Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(22)

At the moment, his measuring gaze was unnerving for one so young.

I cleared my throat. “Do you like it here?”

“Yes.” His voice was fierce, as if he expected me to doubt his answer.

“It’s a long way from Habbaniyah to Mexico. And very different.”

“Different is good.”

I wanted to ask him about family. About friends. About all the things we’d talked about in Iraq. But time was water, spilling through my fingers.

“Malik, I’m trying to figure out some things. Trying to get answers so I can stop the men who are looking for you. You might be able to help me with some of it. Then you won’t have to hide anymore.”

“That’s why you came? After all this time? So I can answer your questions?”

“No. Yes.” Dear God, this was hard. “I came to see you, Malik. But also to try and understand what happened. So maybe I can make the world safer for you.”

I sounded like a B-grade superhero—one without a cape or any powers to speak of. Malik gave my words the response they deserved. He stayed silent.

“A lot of bad went down in Iraq. I mean, not just the war. And not just—” I hesitated a beat, then plunged on. Pretending something hadn’t happened didn’t erase it. “And not only your mother’s death.”

He flinched.

Go easy, Parnell. “You know there are men after you. I want to find those men and stop them.”

More silence.

“Do you know why they want you? Are they—I have to ask—are they the same ones who were there when your mother died? Did you see them that day?”

His eyes slid away. “Strider said I shouldn’t talk about it. Not to anyone.”

“Strider?”

“My friend. My real friend. He brought me here.”

“To the mosque?”

“Yes. To Mr. Zarif.”

Strider must be the man in the photo taken by Angelo. “Strider—that’s his last name?”

“It’s not his real last name. He said it was better to never use his real name.”

“Do you know what his real name is?”

His gaze came back. “No.”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“No.”

“Malik—”

“It’s the truth. He wouldn’t tell me.”

The only Strider I knew about was a character from one of my favorite books, The Fellowship of the Ring. Strider had helped hide the hobbits from the dark riders. Maybe there was a clue in that. Or maybe this guy fancied himself a lost king.

“Is Strider one of the spies who took you away from the FOB?”

“No.” Malik began walking again. He shifted the soccer ball from under his right arm to his left. “Those men were very bad. Strider was good. He took me away from them.”

If he’d driven a stake through my heart, it would have hurt less. “Bad in what way?”

His shrug was elaborately casual. “They thought I would spy for them. Strider said I was just a tool to them, not a boy.”

“A child should never be a means to an end.”

“Strider said that, too.”

Well, the mysterious Strider and I had one thing in common.

“So this Strider, he took good care of you?”

“He was kind. He protected me. He never abandoned me.”

Maybe committing seppuku would help me feel absolved. I murmured something sympathetic. I wanted to push. To ask all my questions. Tell me about these spies. How did they find you? How did Strider take you away?

What kind of life have you had for three years?

And most immediately relevant, What did you see or know that makes the Alpha so desperate to find you?

I forced my mind to let go of those questions for the moment. It was like dropping into second gear while still doing seventy. “You still like soccer, I see.”

“I’m really good now.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Mr. Zarif says if I keep practicing, keep working at it, I’ll be able to play for El Tri.”

Meaning he would stay in Mexico. I forced a smile. “That’s wonderful, Malik!”

We came to a gate, which Malik opened and led me through, still following the path. The riotous forest gave way to an immense emerald-green lawn where it would have felt right to see peacocks and a group of Victorians playing croquet. In the distance, fifteen-foot walls demarcated the property. Now that we were out in the open, I could see dry, scrubby hills all around. I got the sense that we were up high, among those hills.

The lack of cover would have made me uneasy, but I’d already spotted men with radios and guns moving near the walls. No doubt there were also cameras, infrared detectors, and multiple alarms. A former cartel home, Zarif had said. Again, I wondered at the source of his money. And his need for security.

Malik dropped his soccer ball, kicked it high, then raced after it before it could reach the ground. He smacked it with his head, then when it landed again, caught it on the bounce and juggled it back and forth on his knees.

“Bravo!” I said.

He kept juggling. “Did you bring Clyde?”

“You remember him? He’s staying with a friend.”

“That dog went crazy after he lost his partner. That’s what you told me. You wouldn’t let me near him.”