Chapter Seventy
Jean Lafitte Nature Preserve, Louisiana
CICADAS. AN ENDLESS, electric hum that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Then came the smell: brackish water mixed with humidity and the faint copper tang of blood.
Walker opened his eyes, confused, his vision blurry.
He tried to bring his arms to his head, but they wouldn’t move.
Then he became aware of the intense pressure in his shoulders and something cutting into his hands.
Late-afternoon light filtered through the windows.
He blinked his eyes and his bare feet came into focus, dangling just inches above the wooden floorboards.
They were secured with twine. He lifted his head slowly and saw that his arms were secured to a chain that had been looped over the cabin’s central beam.
He was suspended, lightly swaying. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and looked back down at his body, realizing that he was naked.
“You are heavier than you look.”
The voice was deep. The accent was one he recognized from another life.
A man stepped forward from the shadows. He was about Walker’s height and build. Features dark. His black hair was cut short and the stubble on his face was only a day or two old. He wore leather sandals, light beige pants, and a thin gray T-shirt.
“Salaam Alaikum, Mr. Walker.” Peace be upon you. “Sanga yaast?” How are you?
“Been better.”
“I see you remember our language.”
“I remember. Who are you?”
“That’s hardly important.”
“Seems relevant at the moment.”
“We don’t know each other if that’s what you are asking, though we once worked for the same intelligence service.”
“And now you are a gun for hire who kills kids like Connor Staub?”
The man grabbed Walker’s hair and yanked it back.
“And where would you have heard something like that?”
“A dead man told me.”
He let go of Walker’s hair and stepped back.
“I do a job just like you trained me.”
“I didn’t train you.”
“Your CIA did. Men just like you. The man who hired me will be here soon. He has some questions for you. While we wait, my job is to soften you up. You remember, don’t you, what we used to do to prisoners in the Salt Pit?”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“No, you didn’t. My boss calls me the Afghan. Not very original. I worked out of Kandahar with Zero Three. I understand you were farther north.”
“Why don’t you cut me down so we can reminisce about old times? Maybe let me put some pants on.”
“I always respected that about you Americans.”
“What?”
“Your sense of humor, even in the most dire of conditions.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Because you are wondering and because you are not long for this world, I will tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Why I am standing in front of you, about to visit upon you more pain than you thought imaginable.”
“Anything that delays the inevitable.”
“We fought for you, for your country, and you abandoned the cause.”
“You deserved better.”
“You promised us you would get us out.”
“Of Afghanistan? You’re in America, slick.”
“I was supposed to meet my family and get to the planes at the airport in Kabul. By the time I got home, my wife and two children were dead. My wife was raped, tortured, and killed by the Taliban. I don’t know if they made my children watch before they were killed as well.
Do you know why they were killed, Mr. Walker? ”
“Because of your work for us.”
“Yes. Unlike my family, I made it out. I was relocated to Baton Rouge. I looked for work; a car wash, a 7-Eleven. I see my wife and children in my dreams. We live together, me and others waiting on special immigrant visas. The CIA has forgotten us.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not right.”
“I used to play Afghan chess with my son. Do you remember this game?”
“I do.”
“Then you recall what makes it an Afghan game.”
“No checkmate.”
“Bravo, Mr. Walker. I still play with some of the men in my flat, but it is not the same. It reminds me of my son and of the country I had to leave behind. The country we lost. Without a checkmate, one player must take all his opponent’s pieces to win.
America should have studied this game before sending its sons and daughters to die. ”
“What do you mean?”
“Attrition, Mr. Walker. The Brits, the Soviets, and now the Americans have learned that there is no checkmate in Afghanistan, there is only attrition, and when you lose enough pieces you will go home.”
“Sounds like you should have studied the game before you joined the Zero Units.”
The uppercut to Walker’s stomach almost caused him to vomit.
“Perhaps you are right. Now I work for a man who pays well. I can use what I learned from you.”
“It’s not the way, brother.”
“I am not your brother. I am trash, thrown away by your CIA.”
“I think we have more in common than you might think.”
“We might, but that is not my concern.”
Walker looked down at the big toe of his left foot and noted the wire tied to it. His eyes traveled up to his groin, to another wire constricting his genitals. Both wires led to the old hand crank telephone, which had been removed from the wall and was sitting on a small end table.
“You remember how this works?” the man asked.
“I do.”
“Tell me.”
“You rotate the crank, which spins the coils around the magnets, creating a high-voltage surge of electricity.”
“That’s it. I don’t even need to douse you with salt water like we used to do to our prisoners back home for these kinds of treatments. Your sweat will act as a perfect conductor.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Oh, Mr. Walker. You misunderstand. I am just here to turn the handle. My employer will be the one to ask you the questions.”
“Who is your employer?”
“He told me you were smart, but all I see is a schoolboy, using schoolboy tricks. They will not work. You have reached the end of the line.”
“Good. I was getting tired of this life anyway.”
“Then let me get you ready for the next.”
The man walked to the small side table with the old phone that he had moved closer to his victim.
“I’ll have you know, I get no pleasure from this,” he said.
“Me neither,” Walker responded, bracing himself for what was to come.
The Afghan was about to turn the handle when headlights illuminated the window.
“My boss has arrived.”
Walker lifted his head and squinted his eyes as a car came to a stop in the dirt. The driver extinguished the lights. It was a car Walker recognized.
“Za na poheegum,” the Afghan said as he glared out the window. I don’t understand.
The door to the vintage green BMW opened, and Belle Travois walked toward the cabin.
Before Walker could shout a warning, his tormentor cranked the handle and ran for the door.