He put it down and kicked it skittering under the neighboring cars. Then he got in, started the Lexus and reversed out of the space. It was only as he drove up the ramp and out onto the street that he realized he hadn’t driven a car in over three years—he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it.
Twenty-Nine
He was unhurried as he drove through the city because he wasn’t sure where he was going. He wanted to avoid the freeway and he wanted to get out of town, but that was all he knew. Mia would have probably driven with her usual speed and confidence and taken Wes to exactly the right place.
Within forty-five minutes he found himself in an area that seemed promising. There were houses here and there, or small isolated buildings that seemed suggestive of some agricultural industry or other, but they were set amid a sprawling area of patchy forest, the trees low, the ground bare between them.
Now and then, tracks would lead off the narrow road, and Wes turned onto one of them and drove steadily uphill for a mile or more without seeing any indication that it led to a farmhouse or any other habitation.
The sun was setting now and there was already a promise of twilight in among the low trees, which seemed denser here as the ground undulated ever upward away from the road. Wes stopped and switched off the engine.
And then he heard some indistinct click and looked in the rearview to see the trunk opening. He released his seatbelt, grabbed the gun from the passenger seat, and jumped out of the car. Scottie was already out and running, disappearing into the trees, and Wes could see that somehow he’d managed to get the cuffs from his back to his front—any other time, he’d have admired him for that.
Wes set off after him. Scottie was zigzagging in the hope of avoiding a bullet, so Wes made quick progress at first, narrowing the gap between them to the point where he could probably shoot and stand a decent chance of hitting Scottie in the leg. But then the trees became denser still and suddenly Scottie disappeared from sight.
Wes stopped. Now that he was out of the car he realized how hot it was, a wall of heat, and all he could hear was the buzzing of cicadas, like radio interference spread across the landscape. The light was already fading—within another half hour or so it would be dark.
He turned slowly, looking out for any sign of movement. He listened too, though beyond the claustrophobic barrage of the cicadas he knew he’d be unlikely to pick up the sound of Scottie running. There was no sign of him, and Wes was pretty sure that meant he was standing still somewhere, relying on the complexity of the landscape to protect him.
Even so, Wes remained vigilant, conscious that Scottie now had his arms in front, and that, even cuffed, he could do Wes some damage if he surprised him. In another moment of paranoia, he checked that he’d slipped the key fob for the Lexus into his pocket—the last thing he needed was Scottie outflanking him and taking the car.
He edged forward, moving slowly enough that he’d spot any movement. The wall of noise from the cicadas seemed to come in waves, and in one of the lulls Wes heard the sound of a vehicle a long way off, probably on the road he’d left to get here.
And that was when he saw him, no more than a fleeting shadow in the deepening gloom, suggesting he’d kept moving for a while after Wes had stopped, because he was more than a hundred yards away now. Scottie had apparently heard the car, too, because he was running down the low incline, making desperately for the road.
Wes sprinted after him and almost immediately regretted it, his foot buckling slightly under the ankle he’d injured a week before, sending a twinging reminder of that earlier discomfort. He changed his pace, running gingerly now for fear of doing more damage.
He couldn’t even understand why Scottie had broken cover. The passing car was too far away, and even if Scottie got to the road before Wes caught him, it would be long gone. As his former boss, Wes felt like debriefing him, asking him why he hadn’t simply sat tight until darkness had fallen.
Scottie was gaining momentum as he ran downhill. Wes kept to a steady pace, even as he sensed the gap growing between them, and then he spotted Scottie lose his footing and hurtle forward, almost cartwheeling into the ground. Even with the background humming of cicadas, Wes could hear his body thumping the dry earth and the air being pummeled out of his lungs.
Wes kept his eyes on the spot as he ran on. Scottie scrambled back to his feet, fell again. He climbed back onto his knees and readied himself for one more effort, but Wes was on him now and he knew it. At the last, Scottie fell back hopelessly. Wes had slowed to a walk, still approaching with caution as Scottie shuffled across the ground and positioned himself with his back against a tree.
