Renegade (2013) (5 page)

Borisov pointed at the lump. “May I?”

Yaqub nodded and dropped his hand into his lap, fingers only inches from the pistol he had hidden there.

Quietly, Borisov produced a clasp knife, opened it, and sliced off a small piece of the opium. The Russian took a small bottle from his pocket and set it on the table. He opened it, then lifted the eyedropper and let a few drops of the clear liquid fall onto the dark tar. Yaqub knew the liquid was Marquis reagent and was used to test for purity of drugs.

Within seconds, the opium lump turned a grayish, reddish brown.

Borisov smiled and looked at Yaqub. “Have you tested this?”

“No.”

“It is very pure.”

“Then it is worth the price we agreed upon.”

The Russian put the bottle in his pocket and leaned back in his chair. “It depends on how much of this you have.”

“Several kilos of it.”

Borisov ran his fingers through his goatee and smiled. “Good, because what I have for you is very expensive. I think you will be pleased.”

“I have enough to cover the price for the materials we agreed on.”

“Show me.”

Yaqub got up slowly from the table and walked to the window to his left, overlooking an alley two stories below. Four of Yaqub’s men guarded a donkey-drawn cart. “Join me.”

Borisov approached and peered out, cautiously pulling the curtain to one side. The Russian was not a trustful man and knew that he presented himself as a target. His men knew it too, and they shifted so they would be ready to bring their weapons to bear if need be.

Yaqub motioned with his hand and two of his men below pulled back the canvas tarp to reveal the small wooden boxes the opium had been packed in.

Licking his lips, Borisov nodded toward the cart. “All of the boxes contain opium?”

“Yes.”

“Of the same grade?”

“It was all obtained in the same place. You would know about such things more than I would.”

“All right.” Borisov grinned. “You’re very trusting these days, Yaqub. I can remember a time when you would have been much more cagey about trading goods.”

Yaqub tapped the windowpane. “Not as trusting as you think, I am afraid.”

Across the street, one of Yaqub’s fighters briefly stepped into view. The young man held an RPG-7 on his shoulder and was locked onto the window where Yaqub stood.

Borisov stopped grinning and stepped back from the window. Both of them knew the RPG’s missile could punch through the window and kill everyone inside.

“I trust, but only so far.” Yaqub turned to the Russian. “Now show me what you have.”

“Of course.” Borisov snapped his fingers at one of the men, who quickly got up and retrieved a metal equipment box lying along the back wall.

Without a word, the man placed the box on the table, flipped the catches, and lifted the lid to reveal a long, slim tube. Below it was another, longer tube that tapered from one end to the other. The second tube was mounted on a pistol grip and measured almost two meters in length.

Drawn by the lethal beauty of the weapon, Yaqub slid his fingers across the greasy surface. The link between him and the destructive power of the device was almost divine. Still, he wanted more. He glanced at Borisov.

“I already have rocket launchers.”

The Russian nodded but looked amused. “You do, but not like these. This is a
missile
launcher.” He patted the weapon as if it were a faithful steed. “These are very hard to get, and my country would kill me if they knew I was selling them to you. Especially in exchange for opium.”

Yaqub didn’t know if Borisov was lying or not. Opium flowed across the Durand Line and into Pakistan almost as if by osmosis. From there it was processed into heroin and moved to other places, including Russia, which had a growing heroin problem.

“This is one of the latest man-portable infrared homing missiles
designed as a surface-to-air attack weapon. It’s called the 9K38 Igla, and once it has been locked onto a target, it fires a missile carrying over a kilo of explosives in its warhead.” Borisov modeled an explosion with his hands, placing them together, then breaking them apart with outspread fingers. “Whatever aircraft it hits, that aircraft is coming down.”

Excitement flared through Yaqub. Throughout his war against the Westerners, he had never gotten his hands on such a weapon. He kept himself calm.

“How far out can it be used?”

“Just over five kilometers.” Borisov grinned. “When your people use those RPGs, which are fine weapons, they are practically in the teeth of your enemies. With the Igla, you’re not.” He paused. “I should imagine these would be quite the terror against an airfield.”

“If you fire them from five kilometers out, the Americans can use their defensive systems. They have very good defensive systems.”

