Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(23)

“He and I both went a little crazy after we lost Dougie.”

Malik let the ball drop and trapped it under his foot. “But you got better.”

“And so did Clyde. And you’re getting better, too, aren’t you?”

He reached out and snatched a hibiscus from one of the bushes lining the walk. He handed the bright-red flower to me. “For your hair.”

I tucked the flower behind one ear and let the question go while I searched for more innocuous things to ask.

“Do you go to school?”

“Not public school. Mr. Zarif says it’s better that we have a tutor.”

“We?”

“Javad and Azar. Mr. Zarif’s children. They’re twins.”

“How old are they?”

“Eleven. Same as me.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

When I’d first seen Malik, crying in his mother’s home, I’d thought he was older. I’d been surprised to learn he was only eight and tall for his age. Goes to show what I know about kids. Or maybe trauma had aged him beyond his years.

“Do you like them?” I asked.

“Sure.” He went still, staring off at something only he could see. “They don’t understand things. They think I’m weird. But they don’t know very much. They’re just kids.”

Which Malik, perhaps, wasn’t anymore. War steals childhood as readily as it takes lives. “What don’t they understand?”

“All they know about is stupid parties and video games and Netflix. Azar plays with plastic horses. Javad collects comic books. He acts like they’re so important.” His gaze remained distant, putting me distressingly in mind of some of my fellow Marines. “They’ve never, you know, seen people get blown up. Never seen anyone die. They ask me stuff about it, but I don’t answer.”

“Malik, I’m so sorry.”

He blinked, his long lashes glistening. “Javad asked me if I killed anyone.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Even as an adult, I’d felt that frustration with my fellow Americans. Whenever someone learned I was a Marine and asked if I’d killed anyone, I was tempted to say, “You’ll be my first.”

Malik swiped at his eyes. “It wasn’t until I came here that I learned war isn’t everywhere.”

He’d been five when we invaded Iraq. “Do you miss home?”

He shook his head violently. “I hated it. Not on the FOB. I felt safe there, even after the bomb killed Fal Mohammed. But everywhere else . . . it was not good.”

“Fal Mohammed. Meaning he was your uncle.”

“My mother’s brother. Before he died, he told me to leave Habbaniyah. To go with my grandparents. He said if I stayed, the bad men would find out what happened. Then they would kill me, too.”

What did happen? I wanted to scream. I was picking my way through a minefield. “Did he mean the spies who took you from the FOB?”

Malik shook his head. “Fal Mohammed didn’t even know about them. They came later.”

“Then who?”

“He meant the men who killed my mother and PFC Resenko. Fal Mohammed said they were coming for him, too. And me, if they found out I’d been there. Then he died.”

I pressed my hands to my stomach, processing the names. And the hurt.

“So these other men, the ones your uncle said might . . .” I paused.

“Kill me,” Malik filled in.

“Did you see them that night? The night when they hurt your mother?”

“I heard them. I was late coming home, and I heard them and I hid outside. Two men.”

“They were insurgents?”

“They were Americans.”

I stopped walking. “What?”

“Americans killed my mother and Resenko. They had other men killed, too. Other Americans. My uncle said they sent your Special Forces into an ambush and made sure they were shot by members of the al-Mahdi militia.”

“Malik, are you sure? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would Americans want other Americans dead?”

He frowned and tapped the ball along the grass. “I asked my uncle the same question.”

I kept pace with him. “What did he say?”

“He said it was because of his truck.”

I closed and opened my eyes against the vertigo. “What truck?”

“The one he used to deliver things for the Americans.”

“He had a hauling business?” To prevent American casualties, the US government outsourced a lot of noncritical tasks. In Iraq, most supplies were brought in by international companies. But local contractors were sometimes used, hauling cargo to the bases in so-called jingle trucks. A lucrative, if dangerous, business. This was the first I’d heard that Malik’s family had an interest there. “Tell me about your uncle’s truck.”

“He was very proud when he got the contract. He called it—” Malik stopped and closed his eyes. “His future.”

“His future? Running a truck like that would have made him a target for the insurgents every time he left the FOB.”

“He paid the Sunnis protection money.” Malik shrugged. “It was always like that. It was safer than being an interpreter, like my mother. But people were still afraid to go with him. So I did. I sat in the front and held his gun.”