewing skills lacked. Pike had never bothered to tell him.
As he stood in line for the cashier, Pike answered the phone.
Monty started speaking at once. “You in some kind of trouble, Pike?”
“No. Why?”
“I got two detectives here at the garage asking questions about you.”
Feeling a little cornered, stepping back into the old days in a heartbeat, Pike looked through the advertisement-covered windows out onto the street. Everything seemed normal. “Are you sure they’re cops?”
“Yeah. I been in some trouble before too, buddy. I know what cops are like. These are the real deal. I made them show me their badges and their IDs. Ain’t my first rodeo.”
“They say what they want?”
“You. They’ve been real interested in what time you normally come in. I told them around eight. They wanted to know where you lived. I didn’t tell them that. I figured they could look that up at the DMV.”
Pike knew that too. The detectives could have been knocking on his door that morning instead of Hector. That meant they’d chosen to meet him at his work. “They don’t have anything on me, Monty. If they did, they’d have come to my apartment.”
“That’s what I figured, Bubba. This is just a roust. Shake you up a little. I just didn’t know what for.”
“Me neither.” Pike didn’t like lying to Monty, but he didn’t want to involve the man in his problems either. “I’m at the bodega. You want me to bring you anything?”
“Yeah. A bomb. Mrs. Garcia brought that station wagon of hers back in and I gotta chase down another electrical problem. I’m beginning to think I’d be better off just getting her another car so I don’t have to look at this one ever again. I swear, I don’t need another project car.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Fresh outta bombs. Anything else?”
“Nah, I’m good. And listen, Pike, if you need an attorney or something, I got a guy that’s real good.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that, but that’s good to know.” Pike said good-bye and closed the phone. He took a deep breath and stepped up to the cashier.
The garage was located sixteen blocks from Pike’s apartment. It was an easy enough walk, and he liked being able to see for himself what was going on in the neighborhood. Every place he’d ever been had its own rhythms. Getting to know them was just a matter of time.
He took different routes to the garage, never getting locked into any pattern, and he even got his coffee from seven different places, including the diner where Hector’s mom worked. A routine could save lives, but it could also put them in jeopardy. The Marines taught discipline and order, but the streets taught Pike organic chaos. He split the difference most days, always changing it up.
He wore work boots with jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt from a Molly Hatchet concert, and a black nylon shell for the wind. He’d left his weapons at home. The cup of coffee kept his left hand warm. Wraparound sunglasses blocked out the morning sun.
The two police detectives stood just inside the open bay doors of the garage. They had on suits and looked official. Pike guessed the neighborhood was buzzing with fears of ICE. Immigration and Customs Enforcement made an appearance every so often, busting illegals sometimes but mostly looking for human-trafficking operations.
They stood a little straighter when they realized Pike was headed for them. Behind them, Monty’s boom box blasted the Hollies’ “Long Cool Woman.” Monty was an oldies kind of guy, but it was an appreciation that he’d developed, not been born into. He was in his midthirties.
Mrs. Garcia’s station wagon was in the first bay. Monty had gotten on it quick because Mrs. Garcia ferried four grandchildren around to school, dental and medical appointments, and extracurricular activities like soccer and dance. She was helping her son who had lost his wife to cancer. Her car had to move.
“Pike Morgan?” The older detective spoke first, taking the lead. Pike had had two other last names before that, stripped away just as quickly as they’d been given when he had been forced to move to the other two locations. They’d wanted to move him farther west. Oklahoma was as far from Texas as Pike had allowed them to move him. Getting into the Marine Reserve had caused the US Marshals a lot of headaches, but Pike had insisted, and he was still needed to testify in a couple ongoing court cases.
“Yeah.” Pike came to a stop in front of the detectives and sipped his coffee.
“I’m Detective Tom Horner with the Tulsa Police Department.” He was well dressed, manicured, and had a clean haircut that looked like he’d just stepped out of a salon. Everything but the gray at his temples had been touched up. He looked to be in his late forties, a guy who watched what he ate and kept himself in shape. His right eye had a squint to it, like he’d gotten popped there and the swelling hadn’t quite gone down. Horner nodded to his younger partner. “This is Detective Trey Winkle.”
The other man was in his early thirties and balding a little, his scalp showing through his fair hair. He was full-faced and had a small, crooked scar across his chin that looked like something left over from a childhood accident.
“I see some ID?” Pike sipped his coffee and waited till the two detectives dug out their shields and IDs. They displayed them in quick flicks. Both sets looked legitimate. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ve got a few questions. Is there somewhere we can go?”
Pike met the man’s gaze. “Here is fine.”
Horner frowned a little at that, obviously not happy. Pike suspected the man was more unhappy over not being able to immediately seize control of the interview.