The torn T-shirt that Wes had used to gag him now hung around his neck like a scruffy neckerchief. He’d lost a sneaker, too, maybe in the fall. He looked like someone who’d crashed out of a marathon.
In the gathering twilight, Wes was right in front of him before he noticed that Scottie’s eyes were closed. He didn’t seem out of breath, and yet Wes felt his own lungs burning, his heart pounding against his rib cage. Up close, Scottie looked more composed, a meditative quality about him.
Wes looked around, saw a tree facing Scottie’s resting place, checked the ground for snakes, then lowered himself against it. They were only about ten feet apart, two former colleagues, resting in the evening after a hard day.
Wes could still hear the car somewhere in the distance, its position and direction so hard to determine that it only reinforced how crazy Scottie had been to make a run for it.
“You never would’ve made it to the road, Scottie. You shouldn’t have broken cover.”
Scottie nodded, apparently conceding the mistake, and finally he opened his eyes. Now that Wes was at rest, his vision was adjusting to the gloom and he could see Scottie more clearly—he looked resigned, beaten, and yet there was something still defiant about him.
“You wouldn’t have given up.” His mouth still sounded full of cotton wool—Wes had messed his face up pretty bad with those first couple of strikes.
“Where’s Sam Garvey?” Scottie shook his head, making clear what Wes already knew—nothing would make him talk. “I had to ask, but I respect your loyalty. Shame you didn’t show a bit more to me.”
“I was loyal, Wes, but you became impossible to follow. And then you went to prison. I work for Sam now.”
“I became impossible to follow? Yet you were happy to kill a handful of civilians as cover for the murder of an Agency employee who just happened to be asking questions that Sam Garvey didn’t like. I became impossible to follow but you were happy to do that without a moment of doubt.”
Scottie sat for a few seconds, shaking his bowed head, apparently in dialogue with himself. When he met Wes’s gaze again, he looked resolute.
“I did you a favor. I killed her before she found out what a psycho you are.”
This was wrong. Scottie had no excuse for talking like that. This wasn’t someone who’d been spun a line by Sam Garvey, this was someone who’d worked for Wes, who knew him. Had Scottie always thought of him as a psycho, or was it the result of revisionism in his own mind, to justify what he’d done in Granada?
“Dress it up however you like, Scottie, but I know the truth. You killed Rachel before she found out Sam and the rest of you sold me down the river.”
Scottie laughed like a drunk. “You still don’t get it, do you? We stayed loyal to Sam for a reason.”
“All of you? The whole team?” Scottie didn’t respond, probably not wanting to give Wes anything he could use. “Even Harrod and MacPherson?”
“I’m sure they would’ve done. They were killed in a car accident outside of Erbil.”
“Of course they were. How convenient. Oh, I’m sure Sam was torn up about that.”
“He was. Sam looked out for us!”
“So did I.”
“Yeah?” He stared hard at Wes, the seconds creeping past, his face full of anger, or maybe just contempt. “Like you looked out for Davey Franklin?”
“Really? You’re choosing now to bring that up? What was I meant to do, Scottie? Once ISIL got hold of Davey he was already dead.”
“No—no, he wasn’t.” It took Wes a moment to notice because of the anesthetized quality of his speech, but Scottie was crying as he spoke. “We could’ve gone after him. We had the capability, and with the Kurds . . . We could’ve gone after him.”
“No, we couldn’t. And I’ll tell you something, calling in that air strike wasn’t easy, but it was a hell of a lot easier than risking seeing a video of them cutting off Davey’s head.”
Wes hadn’t known Davey that well until he had moved down to Mardin. Even then, he’d left Davey to do his own thing—traveling down to Erbil every couple of weeks, working his own leads with the Kurds. But he’d come to know and like Davey Franklin in those fourteen months, and so had Rachel.
