Renegade (2013), page 3
part #2 of Called To Serve Series
“All right. Can you tell us where you were last night?”
“My apartment.”
“Is there someone who can verify that?”
“I was alone. I usually am. Except during those times that I’m not.”
Horner smiled good-naturedly, like he was embarrassed and needed some help to make everything all right. “Well, that’s a problem.”
“Is it?” Pike blew on his coffee and took a sip.
“You don’t have anyone who can corroborate your story.”
“Does my story need corroboration?”
“We’d like to know where you were last night.”
“I just told you.”
Horner shrugged. “We’d like more proof than that.”
“Why?”
Horner looked irritated and scratched the underside of his chin. “Peace of mind.”
“Whose peace of mind?”
“Mine.”
Pike grinned a little at that. “Didn’t know you cared.”
Some of Horner’s good-natured attitude evaporated and he shifted, squaring up his shoulders and standing taller. “Maybe it would be better if we had this conversation downtown.”
“Are you arresting me for something?”
Horner was quiet for a moment. “No.”
“Then that question was an invitation I’m declining. I’m not going downtown with you, and we’re done here. I’ve got people waiting to get their cars back.” Pike stepped past the man.
Detective Winkle bristled and took a step toward Pike. Pike ignored the man, knowing his partner was calling the shots. Horner lifted a hand and waved the younger detective to heel. Winkle grimaced, but he stepped back.
Pike thought about pointing out how well trained the younger detective was, but he made himself pass on that. He had no reason to bait the police, even though his rebellious nature made him want to. He placed his coffee on the rear of the ancient station wagon.
At the front of the vehicle under the raised hood, Monty watched what was going on with a disapproving frown. He was a short man with broad shoulders and swarthy skin that broadcast his Hispanic heritage. He was fit and powerful, perhaps ten pounds over his best weight because his wife cooked well and Monty kept beer on ice in a cooler at the shop for after hours. He wore dark-blue shop pants, a lighter-blue uniform blouse with his name sewn on in red thread above the right pocket, and an OSU Cowboys ball cap. A gunslinger mustache framed his upper lip.
Horner wasn’t quite ready to walk away. “Do you know about the crack house that got burned down last night?”
“Sure.” Pike tapped the newspaper he’d laid beside his coffee. “It’s in the news.”
The story was on the front page.
“What do you know about it?”
“Just what’s in the paper.” Pike walked over to an upright toolbox, pulled out his keys, and opened it up to take out a tool belt. He laid the belt across his shoulder.
“Nothing else?”
“Anything else you think I should know?”
“Officers arrested a couple gangbangers last night who gave a description of a guy that looks a lot like you.”
“Lots of guys look like me.”
“I don’t think so. Officers who work this beat have heard some rumors about you. Said you’d got in a couple scrapes, but they’ve never had a real beef with you. They also said there was another altercation involving a group of crack dealers a few months ago. They were beaten up pretty badly and got told to leave the neighborhood. I find that interesting.”
Pike looked at the detective. “You know what I find interesting?”
Horner folded his arms across his chest.
“That the police department only knows about the drug-dealing operations after the fact. Probably makes a lot of people wonder how good you are at doing your job. They might even wonder why you’re chasing after someone who put the gangbangers out of business instead of chasing after the guys putting drugs out in the neighborhood. From the story I read, the house that burned up can’t be the only one in this neighborhood. Much less the whole city.”
Crimson tinted Horner’s face. “We’ll be back to talk to you.”
Pike shook his head. “Not without a good reason. Otherwise I’m gonna talk to an attorney about filing a harassment suit.”
For a moment, Horner locked his gaze with Pike’s. Then the detective jerked his head to his partner. Together, the detectives walked out of the building and got into their unmarked sedan at the curb in front of the garage.
“You know I make it a habit not to stick my nose into other people’s business.” Monty wiped his greasy hands with a red towel.
“I’ve always liked that about you.” Pike joined Monty and stared into the car’s engine space, tracking all the wires. Searching for a short was time-consuming and often frustrating. He wasn’t looking forward to the job.
