The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  Conor folded down the rear seats to make a flat surface and scrambled inside, arranging duffel bags to serve as bolsters. He looked through the open hatch in the rear where Thomas sat, gray-faced and trembling, and saw Sedgwick was struggling to conceal his distress.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be a bumpy ride, my friend. Don’t forget about the pain patches. I’ll follow as soon as I can and catch up with you in Srinagar.”

  With a faint smile, Thomas held out a hand and shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll be around when you get there. Shake hands now. Don’t be mad if I couldn’t wait for you.”

  “Tom, for God’s sake,” Sedgwick pleaded in a shaky whisper.

  “Síocáin, mo chara,” Thomas murmured. “It’ll be all right.”

  In the back of the SUV, Conor fell back on his heels, stunned by his brother’s tranquil voice and its resemblance to the intuitive echo that had traveled inside him for so long. He felt a hopeless, impotent rage flood over him. Grabbing one of the duffel bags, he slammed it against the back of the driver’s seat and struggled for composure, digging his fingers deep into the heavy canvas. After a moment, he exited through one of the rear doors and stood at a distance, watching and listening.

  Thomas took Sedgwick’s hand in a fierce clasp. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t worry about me. By the time I get back up there, CID probably will have it already solved.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Thomas pressed his thumb against the agent’s wrist and ran it up the inside of his arm. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, brother.”

  Sedgwick’s face juddered with emotion. “How can I? We both know I’m no good at it. I need the crack of Thomas McBride’s fist on my jaw, keeping me honest.”

  Thomas grinned, raising his hand to form a fist. He faked a quick jab, but then his face grew thoughtful. He repeated the movement slowly until his knuckles gently connected with his friend’s chin.

  “If you believe it’s there, then it will be. Kavita said as much: ‘something of us remains, always.’ So, now. Promise me.”

  “Oh, goddammit.” Sedgwick’s voice disintegrated. He gave Thomas’s shoulder a squeeze and turned away. “Yes. I promise. Get in the fucking car. I’ll see you in Srinagar.”

  When Conor had finished settling Thomas, he closed the rear hatch and joined Sedgwick at the trailhead. The agent’s washed-out eyes, veiled beneath a tangle of hair, were red with emotion.

  “He’s nearly out, now,” Conor said. “That’s the morphine working, I hope?”

  “Probably.” Sedgwick’s brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You look like shit.”

  “I had the same thought, looking at you.”

  They shook hands, wordlessly communicating what they couldn’t bear to mention.

  “We’d better get going,” Conor said. “Good luck up there.”

  “One thing,” Sedgwick said. “If I don’t show up in Srinagar by tomorrow at the latest, either alone or with, well, somebody—”

  “I know. You don’t have to say it.” Conor nodded. “We’re on our own. If ever there were a case for plausible deniability, I’d say this is it. The DEA has never heard of us, there was never an operation to bring in a Russian arms dealer, and none of this ever happened as far as they’re concerned. Suits me fine. I’ve never heard of them either, Walker and Costino. That’s my story for Frank. I wish it were true.”

  “So do I,” Sedgwick said. “Oh, son of a bitch, what now?” A large black sedan had appeared around a bend in the road above them. It successfully navigated the curve but then hit the icy stretch and began skidding. It missed the Range Rover by inches and slid sideways as it passed them before coasting to a stop farther down the hill, against a snow bank.

  “Those don’t look like CID officers,” Sedgwick observed with hollow weariness.

  “No, and those are big fucking guns.” Conor eyed the two men, armed with AK-47 rifles, as they struggled to exit the car. “Looks like Dragonov sent his entire gang to India. What’s the plan?”

  Sedgwick bit his lip and gave a quick glance toward the Range Rover. “Lead them away from the SUV. Come on, up the trail. If Tom is still conscious, let’s hope he knows enough to stay in the car.”

  They had a good head start and were able to race well up the trail before their pursuers reached its entrance. At a spot where the terrain rolled in a series of undulating dips, Sedgwick grabbed Conor’s arm, forcefully swinging him off the path. Sailing out of control, they stumbled and rolled down an incline before coming to a stop under a thicket of fir trees.

