The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(92)

The dark chemical stink of fuel oil filled the truck. His muscles were tight as clamps.

Static was like a flashing thundercloud in his head, wrapped tight around his brainstem. His skull throbbed, about to explode.

Midden stood by the cargo door with his eyes closed, still holding the tie strap. The man was as lethally capable as any man Peter had ever met. Peter saw how he’d hauled Zolot in. He’d broken both of the burly policeman’s arms without any apparent effort. He could surely stop Peter from doing anything, handcuffed to the wall as he was. Plus he had a wicked-looking folding knife clipped into his front pants pocket.

But Peter saw something in him. A flash of morality at Lipsky’s willingness to kill Dinah and Miles. He seemed to be thinking. And he seemed to be listening.

Meanwhile, the truck kept rolling closer to its terminal destination, and Peter was sure he’d heard Dinah and Miles in the cab.

He didn’t have long.

He couldn’t hold back the white static forever.

He said, “I’m guessing you were overseas, like me.” Midden didn’t open his eyes or show in any other way that he’d heard. Peter said, “Maybe that gives us something in common, maybe not. I don’t know your part in this, and I don’t care. I just need to stop it.”





51





Midden


Midden listened while the Marine talked. Eyes still closed.

That alone was an admission of guilt, a willingness to die, given that he was well within the reach of the Marine’s feet. But the Marine made no move, not yet.

Holding on to the strap, truck bucking unpredictably under his feet, Midden thought about everything he’d done to this point in his life.

The years and lives wasted in Iraq for a bankrupt cause.

The leaders he once trusted proving themselves unworthy of his trust, unworthy of the sacrifices of his fellow soldiers.

Proving it over and over again.

He had thought by working with Lipsky and Boomer that he would serve himself for once. Be done with causes and get paid. Retire someplace quiet with his nightmares and his memories, and see how long he could keep from eating his gun. Not long, he suspected. Not long at all.

Only to discover that this Marine, who had likely had the same experiences as Midden, the same friends killed for the same wrong reasons, the same utter loss of all faith in man and God, was still fighting for a cause.

Still willing to sacrifice his own life for others.

The Marine kept talking. “You can do the right thing right now. Do nothing. And I’ll forget we ever met. You just walk away. You have my word.”

“No,” said Midden. Eyes still closed.

There it was again, that word come unbidden.

Midden had spent the last years trying to pretend the war hadn’t happened, the war and everything he’d done fighting it. But now he found that he didn’t want to hide from what he’d done, in the war or in this dirty little scheme.

Like the others, he, too, had wanted to get rich. And now he would share their guilt. There was blood on his hands. He had to be accountable for this. For everything.

The Marine was silent. There was just the roar of the engine, carrying them forward.

Then it occurred to Midden that maybe the Marine didn’t know what he meant.

“Yes,” said Midden. “Go. Do it.”

When he opened his eyes, he saw the Marine’s jaw clenched, the tendons popped on his neck, every muscle standing out clearly on his arms.





52





Peter


Now, Peter told himself.

And let go.

The static rose up in him, through him, without pause or hesitation. Like a beast straining against a leash, suddenly released.

He bit down hard to keep himself from roaring aloud.

What he wasn’t prepared for was how good it felt.

The power. The release.

The white static moved his arms. The black plastic center block that locked the handcuffs gave way and the yellow cuff flew free from his strong left hand. The white static grinned through his mouth as it whipped the end free of the cuff locked to the truck.

The man in the black canvas chore coat stared at him, eyes wide, holding on to his cargo strap like a lifeline.

Peter ignored him and let the white static focus on the bomb.

The scarred man’s design was good. The layers of protection were solid. The junction-box lids were epoxied shut, so he couldn’t get to the C-4 directly. The weakest point was the heavy conduit conveying the wires from the central control box. If he could break the threaded connectors, he could pull the wires and free the blasting cap from the C-4 inside.

He took hold of the closest length of armored conduit and gave a hard jerk. No quick snap of the connectors, nothing gave way. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. He braced his knees on the drums, set himself, and let the white static pull until his shoulders ached. But after a moment it was clear that the connectors and conduit were too strong to break that way.

He could crack them all eventually by stressing the joints, repeatedly bending the conduit back and forth. But it would take minutes for each drum, and he’d never get them all, not in time. Not before they arrived at wherever Lipsky had chosen for his ground zero.

His mind worked hard, riding the static like some animal tamer. Running through possibilities, searching for an answer, while also trying furiously to keep himself intact inside the rush of blinding white electricity. The hardest part was the pure joy of the static, the pleasure in destruction. He hadn’t remembered how good it was, how alive he felt. Part of him, a disturbingly large part, wanted to leave the bomb in place just to watch it explode. To watch the world come down.