Borisov frowned a little at that. “So you trade off. Get closer—not too close—and use them. The missiles travel at eight hundred meters per second.”

“The closer my people are, the more likely they will be killed.”

“Your people believe in your cause. They have proven time and again that they are ready, willing, and able to die for that cause.”

“Yes, but replacing a trained warrior is difficult.”

“Then don’t waste one of them. The beauty of these missile launchers is that a child could operate one of them. Or an old man. Anyone strong enough to lift it and operate it.”

Reaching into the box, Yaqub hefted the launcher into his arms. It was surprisingly light, weighing something over ten kilos. The excitement within him burned more brightly. He replaced the weapon within the box.

“How many of these do you have?”

Borisov held up three fingers. “For the opium you’re offering, I’ll give you three missile launchers.”

Yaqub shook his head, knowing never to take the first offer where the Russians were concerned. They haggled as fiercely as a merchant in a souk. “It is not enough.”

Stepping back, Borisov laughed. “Of course it’s enough. I’m giving you the power to strike down your enemies, to blast them from the air and kill potentially hundreds of American soldiers. You can become even more feared than you already are.”

“You want the opium that I have. I know this. I want the missile launchers, but three is not enough. I want more.”

Borisov started to object, but Yaqub cut him off.

“You want to sell those weapons to me. You have been sitting on them here, nervously hoping that I would show up as we agreed, and you have been afraid that someone would find you with the missile launchers. As you have stated, your own countrymen would put you to death for offering these weapons for sale. Once I have them, you can no longer be apprehended with them.” Yaqub saw the truth of that in the Russian’s blue eyes.

“I have five Iglas.”

Yaqub smiled. “For five Iglas, we have a deal.”

A frown pulled at the Russian’s wolflike features. “I have a deal.
You
have steal.”

“There is one other matter I would require some assistance on.”

Borisov’s eyebrows rose. “You bargain this hard and you expect me to throw in more?”

“Perhaps it will benefit us both.” Yaqub ran his hands over the missile launcher’s case. “I have been told there is a CIA team in the city. I want them.”

“You can kill them yourself. Why ask me?”

“Because I want to take these men alive. I have a use for them.”

“GUESS THE COPS
are still interested in you.”

Lying on a creeper under a Chevy Silverado pickup with four-wheel drive, Pike caught the vehicle’s edge and slid out into the open garage. Monty had put a hurricane fan in the corner to help circulate the air now that spring was starting to return to the city. In a few more weeks, working conditions in the garage would escalate north of miserable.

Monty stood between the Silverado and a Toyota Camry that was in for a brake job. The pickup needed a new transmission because the young driver couldn’t stay away from off-roading with his buddies, and Daddy’s wallet hadn’t gone flat. Seeing how the truck and the father were being treated irritated Pike, so he was working on other vehicles in between to slow down the return time. The young driver was calling daily.

Pike didn’t bother looking across the street to the small diner he and Monty sometimes ordered takeout from. Usually they ate what Monty’s wife fixed them for lunch, but she knew they both enjoyed the diner’s meat loaf Mondays.

The two-man detail assigned to watch over Pike had been there since he’d gotten back from his trip to Tulsa. They stuck out like sore thumbs. So much for whatever pull the federal prosecutor thought
he had in the area. Pike hadn’t bothered calling Dundee to let him know that whatever request had gone through the channels was being ignored. The crack house was still out of business, and repairs hadn’t even started on the place, so everything was fine.

Pike wiped his hands on a grease rag. “Guess they are. Must be a slow day for crime fighters.”

Monty handed Pike a cold beer from the chest they kept in the office. It was after three, and they would knock off in another couple hours. Monty had to coach a Little League baseball game. Pike figured he would hang out at the garage and tinker for a while on Mrs. Garcia’s car because he didn’t have anything else to do and he was restless. If he went back to his apartment, he’d be crawling the walls.

“I think they don’t like you because they think you’re doing what they can’t.”

Pike took a long drink but didn’t say anything.

Monty hunkered down, sliding against the Toyota till he was in a sitting position. He rested his elbows on his drawn-up knees and dangled his beer can from his grease-stained fingers. He appeared hesitant, and that wasn’t like Monty.