  “What the hell.” Conor struggled to raise himself, but Sedgwick pushed him back onto his stomach.

  “Shut up. We’re in dead ground.” He threw himself down onto the snow next to him. “The rise in the hill hid us. Lie still and let them go by. If they run far enough up the trail before doubling back, we might shake them, and if we have to shoot it out, it’s better if they’re not between us and the road.”

  Conor’s legs twitched at the forced immobility. He had moved well beyond any sense of fear where his own life was concerned. The only thing he could concentrate on was the single-minded goal of saving his brother’s life. He had no time for this shite.

  He also had no choice but to comply, as Sedgwick’s hand remained locked against the back of his neck. No doubt the agent sensed his desperation.

  The wait wasn’t long. Within seconds, they heard the muffled thump of the Russians pounding up the trail, joined soon after by their panting voices, first at a distance and then closer as they came over the rise in the hill. Responding to Sedgwick’s urgent pinch, Conor tried to make himself even flatter against the ground. The Russians continued without pause and without glancing either to the right or left. Their retreating footsteps were still faintly audible when Sedgwick released his hold and delivered a succinct command. “Run.”

  They clawed their way up the incline to the trail and headed back toward the road, moving as quietly as haste allowed. They raced past the trailside shrine and seconds later heard the sound of voices raised in agitation. The Russians were already doubling back.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Conor gasped. “We’d better take cover. What about the shrine?”

  “Too late to go back to it. There.” Sedgwick pointed his pistol at a large boulder just ahead of them. “Get ready to fire as soon as we’re behind it. We need to pin them far enough back to have a chance against those AK-47s.”

  Conor’s boots slid out from under him as he made the tight turn and fell into position, but Sedgwick was a step slower. The two rapidly approaching figures saw him before he had time to disappear behind the boulder. He took advantage of their momentary surprise to fire a series of random shots and then dove as the answering volley commenced. He landed next to Conor with an explosive gasp of pain.

  “Are you hit?” Conor shouted over the sputtering gunfire. Sedgwick’s face had gone alarmingly white. He shook his head.

  “Shoulder, dislocated.”

  “Shit. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll get it back in; I’ve done it before.” Sedgwick clenched his jaw. “Just hunker down for a minute. We caught a break. At least one of these guys is a knuckle-dragger. He’s going to empty that big banana clip and hit nothing but this freakin’ boulder.”

  Conor hunkered down as instructed, and the siege continued. Bullets cracked against the stone and sheared large chunks of wood from the trees around them, filling the air with the pungent scent of pine pitch. Next to him, Sedgwick settled his back against the boulder. With a half-suppressed groan, he torqued his right arm at an angle away from his body, pushing slowly until the joint popped back into place. He slumped forward in relief, but his head came up at a sudden pause in the gunfire and the sound of a metallic snap.

  “That’s one clip empty,” he said. “Take a few shots while they’re distracted.”

  Snaking his arm and one eye around the side of the boulder, Cono
r began firing. The response was another immediate fusillade, and he pulled back behind the rock.

  “They got a little closer, almost as far as the shrine, but I think I just winged one of them. How’s the shoulder?”

  Sedgwick gingerly flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Fingers are still numb. Should be okay before long. Anyway, the stupid bastards are going to run out of ammunition. Just put out more defensive fire and wait them out.”

  “We don’t have time to wait,” Conor fumed.

  “Believe me, I wish I had something else to offer.”

  Conor’s fingers drummed against his knee. The Russians kept firing. It was methodical, deafening, and maddening. He wondered if their strategy was perhaps more clever than Sedgwick credited. Every ticking minute brought his brother a step closer to death, and he felt like he was losing his mind. What was happening down on the road? Was Thomas unconscious? Dead already? Or maybe he had heard the gunfight and was even now trying to crawl up the trail, in search of them?

  Oh, Jesus.

