Lee Harden Series | Book 5 | Unbowed

by Molles, D. J.

  Jones chucked the satphone into the cavity. Pickell tried to get the drawer back in, but it was caught on something.

  A fist slammed into the door, three times. A harsh voice: “Cornerstone! We’re coming in! Hands up!”

  Pickell’s teeth were bared, his eyes wild with panic as he tried to negotiate the stubborn drawer back onto its tracks. Sam and Marie flashed onto the same idea at once and moved quickly to stand between the door and Pickell, blocking him from view.

  A hand on the doorknob. Sam heard it rattle. Saw the brass knob twist.

  The door flung open.

  The sound of a drawer closing.

  Bodies poured into the flat, rifles shouldered, muzzles directed at faces and chests.

  Sam and his entire crew jolted their hands into the air.

  Sam watched their entry with the authority of someone who’d done them countless times: Point came in, splitting towards the group, shouting, “On your knees!” The second man entered and took position near the window, scanning the corners of the room. Then three more barged in, filling in the gaps and angling their rifles to avoid friendly fire and keep Sam’s crew in a crossing arc.

  It was a well-executed entry, Sam thought as he hit his knees with the others.

  The point and two others held coverage on Sam and his team, while the last two operatives skirted around and cleared the kitchen. The flat had no rooms. They were just checking nooks and crannies.

  Sam looked over his shoulder at the two operatives in the kitchen, fearing that they would take interest in the drawer that Pickell now knelt in front of, his figure blocked by the kitchen counter. A hand grabbed the top of Sam’s head and mushed it down.

  “Look at the floor,” a voice growled.

  Sam kept his head facing the ground, but peered upwards from under his brow.

  As several calls of “Clear!” were announced, the last operative entered the room, clearly the one in charge. You can always tell the one in charge from the foot soldiers. He wore no armor or helmet. Just the black polo and a pistol on his hip.

  His gaze circumvented the room and came to rest on Sam.

  “Sameer Balawi?” the man asked.

  Sam nodded, still keeping his head down. “That’s me, sir.”

  “Squad leader?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A single moment’s thought. Then: “Bag him and the woman. And this one right here. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Trudeau, sir,” Sam heard Frenchie murmur, his voice shaken.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw a black sack produced from one of the operative’s cargo pockets. While his comrades kept cover on the group, the operative fluffed it open, then slapped it down over Sam’s head.

  It wasn’t until everything went dark that Sam started to truly panic.

  NINETEEN

  ─▬▬▬─

  LOYALTY

  This was bad. Really bad.

  Sam saw, again and again, those last few moments of daylight. The thought had grown like an aggressive tumor in his brain: Should I have done something?

  What if this was it? What if he never saw the light again? What if the end of this was a bullet in the back of the head, and they were just transporting him to the hole they had dug in the ground so that when they killed him, he’d topple conveniently into his grave?

  I should have done something.

  Run. Fought. Shouted. Jumped out the window. Tried to disarm one of the operatives. Anything. Anything would be better than simply raising your hands, going to your knees, and getting snatched into the darkness.

  His hands had been cuffed behind his back. Traditional metal handcuffs. He was in the cargo area of the SUV they’d driven up outside of the flat. Frenchie and Marie were there with him.

  None of them dared speak. One of the operatives was crouched in the back with them, and he’d already told them, “Don’t say a fucking word, don’t grab each other’s asses, or try to communicate in any way. I promise you that you’re not slick enough to get away with it.”

  And so none of them tried a damn thing.

  Squashed together with Marie and Frenchie, Sam could feel their chests heaving with the same rapid, fear-drowned breaths that filled his own lungs.

  They were going to kill him. And his team.

  But then why take just the three of them? If they were going to kill everyone, then why not just merc them all when they were kneeling in the flat with their hands over their head?

  God, I can’t believe you knelt!

  It had just…happened. He’d been so worried about the damn satphone not being found that he’d completely whiffed the obvious signs that he was about to get black bagged. The secret police had come to round him up, and it wasn’t for a tea party in his honor.