Davey had even talked once, over drinks, about what he’d want to happen if he ever fell into enemy hands. So, in truth, calling in the air strike had been easy, from a command point of view, because what Wes had just said was true and Davey had known it himself. He’d been dead the second he’d been taken, and in those circumstances, Wes’s only responsibility had been to make sure it happened as quickly and painlessly as possible, for Davey, for his family, for the ongoing success of the mission.
What hadn’t been easy was understanding how a smart operator like Davey had allowed himself to be taken in the first place. It was only seven or eight months later, in prison and with time on his hands, that Wes had thought back to Davey’s final call from Erbil, the veiled suggestion that he’d learned something serious about the team. At the time, Wes had assumed he’d meant someone had been targeted, and in a way he’d been right about that.
“We could’ve gone after him,” said Scottie one last time, without conviction. But his voice was stronger when he spoke again. “That was the turning point for most of us. That was when we switched from admiring you for getting results to seeing what a cold-hearted psycho you really are.”
“Then you were wrong.”
“No, we weren’t. I know you’re gonna kill me, because that’s what you do, but I won’t allow you to explain it away in your head, to convince yourself you’re the good guy here and we’re the bad ones.”
“I’m gonna kill you because you murdered my wife.”
“You murdered your wife! Think about it. Why was she trying to clear your name? Because deep down she knew you were a psycho, but she’d had your kid and she was terrified he’d end up nuts like you. That’s all it was. She was desperate for some proof that you weren’t as bad as she knew you were. Like I said, Wes, I did her a favor, just like you did Davey a favor. I saved her from the truth of who you are.” He waited a beat and added, “Shame I didn’t kill the kid too.”
Wes shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you, Scottie. You think you can make me angry so I’ll lose it and kill you quickly. But that’s not how I am, you know that.”
Scottie didn’t respond. Maybe none of it mattered. Scottie would be dead soon, taking all his misconceptions with him. But Wes still felt the need to open his eyes on one matter.
“Davey called me the day before he left Erbil. I knew he was heading toward the front at Mosul and it didn’t concern me—he was the best person in my entire team, and I include myself in that. But he also told me that we needed a conversation when he got back, about a serious security breach in the team, something he’d heard about from his Kurdish contacts. I never could understand how Davey fell into ISIL’s hands so easily, and then I got taken down by being fed false information, and suddenly it all made sense.”
“No.” Scottie shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re trying to justify what you did, that’s all, trying to pin the blame on someone else.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
Wes got to his feet.
Scottie looked at him grimly. “Torture me all you like. You know I won’t talk.”
Wes stood on Scottie’s ankle, pinning down the foot that still had a sneaker on it.
“I know that.” He shot him in the shin. Even with the silencer, the noise was loud enough that the cicadas seemed to quieten briefly before the restless buzzing washed back over them. Scottie didn’t make a sound but he was breathing hard, grimacing through the pain. “But I made a kind of implicit promise to Hamdi Berrada.” Wes shifted his foot, standing with his full weight now on the entry wound. And this time Scottie let out a stifled squeal. Wes eased off. “Those poor people. You didn’t just murder a boy who was simple, gullible, you didn’t just trash his reputation, you destroyed the lives of his entire family, as well as all the other innocent people you killed, all to cover up the crimes of someone so rotten that even I was fooled for a while.”
Through clenched teeth, Scottie said, “Collateral damage. You taught me everything I know about it.”
Wes nodded, put his weight back on, moved his foot left and right, grinding Scottie’s wound into the ground, and this time Scottie screamed, loud enough that people would have heard if there’d been anyone within a mile.
Wes waited until his cry fell away into a whimper, and said, “If you don’t know the difference between collateral damage and cold-blooded murder, I didn’t teach you nearly enough.”
He stepped away, then moved backward another couple of paces and lowered himself against the tree. Scottie’s head had collapsed against his chest, and with his cuffed hands in front of him, he looked to be in prayer.
