Renegade (2013) Read Online Free Page B

detective. “You know what I find interesting?”
    Horner folded his arms across his chest.
    “That the police department only knows about the drug-dealing operations after the fact. Probably makes a lot of people wonder how good you are at doing your job. They might even wonder why you’re chasing after someone who put the gangbangers out of business instead of chasing after the guys putting drugs out in the neighborhood. From the story I read, the house that burned up can’t be the only one in this neighborhood. Much less the whole city.”
    Crimson tinted Horner’s face. “We’ll be back to talk to you.”
    Pike shook his head. “Not without a good reason. Otherwise I’m gonna talk to an attorney about filing a harassment suit.”
    For a moment, Horner locked his gaze with Pike’s. Then the detective jerked his head to his partner. Together, the detectives walked out of the building and got into their unmarked sedan at the curb in front of the garage.
    “You know I make it a habit not to stick my nose into other people’s business.” Monty wiped his greasy hands with a red towel.
    “I’ve always liked that about you.” Pike joined Monty and stared into the car’s engine space, tracking all the wires. Searching for a short was time-consuming and often frustrating. He wasn’t looking forward to the job.
    “So I’m not gonna ask you if you’re the guy those cops are looking for. But you’re also my friend, so I’m gonna tell you to be careful. The guy who burned that house down and rousted those drug dealers? He’s made friends on both sides of the street. Personally, I like the idea that those guys are gone. Makes the neighborhood a little safer for my kids.” Monty clapped Pike on the shoulder. “I just want you to be careful, amigo.”
    Pike nodded. “I always am.” He stripped out of the Windbreaker and leaned on the car’s fender. “Now let’s see if we can get Mrs. Garcia’s beast back on the road one more time.”

4
    THE MIDDAY SUN BURNED DOWN brightly on the Safed Koh mountains but didn’t completely strip away the lingering chill that hugged the high peaks and narrow trails. Winter hadn’t yet abandoned its grip on the land. Higher up, snow still covered the steep faces of the stony spires, and where Zalmai Yaqub had set up his trap, cold still radiated from the barren ground.
    Yaqub lay prone on his stomach, elbows propped up to hold the binoculars he used to keep watch over the narrow passage that men and beasts of burden had trod over centuries of travel.
    In his early forties, Yaqub had lived with war and strife all of his adult life. He had fought against the Russians with his father while little more than a boy, then against warlords and different governments that had tried to unite Afghanistan, and now against the Americans who thought they could do what their Soviet counterparts had not been able to do: break the country. He was lean and hard, capable of traveling overland on foot all day on only a mouthful of water if need be, and he knew a thousand ways to kill his enemies.
    He wore a faded cloak over his gray shalwar kameez , the traditional long shirt and loose trousers of Afghan men. A turban covered his head, and his coal-black beard reached to midchest. Beside him, wrapped in a small blanket, the AK-47 assault rifle lay clean and ready.
    A hundred and fifty meters away, looking like a smudge of shadow lying beside a big rock, Wali lifted his hand to signal the advance of their prey.
    Yaqub signaled to his men, sending them all more closely to ground. He had trained them—every warrior who followed him—guided them in the ways of killing their enemies and worshiping their deity, taught them the need for their commitment not only to die for their beliefs but also to kill others with impunity. As their mullah, he had instructed them in the responsibility of fard al-’ayn , the individual duty concerning jihad. A man’s duty to God was to smite his enemies, and these