More attentive now because Pike liked the guy and what he brought to his family and to the community, Pike watched Monty struggle with his thoughts for a moment. Monty didn’t usually do that. Usually he was a straight-ahead kind of thinker. Pike had watched Monty struggle more over figuring out his hitting lineup before a game than anything else. He kept his life on the straight and narrow. The garage owner had some bad stuff locked away in his closet from his younger years, but Pike didn’t meet many people with clean hands.

“Something on your mind?”

Monty knuckled sweat from his eyebrow and grimaced. “Yeah. Shouldn’t be, but there is.”

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, Monty looked at Pike. “Those cops are talking like you lit up that crack house a few nights ago.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not my business—I know that.”

Pike knew that too, but he also knew that Monty was about to make it his business.

“I don’t want to ask, Pike, but I got to.”

Pike took another sip of beer, relished the coolness of it against the dry heat and the taste of burned oil and hydraulic fluid that pervaded the garage, and thought about how he was going to answer. He respected Monty too much to lie.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yeah, I think I need to. It’s my family, Pike, and my garage. If those things are in the line of fire from some gangbangers, I need to know.”

“Yeah, I burned it down.”

“Figured you did when the cops come nosing around here, but I wanted to be sure.”

“Now you’re sure.”

“Why?”

“It needed burning. People around here were getting hurt. Nobody seemed to be able to do anything to stop them. So I stopped them.”

“You can’t just do that.”

“It’s easier than you think.”

“You could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t.” Pike took another sip and felt like the ground was suddenly treacherous underfoot. There were two ways this conversation might go, and he wasn’t holding out for a fairy-tale ending.

“I couldn’t do what you did, Pike.”

Pike didn’t say anything.

“I knew about the crack house.” Hurt showed in Monty’s eyes. “I
just kept trying to ignore it. Like everybody else around here. But I couldn’t quit thinking about it. My kids are young right now, but I know that sooner or later they’re gonna be old enough to be prey for those dealers. Thinking like that makes me sick.”

Pike nodded.

“I’ve even called in to the police about the crack house. Twice. Reported what I was seeing. The police came around, but they never caught anybody doing anything. Exercise in futility. But I kept thinking about my kids and wondering what was going to happen. Then I found out that the place had burned up. I felt pretty good about it. Figured it was rival action between gangs, but it was all the same to me because it was out of business.” Monty paused. “Then the police came around accusing you of setting that fire and running those guys out of the building.”

“I didn’t mean to bring any of this down on you, brother.” Pike spoke softly and felt a big knot in his chest.

“I know, but I’m worried about it.”

“You want me to pull up stakes, Monty?” Pike knew he had to ask the question, but he dreaded the answer. This garage and that apartment weren’t home. He’d never had anyplace that he’d truly called home, but the idea of leaving everything was unsettling. “Is that what you’re working up to? Because if it is, just say the word and I won’t think badly of you for it.”

Surprise twisted Monty’s big face. “No, man, that’s not what I’m getting at here. It’s just that if the police suspect you burned that crack house down, them drug dealers are gonna get around to figuring things out too, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want you to leave, Pike. I talked it over with my wife, told her what the cops suspected and what I thought was going on, and I asked her what she thought about everything too.”

“She wants the kids safe. She wants you safe. That’s understandable.” Mentally, Pike started packing his tools, figuring out how much of them he could take today and how much would have to wait till he brought his truck down, and how much he’d have to just leave. The witness protection guys would be happy. They could tuck him in some other out-of-the-way place.

“Nope. That’s not it either. She wants you to stay as much as I do. The garage is more profitable; I’m happier working; she don’t have to worry about me getting hurt while I’m here on my own. Truth to tell, if you could help me figure out how to get Raheed out of his batting slump, life couldn’t be better. But I want to make some changes around here.”

Pike was lost. The conversation hadn’t gone at all the way he thought it was going to go. “Changes?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna plow some of those profits we’ve been making into putting up a security system. Maybe a closed-circuit TV system. Thought maybe I’d up the security at my house, too. You know, in case somebody wants to try something there.”

“I’m sorry, Monty.” Pike felt bad at having forced his friend into a bunker mentality. That was the problem with being close to anybody outside his own skin. They paid a price too. He hadn’t even thought about that when he’d gone into that crack house.