  He could drum up all the excuses he wanted to try to assuage the horrific guilt of his own inadequacy, but in the background of it all, he could see Lee’s stern features, glaring at him, filled with disappointment.

  You let yourself get caught. You let yourself get taken. You stopped thinking like a predator, and you started thinking like prey.

  And you know what happens to prey? They get eaten alive.

  You think an 800-lb zebra couldn’t stomp the fuck out of a 300-lb lioness? That’s less than half the zebra’s body weight. Would you be afraid of someone that was half your body weight? No, you’d just kick their ass.

  But a zebra is hardwired to be prey. It doesn’t even think about killing. It just thinks about getting away.

  Sam had been a prey animal there. He’d been perfectly capable of fighting back, but he hadn’t even thought of it. He’d just thought about how to get away with having the satphone.

  Once the lion dragged you down to the ground, well then you were just meat.

  So, what now, little boy? What now, Sameer Balawi who became the rough-tough Sam Ryder, who then regressed back into Sameer Balawi? Did you think it was all an act? Your regression, so that you could get your foot in the door in Greeley?

  Or maybe you got it all wrong. Maybe you got it all flipped around and reversed. Maybe Sam Ryder was the act. Maybe, when you put on the mantle of Sameer Balawi, you were just returning to your true self: Scared.

  Terrified. Run away. Prey animal.

  Everyone dies because of your fear.

  He’d promised himself never again, but now here he was…again. And he hated himself for it. He loathed every fiber of his being for how he didn’t see it coming, how he blanked in the moment, and how that moment just flitted away like a little bit of dandelion fluff, never to be seen again. He had one shot to make things go right, and he’d hesitated. He’d let the fear grip him, and he’d missed it.

  He hadn’t changed at all. He was still the same old Sameer Balawi, out there pissing his pants because danger lurked around every corner. Out there, hiding in the dark, while everyone he loved got ripped to shreds and shot dead.

  What a hero.

  His skin prickled all over. Hot, then cold. Sweat broke out on his palms and across his back and face.

  The vehicle skidded to a halt.

  Sam’s self-recrimination wasn’t helping the situation. Savagely, he acknowledged that he’d fucked up. Okay, move on. He couldn’t go back and change it. The worst thing he could do now was become so wrapped up in his own self-loathing that he missed another opportunity.

  What are you gonna do? You’re no Lee Harden. You can’t get out of this.

  He was ripped from the vehicle first. His head smacked the bumper as his body was dropped like a bag of trash. With his ears still ringing from the blow, he felt hands wedge themselves under his armpits, hoisting him upright.

  Feet on the ground.

  A hand on his chest.

  “You move, you die. Can’t make it any simpler.”

  The sounds of Marie and Frenchie being hauled out of the vehicle. A quiet whimper—it sounded like Frenchie.

  What is this? What’s going on?

  His brain conjured all kinds of
images in an attempt to read the future. That is what brains are designed to do when they’re in danger. But he couldn’t seem to move past the one where he was lined up and shot in the back of the head, tumbling bonelessly into a mass grave.

  A hand slapped down on his head. Grabbed the sack—and some hair with it—and yanked it off.

  Air. Cool against his sweat, though the day was still hot.

  His eyes blinded by sunlight.

  He blinked. Figures came into focus. Marie and Frenchie, across from him—the three of them formed into a small circle—their hoods removed. Marie had her head back, her hair sticking to her face, her eyes taking on that intentionally dead caste, when you don’t want to let any emotions show through.

  Frenchie wasn’t as tough. His eyes were wide, and fearful, and red. His lips quivered, though he seemed to be trying hard to keep it under control.

  The operatives surrounded them, rifles up.

  Sam looked around. He half-expected a blow to the face and a harsh command not to look around. But it didn’t come. All around them was nothing. Just plains. Some of it green. Some of it tan. The blue peaks of the Rockies, just a jagged disruption to the horizon.

