“How old is Ben?” she asked.
“Twenty-two.”
She hugged herself against the morning chill, then we continued around the pond, dog between us. She was locked in thought, eyes to the ground, her footsteps measured and slow. We were halfway around the water before she spoke again.
“A Muslim trying to kill a half-Muslim,” she said. “But this isn’t about religion, is it?”
“No. It’s personal. Like he said in that threat to you.”
“Personal,” she said. Then, a few steps later, “Can I tell you something personal? Flying Predator drones for recon is tedious business. Hours of cruising and hovering. You follow a man. You follow a technical — that’s a truck with a machine gun mounted on the bed. You hover and watch. You’re like a cop on a beat. You get to know the people and their habits. You know their faces. Some by name. It drove me bats, not knowing all their names. You watch them go about their lives, do their jobs, trying to survive. Some are moms or dads, and you see a guy hugging his kids before he heads to work, or to the market to get food, knowing that he might not make it back. Of course, he knows it, too.
“But things can change. Fast. You finally get the guy out in the open — a terrorist you’ve been looking for, month after month. You find him in the right time and place, and as soon as you’re cleared hot, you’re going to light that fucker up. It’s why you’re here. It’s what you do. So that day in Aleppo, when Zkrya Gourmat took off on his motorcycle, we Headhunters went from zero to ninety in a heartbeat. For weeks we’d been the watchers, but suddenly we’ve got our pistols drawn and we’re running straight into a gunfight. I stayed cool, Roland, because that’s what all your training says. Cool, methodical, open-eyed. The sensor operator’s job is to guide the missile to its target. You use a targeting laser, which is one very temperamental piece of technology. It has a grip like a pistol but bigger. Trigger for acquisition, buttons for adjustment, set and reset, and a keypad for altitude, azimuth, distance, and closing speed. If you breathe wrong, you throw the laser off-target. If you flinch or twitch, you can put that Hellfire on the house next door, or into the group of old guys smoking cigarettes in a courtyard, or on a kid on a bike, or into a mosque at prayer. When Zkrya lost control of his motorcycle, I had that laser right on him. Followed him down and into the crash. When the doctors and nurses came running out of the field hospital, I saw I had to get that laser off Gourmat or we were going to kill them all. I could see it was going to happen, sure as sunrise. The timing was perfect. The distance they were covering. The seconds until the Hellfire hit. But it wouldn’t come off! My laser wouldn’t respond. I tried everything to get it off Zkrya, lying there on the ground in the rubble by his smashed-up motorcycle, but it wouldn’t come off target. Like it had its mind made up and I had no say in the matter. I watched my screen. Saw the people trying to help Zkrya. And then my screen pixelated. A second of white fire. When it came back to life a few seconds later, I saw the bodies and parts of bodies burning and smoking, and the few people still alive crawling through the blood and dust. Hell. Fire.”
She stopped and looked at me. A tear ran down her cheek and she ground it away with a balled fist. “Kenny and Marlon knew how hard I tried to get that missile away from the people. They knew what a good sensor I was. I need someone alive on earth to understand that fact. That I was a good sensor. Kenny and Marlon are dead. So now maybe you can carry that truth for me, Roland.”
“I’ll help you carry it, Lindsey. You know that.”
“Resti,” commanded Lindsey. Zeno lay down on the path and watched her come to me. When she got close, he sat up, cropped ears alert.
Lindsey kissed my cheek and took my hand. “You’re a friend, Roland. Someday you will be whole. Until then, know that you’re my brother in arms. And if you need me, I’m yours. I might even pay my rent on time. Someday.”
Zeno growled.
“Silencio!”
Went silent and stared at me.
“Rasha called,” said Lindsey. “He apologized for scaring me with his calligraphy and his college stupidity. Said to call him if I wanted a man to talk to.”
On a hunch I called Liam Flaherty, my contact at Pacific Security, which provides security for First Samaritan Hospital, proud employer of Hector Padilla. It paid off: First Samaritan’s annual New Year Harbor Cruise would begin boarding at six p.m. on New Year’s Eve — on the dining ship Glorietta.
“It’s the big fundraiser for their Children’s Unit,” said Liam. “A pricey ticket. Live music, dancing, a high-dollar auction. First Samaritan employees do the decorating and cater it themselves so all the money can go to the cause. What are you fishing for, Roland?”
“We need to talk.”
“You sound serious, my friend. Name the time and place.”
I got into my truck, checked the gauges, set my phone in the cup holder, and plugged in the charger. Still nothing from Taucher.
Had we lost him?
36
Marah Azmeh was unhappy to see me standing in the lobby of her County of Los Angeles Public Social Services Department building in Los Angeles. She put on a smile anyway, understanding that I wasn’t here on a friendly visit. Signed me in, got me a pass, and led the way outside into the sunny L.A. day.
We sat opposite each other at a round concrete table in the big employees’ patio, in the shade of a green canvas umbrella. She wore a loose gray cowl-neck sweater, black leggings, and brown mid-calf boots. A house finch with a red breast stood on the edge of the table, looking back and forth at us. It was late morning, the tables still mostly empty.
Speaking carefully and softly, I told her that her brother Ben was in terrible trouble. He had fallen in with some very bad people. We had learned a lot about him since talking with her and Alan. The FBI now had proof of Ben’s involvement in two murders and they needed to find him, fast.
Her face colored in that way of hers, revealing the fear and worry inside.
“Do you mean the Air Force man in Bakersfield?”
“Him, and another, just yesterday. Part of the drone team that killed your father. Both beheaded. Ben sent us video, Marah. It’s brutal.”
I watched her composure crack and her eyes swell with tears. She brought her hands to her face and bowed her head. Shook it slowly, her henna-streaked black hair falling over her fingers like dark water. The finch took off.
“As I told you, he’s threatened someone else, too,” I said.
“The woman with the son,” I heard her say.
“She’s alive. And Ben is alive. And you can help them stay that way.”
She raised her tear-channeled face to me, then looked off toward a black metal fence sparsely clung by mandevilla. A busy L.A. boulevard hummed beyond. “I knew,” she said softly.
“What did you know?”
Her eyes back on me. “I didn’t know what. But I knew.”
“Marah,” I said. “If you want to help him, I’m going to need more than that. You’re going to have to reach back and find it. What you knew. What you saw. Time is important here.”
She produced a tissue and wiped her eyes. Blinked three times. “The drone operator? In my house, when you said he’d been murdered, I thought of Ben.”
“You went to the kitchen and refilled Alan’s teacup.”
“I was surprised.”
“By?”
“Thinking of him in that way,” she said. “I had never let him question my belief in him. He was always, in his heart, so young. And sweet and happy. When Dad died, Ben began to change. Sweetness and joy gone, replaced by anger. And a belief that something had to be done. I told you this.”