“Scottie.” He didn’t lift his head. “Scottie, I need you to deliver a message to Sam Garvey for me.”
That did the trick. He raised his head and stared at Wes in confusion, perhaps even hope, and with satisfaction, Wes reasoned that was a kind of torture in itself.
“I don’t understand. What message?”
“Just this.” He shot him in the chest, and this time the noise of the gun caused no ripple across the evening chorus, as if the violence had now been accepted and incorporated.
Thirty
Wes watched Scottie die. He hadn’t expected any pleasure or satisfaction from killing him and didn’t feel any. It hadn’t really been about revenge. Despite what he’d said to Scottie, he hadn’t even really killed him for what he’d done to Rachel. He’d killed him because it seemed an appropriate response and, above all, because it was expedient—Wes had become a target of Sam Garvey’s gray team, and Wes didn’t like being a target.
This shallow hill was nothing like the barren one he remembered in Georgia with its rocky outcrops, but he was reminded of it even so, maybe just by the act of sitting on the unyielding ground beneath him. He thought of that day and wondered how his life might have been different if he had not detonated the bomb.
The mission wouldn’t have been deemed a complete failure, but it wouldn’t have been a success, not then at any rate, and Wes wouldn’t have started his rapid rise to the top. Maybe Sam would have overtaken him and, in so doing, Wes might never have been set up, Rachel might never have been murdered, Wes would never have met Patrice, or Mia, who was waiting patiently for him back in the city.
He had no way of knowing how things would have turned out. The only thing he knew was that the little girl, whose name he still couldn’t remember, would probably still be alive. She’d have been a young woman now, at university or finding her way in the adult world. It drove home the pointlessness of the whole thing.
And in some way, that only underlined the pointlessness of his own current position. He’d had little choice but to kill Scottie, but what good had it done him? He was no nearer finding Sam Garvey, so no nearer saving himself, no nearer finding Ethan. Ethan didn’t even feel real to him as he sat there, and as Grace Burns had suggested, maybe that was the whole point, the reason Rachel had spirited him away in the first place.
Wes climbed to his feet, careful not to put too much pressure on his ankle, even though it felt fine now. He took the handcuffs from Scottie’s wrists, then
turned and headed back through the gathering darkness, trying to remember the way he’d come and where he’d left the car.
He’d been walking a few minutes when he saw lights. At first he thought they were a long way off, maybe even a car rounding a bend on the distant road, but then he realized they were much closer. The lights stopped moving and Wes headed toward them, not because he was curious, but because he was pretty certain this second vehicle had stopped behind the Lexus.
A man’s voice called out in Spanish, questioning. Wes stopped moving, knowing that the man, whoever he was, would be listening for a response. After a few seconds he started to edge forward again, grateful now for the chorus of cicadas covering any sound his approach made.
The man had turned his own engine off, but his lights were illuminating the back of the Lexus, including the open trunk. It was hard to make out any detail from this distance in the rapidly hardening dark, but it looked like an SUV of some sort. Wes guessed it was probably the farmer who owned the land and, briefly, he wondered what sort of farming it might be.
The man moved in front of the headlights and Wes could see his silhouette bending and looking into the trunk, then moving forward and peering in through the open driver’s door. He stood upright, looked into the night, maybe even right at Wes, and called out again, a single word.
Wes stopped walking once more, and moved again only when the man started back toward his own vehicle. And it wasn’t until Wes was twenty yards short that the disturbing reality became visible. It was an SUV, but it wasn’t a farmer, it was a police car.
The police officer had gone back to his radio now and was talking to his control. Even with almost no Spanish, Wes could tell that he was reading off the license plate on Scottie’s car.
He waited in silence then, and Wes waited with him, working through his options. The worst scenario was that Grace and Noah had managed to free themselves and called it in, and that Grace’s Agency colleagues had notified the Spanish police.
The Names of the Dead Page 14