  The lead operative parked himself between Sam and Frenchie. He was young. Short cropped hair. A goatee that he was clearly proud of. He looked between them. “Time’s short. I don’t enjoy this. I’m going to get right down to it.” He grimaced, shaking his head. “Sameer Balawi, during our investigations, it became apparent that this guy, Trudeau, is a spy for Lee Harden.”

  Frenchie’s eyes peeled even wider. “Wait! What?”

  The operative spun and held up a finger, his face suddenly going dark. “I swear to fuck that I’ll kill you flat out if you say another word.”

  Frenchie’s mouth worked.

  The operative rested his hand on his pistol, his lips pursed, ready to hear a single word issue from Frenchie’s mouth and make good on his threat.

  Sam gave his comrade the slightest of head shakes.

  Frenchie snapped his mouth shut. Averted his eyes.

  The operative huffed. “Sameer, you have a traitor in your midst. And, as harsh as it is, there is only one way that we deal with traitors. Do you understand me?”

  Sam stared at him, his heart thudding, feeling the possibility of hope that this wasn’t just an execution, that maybe there was a way out of this.

  The operative squared himself to Sam. “You’re the squad leader. These are tough decisions. But that’s the world we live in, my man. You gotta roll with the punches.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sam husked out.

  The man gave him a quirk of a smile. “Yeah, you do.”

  “He’s not a traitor.”

  “No, he is. Our investigation has proved it, Sameer.”

  Sam’s tongue was drying up as fast as his hopes. “He can’t be. We’ve been in Oklahoma the whole time.” His eyes jagged to Frenchie, saw tears spilling out of the man’s eyes. “He’s never even been to North Carolina.”

  “Maybe,” the man said, nodding sympathetically. “But maybe someone from North Carolina got to him.”

  Was this some sort of a trick? Was Sam being bated into admitting something? He had no idea if Frenchie really was being targeted here, or if Frenchie was simply being used as a pawn, and the real target was Sam.

  His eyes moved to Marie. He asked the question before he really thought about it—it was just the first thing that came to him: “What’s she doing here?”

  He instantly regretted it.

  Marie did not emote anything. Not really. But Sam knew her well enough at this point, that he could see the tiny micro expressions that no one else could. The slightest cinching at the corners of her eyes. The barest flattening of her lips.

  I’m sorry! He tried to transmit the apology through his eyes. He was caught on his heels, and he’d simply gone with the first thing he could think of.

  The operative looked over his shoulder at Marie. “She’s a witness. That’s just how these things have to work. Otherwise someone might claim that things didn’t go like they actually went. You know what I’m talking about.”

  A shudder worked its way through Sam. The feeling of something dangerous on his heels. He was still thinking like prey. He needed to think like a predator. Think of how to get them out of here. Not just how to survive, but how to triumph.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Sam spat. “Trudeau’s not a traitor. I’d put my life on that. Is that what you want me to say?”

  The operative leaned back, his eyebrows furrowing, a look of intense interest in his eyes. “Well, let’s have you put your money where your mouth is.”

  The operative grabbed his pistol from the holster on his side. Sam’s eyes tracked with it, boring into it, and he’d never seen a weapon that he’d been so afraid of. The operative dropped the mag. Press-checked the chamber. Then held the pistol out to Sam.

  “Go on,” he said. “Take it.”

  Sam couldn’t rip his eyes off of it. Distantly, he recognized that it was a Glock. It would fire without the magazine in it. And it had one round in the chamber. Sam knew what that round was for.

  The other Cornerstone men tensed as Sam reached out and took the pistol.

  The lead man didn’t need to explain the situation. It was obvious enough: One round in the chamber. Sure, Sam could do something stupid with it. But he’d be shot to shit by the four men with rifles immediately after using that one little round.

  Unless he used it in the way that they wanted.

  The pistol hung loose in Sam’s grip. His pulse had reached an uncomfortable level now, the arteries in his neck feeling distended and stretched. His chest felt raw.