“So I’m not gonna ask you if you’re the guy those cops are looking for. But you’re also my friend, so I’m gonna tell you to be careful. The guy who burned that house down and rousted those drug dealers? He’s made friends on both sides of the street. Personally, I like the idea that those guys are gone. Makes the neighborhood a little safer for my kids.” Monty clapped Pike on the shoulder. “I just want you to be careful, amigo.”
Pike nodded. “I always am.” He stripped out of the Windbreaker and leaned on the car’s fender. “Now let’s see if we can get Mrs. Garcia’s beast back on the road one more time.”
4
THE MIDDAY SUN BURNED DOWN brightly on the Safed Koh mountains but didn’t completely strip away the lingering chill that hugged the high peaks and narrow trails. Winter hadn’t yet abandoned its grip on the land. Higher up, snow still covered the steep faces of the stony spires, and where Zalmai Yaqub had set up his trap, cold still radiated from the barren ground.
Yaqub lay prone on his stomach, elbows propped up to hold the binoculars he used to keep watch over the narrow passage that men and beasts of burden had trod over centuries of travel.
In his early forties, Yaqub had lived with war and strife all of his adult life. He had fought against the Russians with his father while little more than a boy, then against warlords and different governments that had tried to unite Afghanistan, and now against the Americans who thought they could do what their Soviet counterparts had not been able to do: break the country. He was lean and hard, capable of traveling overland on foot all day on only a mouthful of water if need be, and he knew a thousand ways to kill his enemies.
He wore a faded cloak over his gray shalwar kameez, the traditional long shirt and loose trousers of Afghan men. A turban covered his head, and his coal-black beard reached to midchest. Beside him, wrapped in a small blanket, the AK-47 assault rifle lay clean and ready.
A hundred and fifty meters away, looking like a smudge of shadow lying beside a big rock, Wali lifted his hand to signal the advance of their prey.
Yaqub signaled to his men, sending them all more closely to ground. He had trained them—every warrior who followed him—guided them in the ways of killing their enemies and worshiping their deity, taught them the need for their commitment not only to die for their beliefs but also to kill others with impunity. As their mullah, he had instructed them in the responsibility of fard al-’ayn, the individual duty concerning jihad. A man’s duty to God was to smite his enemies, and these men they hunted today were great offenders because they had turned away from their faith to pursue profit instead.
Moving slowly, holding the binoculars in one hand, Yaqub uncovered the AK-47 with the other. Only a short distance away, Faisal prepared the RPG-7. The rocket launcher would deliver swift death, and Yaqub did not intend a show of mercy. Everyone would die.
At the bend of the pass, a man appeared. He was young and lean, his face wrapped against the chill breeze that skated through the passage like a hunting hawk. He carried an American-made M16, and Yaqub chose to resent the man even more for that. The Western nations had equipped their allies for years, always turning the Afghan people against each other and against outsiders who did not follow the Western beliefs. Many of the weapons that Yaqub’s warriors carried had been captured during the war with the Russians. Al Qaeda armorers had learned to restore the rifles and keep them in peak condition.
Yaqub gently pulled the AK-47 into the ready position and flicked off the safety as the man continued his walk down the passage. Twenty meters behind the point man, the rest of the group followed, men and donkeys carrying the goods they intended to sell once across the Pakistani border.
The men were a mix of young and old. Yaqub was disappointed when he saw no Westerners among them. The men in the passage below were of the Northern Alliance, the collection of Afghan warlords that the Western powers had allied with.
The Northern Alliance was the weapon that the West had intended to keep aimed at the heart of al Qaeda. They were not friends of the West either, but the Northern Alliance did not like the true path of Islam. That way was too hard for the warlords, and they were weak warriors in Yaqub’s eyes. They were not given to holy pursuits.
As Yaqub saw it, a man who claimed to be Muslim yet did not act on the war with the West at the first chance offered could only be put to death for failing his sacred duty.