  The compulsion to move, to leap up and out into the open was wildly irrational but impossible to resist.

  “Look,” he said, turning to Sedgwick. “There’s a big tree just there across the path. If you cover me, I’ll run across, and at least we’ll have a couple of angles—”

  “Settle down,” Sedgwick ordered. His voice rang with authority, but he regarded Conor with apprehension. “I can’t even hold my gun yet. You’re going to have to wait.”

  “There’s no time, for fuck’s sake! I can’t wait! I have to go!”

  With that, the secured door in his head gave way, and the darkness that spilled out swept everything before it—all his reason, all his wiser instincts, all his celebrated talent for repose. At the same instant, there was another pause in the shooting. Again, he heard the sound of something hitting the ground with a metallic jingle, followed by a shout of surprise. Without giving himself the chance to think better of it, Conor let a cresting wave of adrenalin carry him forward.

  He surged up and away from their hiding place, already firing before he’d cleared the edge of the boulder and before he could even see what he was shooting at. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sedgwick rise with a roar of alarm and awkwardly shift his gun to his left hand to provide covering fire. The shots from the opposite direction began again as the Russians adjusted their aim.

  At first, an unnatural clarity flooded through him as he moved, bringing every sight, smell, and sound into sharp focus. An instant later, it was over, and the phenomenon had already reversed itself. A disorienting fog smothered the heightened awareness and dampened even ordinary sensation. He stumbled in confusion, ears ringing. Something was wrong with his eyes. As though trying to see underwater, he crept a few paces forward on the path, peering at the two Russians on the ground in the distance. They’d fallen in a tangle of limbs, mimicking the innocent sleep of lovers. More jarring than this was the thing on the ground in the middle distance. It hadn’t been there earlier. It looked like a bundle of red and white cloth.

  “McBride, are you all right? Can you hear me? Conor.” Feeling the grip on his arms, he took his eyes from the odd-looking bundle to look at Sedgwick.

  “It wasn’t there before.” He feebly gestured up the trail. “What is it? Where did it come from?”

  The agent took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait here.” Sedgwick began running up the trail, but after a half-dozen steps stopped and spun around to stare back at him.

  It began with a low moan, but as Conor’s legs folded, it swelled into toneless keening, a primitive sound exhumed from a lightless place. The protective fog had evaporated. He could see it plainly now, as he had seen it only seconds earlier, a fleeting glimpse of thin limbs sprinting across the trail, of a small carved deity falling to the ground, of a young face turned toward him in astonishment.

  It was not a bundle of red-and-white cloth. It was a white Pashmina scarf, soaked in blood.

  38

  The tables had turned so quickly. In the space of a few minutes. It was Sedgwick now urging him to get up to start moving before more time was lost, but Conor couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get off his knees. Couldn’t even uncurl himself enough to lift his head. He rocked forward, his face inches from the ground, begging for the mercy of a swift, just punishment, knowing it would never come.

  It wouldn’t come because mercy was what he deserved least. The sacrifice of an eye for an eye was one God apparently had no intention of accepting. Why else was he kneeling there, physically unscathed when he should be riddled with bullets?

  Abruptly, Sedgwick heaved him upright and delivered a hard slap against his face. “Goddammit, Conor, snap out of it. Get on your feet and get moving.”

  Absently touching his cheek, Conor rose and looked at the trail above them. Sedgwick had rearranged the bloodstained scarf to give the child’s body the dignity of resembling what it was—a fragile shroud-wrapped scrap of humanity, waiting for its final journey.

  “We’ve got to do something.” His voice shook. “We can’t leave him here.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sedgwick said quietly, but Conor continued in a burst of manic chatter. “Listen to me. I’ll take him. Put him in the SUV. I’ll take him to Srinagar, and—”

  “Buddy, you listen to me.” Sedgwick took Conor’s head in both his hands and held it in a tight grip. “You can’t take him anywhere. He belongs here. He probably lives . . . lived, nearby. There’s a settlement we drove by a few kilometers down, at the bottom of the hill. I’m guessing that must be where his family is.”