  “Sameer Balawi,” the operative stepped around to Sam’s side, a devil on his shoulder. “You got one round in that thing. You know what to do with it. Our investigation has proven—proven—that this guy Trudeau is aligned with Lee Harden. You have a traitor in your squad, Sameer. And you’re the squad leader.” The operative’s voice was harsh in Sam’s ear. “This is your responsibility. You have to take care of this.”

  “You can’t fucking be serious,” Sam seethed, glancing sideways at the operative. “You’re asking me to…to…What evidence do you even have?”

  The operative’s expression went brittle. “Evidence? You think this is some sort of congressional fucking hearing?” The man frowned deeply, as though confused by something. And then, an affectation of enlightenment. “Unless…unless you’re a traitor too.”

  This is just one big trap, Sam realized. They don’t have evidence against Frenchie, or me, or anyone. They’re just fishing. Applying pressure and waiting to see what comes out.

  Sam dipped into a well of strength that was running dry and muddy by now. “This is bullshit and you know it. You’re asking me to execute a close personal friend of mine—someone I know is not aligned with Lee Harden—someone who’s been through all kinds of shit with me, just because you claim that he’s a traitor?”

  Sam let the loosely-held pistol in his hands sink down. “This is ridiculous. You can’t honestly expect me to kill him. You can’t even tell me what he did wrong.”

  The operative put his hands on his hips and tilted his head at Sam. “Alright. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’ll shoot straight with you. I have multiple witness statements from folks in The Tank that all corroborate that Trudeau tried to convince each of them to commit treason against President Briggs.”

  Frenchie made a sound, but choked it off before it became words. That didn’t save him from a muzzle-thump from the operative behind him.

  “That’s bullshit,” Sam said, realizing even as he said it, that it didn’t matter. This was a game being played, and logic and truth were not a part of the rules. A willingness to kill to prove your loyalty—even kill a friend—was the only way to win the game. “He was with me from the time that we entered The Tank to the time we got here.”

  “Oh.” The operative loo
ked intrigued. “So, maybe you’re in on it, then. Maybe I should give this pistol to the lady—what’s your name again, lady?”

  Marie didn’t seem inclined to answer until the man behind her kneed her in the back, causing her to stumble forward. She regained her balance, then looked up with her carefully-deadened expression. “Marie.”

  “Right. Marie. Maybe I should give the gun to her. Unless she’s in on it too. Jesus Christ. Are all of you traitors? Are you all aligned with Lee Harden?”

  Sam’s grip tightened on the pistol, though he still pointed it at the ground. “No. None of us are. Whoever gave you these statements is a liar.” But Sam knew better. There never had been witness statements. This whole thing was a lie.

  “Squad Leader Balawi, I’m starting to lose faith in you.”

  “You can’t just ask me to kill someone based on hearsay.”

  “Things move fast these days. There’s not always time for a full investigation. You either get on board the train, or you get left behind, my friend. Which one are you going to do? Are you going to get on the train? Or are we going to have to leave you behind out here?”

  Objections, arguments…logic. They all came swirling up to Sam’s brain, and even as they did, he knew that it was hopeless. None of that was the point. The real truth was as plain as day: This was a loyalty test, and Sam was at a fork in the road. Kill, or be killed. There was no other option. And no amount of talking would get him out of it, because the truth was immaterial.

  This operative only wanted to see one thing: He wanted to see if Sam was loyal enough that he would kill his own man to stay in Greeley.

  And was he? Was Sam loyal enough—not to President Briggs, but to the mission—to do something like that? No. He couldn’t. He wasn’t that type of person. He wasn’t like Lee. He couldn’t make terrible calls like this. He couldn’t just kill someone—one of his squad!—just to keep the mission afloat.

  This couldn’t actually be happening.

  “Hey!” The operative snapped his fingers. “You need to make a fucking decision here. What’s it gonna be?”

  Sam struggled to find some point of reference to put this situation in. Something that would help to clarify what he was supposed to do. But it was all so alien to him, so surreal, that he found his thoughts bouncing around in a vacuum.