The men came closer. The man on point never hesitated, but he also did not neglect his duty. His head swung from side to side, but he was tired from marching all night in the cold, and Yaqub’s warriors were well hidden.
Fifty meters away, Yaqub slid his finger over the trigger and pulled through. The AK-47’s recoil was so slight and the rifle so well balanced that he hardly felt any movement. He fired two rounds at the lead man, watching him drop in his tracks, then shifted the rifle again to pick up other targets as the group broke for cover.
A few meters away, Faisal lifted the RPG-7 and readied his shot. The rocket lunged from the launcher, straight toward a luckless animal as it fought to get its head against its handler. The man held on to the lead rope as the donkey struggled and the packs on its back beat against it.
Then they vanished in an explosion that ran a river of fiery destruction in both directions along the passageway for a moment.
“Faisal!” Yaqub ejected the empty magazine from his assault rifle and shoved a fresh one home. “Do not shoot the donkeys carrying the cargo! Leave those!”
“Forgive me, Zalmai. I shot too soon.” Faisal laid the rocket launcher aside and picked up his rifle.
Knowing there was no use remonstrating the man for his mistake, Yaqub instead focused on shooting the caravan survivors. It would not matter if some of them escaped, and he was certain his men would not get them all now, but they were the enemies of his God and he did not want any of them to avoid the divine retribution he was delivering.
The caravan warriors knew they were in dire straits. They scattered like lambs, none of them attempting to gain control over the others and organize a defense.
Filled with the familiar bloodlust that fueled him, Yaqub rose to his feet and ran to the edge of the passageway as several of the caravan warriors tried to scale free of the kill box. He fired into them at point-blank range till the assault rifle cycled dry. Frustrated as the caravan men continued to rise, he dropped the AK-47 and gave ground before them.
“Faisal! To me!” Yaqub drew the Russian Tokarev holstered at his hip and fired it dry too, but by then, four men were almost on top of him.
“I cannot!”
A glance in the man’s direction showed that Faisal was in danger of being overrun as well. He, too, had dropped his rifle and was pulling his pistols.
Beseeching God, calling for holy wrath, Yaqub freed the pesh-kabz at his waist. The thick blade was broad at the hilt but tapered down to a near-needle point. In its initial design, it had been forged to penetrate armor, capable of sliding between the rings or the plates and plunging into the man under the defenses. Permutations of the knife had been carried for centuries.
The knife remained deadly in the hands of a warrior who knew how to use it. Yaqub had learned his martial skills from his father, but several warriors over the years had contributed to his acumen.
Keeping the knife hidden at his side till the last moment, Yaqub continued stepping back before the onslaught of caravan warriors fleeing for their lives. Then he whipped the knife up into the nearest man’s throat, feeling the warm blood spill over his hand and run along his arm to his elbow.
Fear and the knowledge of his unavoidable death widened the man’s eyes. Setting himself, Yaqub put his weight behind his knife arm and pushed forward again, breaking the advance of the men. Yaqub grabbed the dying man’s coat in his free hand and whipped him to the left, into the path of the man on that side, as he slid the knife free.
Twisting, stepping back again, Yaqub looked at the warrior on his right. The knife got the man’s attention at once, and he brought up the American semiautomatic pistol. Fearlessly, Yaqub stepped forward into the man as his opponent’s arm extended, getting inside the instinctive response. Yaqub set his feet even though the pistol blasted almost in his ear, swiveled his hips, and drove the pesh-kabz into the man’s stomach.
Mortally wounded, the man folded over Yaqub’s out-thrust arm. The dying man’s hot breath and plaintive moan pushed into Yaqub’s ear.
“Death is upon you, you weak, traitorous dog!” Yaqub plucked the pistol from the man’s nerveless fingers, shoved his chest against the falling man to knock him away, and dragged the knife free as he raised his captured weapon.