  “Jesus.” Conor stiffened his legs to keep them from buckling again.

  “I said I’ll take care of it,” Sedgwick continued. “I promise you, I will. There’s nothing you can do for him, but your brother is bleeding to death at the bottom of this hill, and there’s something you can still do about that. You have to go. Now.”

  “Yes. All right,” Conor said dully.

  As Sedgwick released the viselike grip on his head and stepped back, he looked down to see his fingers still wrapped around the Walther as though glued to it. Holding it by the muzzle, he offered the butt to Sedgwick, who refused it with a shake of his head.

  “You can’t. Not yet.”

  Without protest, he tucked the gun behind his back, under his belt.

  “It wasn’t just you,” Sedgwick added. He lifted an arm, gesturing toward the small body, and let it fall to his side again. “You could tell by the . . . well, you could just tell. He must have been hiding behind the shrine and just darted across the path before any of us could see. I don’t know what he was thinking. Maybe he thought he needed to save the idol. What I’m trying to say is, you’re not alone in this. It was me, too. It was all of us.”

  “Yes, all right,” Conor repeated, eyes down.

  In their convoluted history together, it was the most generous gesture this troubled, complicated man had ever offered him. He didn’t have the heart to tell him how little it mattered. In at least one respect, guilt had something in common with love—it could be endlessly shared without depleting what remained in its owner’s soul.

  He offered a final salute and hurried down the trail.

  Thomas was sleeping when he reached the car but stirred as he opened the rear door to check on him.

  “What’s been happening?” he asked groggily, eyes still shut.

  Conor rested his forehead against the doorjamb and closed his own eyes for a few seconds before straightening with artificial briskness. “How’s the pain patch holding up?” He hoped the non sequitur would go unnoticed and that Thomas would not look at him for a while longer. “Will I just give you one for the road? So you don’t feel it as much?”

  He reached for the medical kit, averting his face as Thomas opened his eyes and smiled at him. “As yer man said, ‘bird never flew on one wing.’ Lay it on, so.”

  Almost immediately, he was asleep again, and Conor began easing the SUV down th
e road toward the meadow. After driving several kilometers, the settlement Sedgwick had mentioned came into view at the bottom of the hill. Several blue-painted cement structures with corrugated roofs were scattered throughout the compound, which had been swept clear of snow down to bare earth. Clearly, the sound of gunfire had not reached this far down the mountain. A group of children were in the open area, kicking around a ball made of plastic bags. On a low wall near the road, a woman in a thick, fawn-colored salwar kameez sat stripping the smaller branches from tree limbs, dropping them onto a pile near her feet. She was young, but old enough to be the mother of a ten-year-old.

  As the vehicle approached, she looked up. With a toss of her head, she flicked a strand of dark hair from her face and met his eyes with frank curiosity. He looked away, throat closing, and pumped the accelerator to send the SUV shooting down the hill.

  As soon as the settlement had disappeared from the rearview mirror, he pulled over and fell out of the car, hanging onto the door as bile rose from his stomach in convulsive heaves. A minute later, he dragged himself back behind the wheel and started forward again. Sweat soaked into his shirt, and he shivered as it cooled and dried there. A skewering pain throbbed between his shoulder blades, and his lungs kept up their low-registered drone. He noted each symptom with apathy. None of it mattered.

  There was only one route out of Gulmarg, at least by car. He circled the perimeter of the meadow and navigated the precipitous descent, creeping along the same switchback road they had climbed less than twenty-four hours earlier. It gradually began leveling off, and he allowed his white-knuckled grip to relax. The moment of relief was short-lived.

  A disturbance appeared in the distance, coming into focus as he moved closer to it. The road was crowded with vehicles, all of them parked in front of a manmade barrier.

  “Fuck.” Conor slammed the heel of his hand against the gearshift.

  The barrier looked hastily assembled, no more than a collection of large rocks strewn across the road. A group of seven uniformed men were milling in front of it, and as he maneuvered forward, one of them rushed up with a peremptory shout of authority.