The plastic handcuffs bit into the skin of Peter’s wrists with each lurch and shudder of the truck. He trembled with the effort of holding in the static.
The cargo box was closed in around him, his heart thumping in his chest, his breath trapped in his lungs. He was burning up in his sweat-soaked T-shirt even though it was cold enough to see his breath.
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.