Three men ran by Yaqub, avoiding the battle he waged upon them. He fired into their backs, emptying the pistol. They stumbled and fell, dead or dying, and he didn’t care. A short distance away, Faisal was desperately fighting to stay on his feet. Gunshots rang out between him and the men trying to barrel over him.
One of the men fell as Yaqub let go of the pistol and stepped toward the scuffle. He moved in behind another of the men and thrust the long knife between the man’s ribs. He shuddered and went down. Striding over the corpse, Yaqub grabbed the beard of another warrior, yanked his head around, and pierced the man’s chin.
The next man turned to face Yaqub, whipping his rifle around, but the al Qaeda leader ducked beneath the blow and hacked at the inside of the man’s back leg with the knife. The blow caused the man’s leg to go slack. Yaqub grabbed the rifle and yanked it from the fallen man.
Managing the rifle one-handed, Yaqub aimed the weapon at the next man staggering up from the passage, then pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Snarling an oath, Yaqub flung the rifle at the man and went to meet him.
The man came to a stumbling stop, though, and fell forward on his face, shot by another of Yaqub’s warriors.
Breathing hard, the back of his throat alternately feeling frozen and too hot, Yaqub bent down and retrieved his rifle. He sheathed the pesh-kabz through his belt and shoved a fresh magazine into the AK-47. He walked to the edge of the passageway, knowing from the sporadic gunfire that the fighting was very nearly over.
He stood, swaying, over the narrow valley of carnage and looked down at the corpses and blood that lay strewn across the ground. He had lost men. He knew that. Losses were an acceptable part of his war. In his heart, he knew that he had been saved to continue the righteous work that had been laid before him. He would climb over the bodies of his enemies and the kuffar alike to reach the feet of God.
5
PIKE SAT AT A TABLE in the United States Marshals Office and tried not to be irritated. He stared at the shuttered window on the other side of the room and wished he were back at the garage instead of here. At least there he could have been doing something worthwhile. Talking didn’t get much done, especially with the prosecutor assigned to the case that had brought him into the witness protection program.
“Is anything I’m telling you boring you, Mr. Morgan?”
Squelching an immediate and scathing response to federal district attorney David Clement, Pike eyed the man. “Pretty much everything you’re saying is boring me.”
Clement’s face turned red and his ears burned. He was in his late thirties, a guy who still viewed himself as on the way up in his job field. As a result, he was aggressive and a true pain. He was twenty pounds too heavy, soft from sitting at a desk job and pushing papers most of his days.
Pike knew the type and didn’t respect the man. During his juvie years, while shuttled out to various foster homes from the orphanage, Pike had seen far too many David Clements. They were happiest when they were checking boxes and filing paperwork. Men and women like Clement didn’t want to get to know the people involved or the circumstances that had brought them together. They just lived to churn paper.
Clement sat there in shirtsleeves and a tie, his hair moussed into place. His expensive briefcase lay on the table to his right. His tablet PC occupied the space to his left. Those were standards that marked Clement’s importance.
At least, they were supposed to be. Pike was bored of them as well.
Behind Clement, through the glass walls of the interview room, three US Marshals drank coffee and worked the phones at their desks. One of them was a woman Pike had seen before and thought was pretty good-looking. And she had a nice smile. He could tell from the smile that she went for bad boys. If she wasn’t careful, that would cost her one day.
“You know, that’s a pretty pitiful attitude you have there.” Clement narrowed his gaze and tried to look tough.
Pike could hear the silent “mister” at the end of the declaration that the prosecutor left out at the last minute. The decision was a good one. Leaving it in would have irritated Pike further and probably prematurely ended the conversation.
Pike eyed the man. “How do you figure?”
“We’re protecting you from people who want nothing more than to see you dead.”
Pike folded his hands together on the table and barely resisted the impulse to reach across the space and grab the man by his shirtfront. At Pike’s side, US Marshal Bill Dundee tensed up a bit and leaned forward. He was an older man, in his late fifties, and had a calm air about him that reminded Pike of Caleb Mulvaney, the Dallas homicide detective who had gotten Pike into protective services.