“Don’t be, brother. I’ve been wanting to upgrade the security around the house anyway.” Monty grinned. “With all the extra work you pull in, I bought a big-screen TV, some new game consoles for the kids, and I gave a few hundred dollars for a couple of really sweet big-barrel bats for the team. I got stuff I want to protect anyway. I just wanted you to know I’d be asking for help with the installs, if that’s okay.”

Pike didn’t really know how to feel. On the one hand, he was glad he wasn’t moving. On the other, Monty being this open with him
made him nervous and uncomfortable. It reminded Pike of all the times in foster homes when other kids had wanted to be his friends. He’d learned the hard way that those kids belonged to the foster parents, and there was a big difference between a biological kid and a foster kid. At the end of his time there, they’d pack Pike’s stuff in a little backpack and send him back into the system.

That had been when he was young enough to still be looking for a family. By the time he was ten, he’d quit looking and had known he was just a meal ticket for foster parents to occasionally punch. Till he got to be too uncontrollable. Then he’d stayed at the orphanage. At least that way he had consistency in his life that he hadn’t had up till then.

Having Monty accept him in spite of the potential trouble he was bringing down on them was troublesome. Pike felt like he owed the man something, and he didn’t like owing anyone anything.

“Yeah, I’ll help.”

Monty smiled. “I hope you’re willing to work for beer and tamales, ’cause I can’t pay you for your time.”

“Then it’s a good thing your wife makes good tamales.”

“Don’t forget the fried ice cream. She makes good fried ice cream too.”

Pike saluted Monty with the beer can. “She does.”

Monty nodded toward the Silverado. “You got that tranny ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Want a hand with it?”

“Sure.” Pike lobbed the empty beer can into a nearby trash bin, lay back on the creeper, and slid under the truck.

“Hey, looks like it’s schooltime.”

Looking up from under Mrs. Garcia’s hood, Pike peered toward
the front of the garage and saw Hector walking toward him and Monty. The boy had a troubled expression on his face.

“Now that’s true unhappiness if I ever saw it.” Monty wrapped more black electrician’s tape on the piece of wiring they’d spliced into Mrs. Garcia’s vehicle.

Pike grimaced. “It’s that new math.”

“Math.” Monty shook his head and kept taping. “Better you than me, man. I’m good with history and geography, but I suck at math.”

“I can tell from the way you tote up those accounts sometimes.”

“I got a good wife. She can cook, wrangle kids, and keep my bookkeeping straight. She’s a multitasker, is what she is.”

Pike straightened up so Hector could see him. Immediately the boy changed directions and headed for him.

“Hector’s good at figuring problems out and getting the answers, but he doesn’t show all his work.” Pike dipped out a handful of grease cleaner from a bucket on the worktable at the back of the garage and cleaned his hands. “Got an aptitude for it and the teacher doesn’t have time to help him.”

“Go on. I can finish up here. Then I gotta make some calls. Get some of these patched clunkers back to their owners.”

“Thanks. I’m probably gonna be working late tonight, so I’ll make up for any lost time.”

“Sure. Go ahead. Maybe when Hector gets a little older, I can hire him to be my accountant. That’ll make the missus happy.”

“I’m going to take him over to the diner. We can get a table there and spread out.”

Monty nodded.

“Hello, Mr. Pike.” With a frustrated sigh, Hector held out his thick math book. “It is this thing again. My teacher is still unhappy with me.” He opened the book and took out a sheaf of papers that
had been marked up with enough red pencil that they looked like they were hemorrhaging.

“What’s going on?”

“She says I work too fast and don’t show the steps again.” Hector sighed. “Showing all the steps is boring. The math is too easy.”

“Sure, I get that. Mechanic work is too easy too. Remember me telling you that?”

“Yes.”

“A mechanic has to be methodical in what he’s doing. One step at a time. If he doesn’t, he’s liable to leave something out that’s important and cause a bigger problem than he started with. We’ve been over this.”

“I know.” Hector looked forlorn. “This is why you take screws out of a part and put them in a small cup. So they stay together.”

“That’s right.” Hector had been watching Pike work on cars for months. The kid was bright, always learning. “That’s what you have to do when you take a math problem apart: keep all the bits and pieces in their proper places.” Pike dropped his rag onto the worktable. “Let’s go over to the diner. Get you a Coke. Then we’ll take a look at those papers.”