Page 57 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

The barbecue restaurant was exactly where Earl said it would be.

The parking lot was full when they arrived.

Pickups, mostly, nosed to the porch of a one-story, red-roofed ranch- style house.

After they ordered, they took their food out to one of the picnic tables set opposite a rust-red wooden fence which screened the open-pit barbecue from the parking lot.

They were alone. The air was fragrant with the scent of wood smoke, charbroiled fat, and slow-roasted ribs. The only sounds were the faint lilt of bluegrass from inside the restaurant, the low murmur of voices from the restaurant, the occasional passing car, and the chirp of crickets.

John was just forking in potato salad when she said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” He swallowed, followed with a swig of beer, and said, “What’s on your mind?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Your shooting.” She’ d ordered a jumbo pulled pork sandwich and now she took a huge bite, chewed, swallowed then used her tongue to skim red sauce from her lips. “The Annie Oakley.”

“Uh-huh.” He busied himself with pulling the leg from half a barbecued chicken. “What about it?”

“John,” she said. “You did it. A single shot at that candle, at night, and at three hundred and fifty yards, and you snuffed it right out. How? And don’t tell me it was luck or that you watched me and figured out all my mistakes.”

“Well, I did.”

“Yeah, yeah.” There was a smear of barbecue sauce at the right corner of his mouth, and she had to fight to keep herself from reaching over and kissing his lips clean. “But that’s not why you made it and don’t tell me it’s talent. A real shooter taught you how to do that.”

His gaze fell to his plate, and he stopped talking. He was quiet for so long she was on the verge of apologizing when he said, “I can’t tell you. Maybe, someday. But not now.”

“Oh. Okay.” She felt stupid. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. Hey,” he said and then covered one of her hands with his, “seriously, this is about me, not you.”

“Isn’t that what all guys say?” She meant for that to sound flip. It came out snide. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

“It’s fine,” he said again. “But it’d be good if we kept old Annie between the two of us.”

“What about Emery?” At his look, she said, “Joke. Who’s he going to tell?”

“Good. She’ll be our secret and who knows?” He picked up his chicken leg. “Maybe someday, I’ll do it for you again.”

“Are you kidding?” She took another bite of her sandwich and said, around barbecued pork, “Someday, buster, you’re going to teach me.”

And now…

In the three seconds it took for that flash of memory, she also realized that there had been no gust of wind back here.

And yet, the candle was out.

And the wick is gone. Then her gaze ticked to the encrusted snow and ice sheeting the wall immediately behind.

Where she spied a tiny hole.

Oh, my God. In an instant, her sluggish brain threw off years of deadening despair and did the calculus, did the math.

She saw the placement of all the players, the guards.

Shahida was still shouting, hurling insults, and now Sarbaz, clearly irritated by something the woman had said, had straightened, his right hand still firmly clamped on the boy’s shoulder.

He also had something black tucked in the crook of his left elbow.

Was that a bag? She thought so. A similar bag rested by his feet.

There were five of the enemy to take down: Sarbaz and his four guards. Granted, there were several more in the mine itself, but they were well back, in a chamber where the boys bedded down for the night. Chances were they hadn’t heard a thing—and wouldn’t until it was too late.

Which left these five. She saw them all like pieces on a board and thought of how she would do it: who she’d take first and second and third and fourth.

The fifth would be hardest because, by then, that target would have time to react. But if she could get him away from the boy beforehand…

“Down! Meeks, Flowers, down!” Lunging, she hip-checked Sarbaz, bulling him aside. The man let out a startled exclamation, but by then she had thrown her arms around the boy and brought him down hard onto icy rock at the same moment that there was another sound.

This was not glassy at all because the slug was not driving into layers of snow and ice at hypersonic speeds but hollow and wet, something she imagined happen if you took a ripe cantaloupe and threw it from a second-floor window onto concrete.

A second later, a shower of gore rained down as the skull of the guard standing closest exploded in a shower of brains and blood.

Even as that man was dropping, there was another hollow puh, another geyser of blood and gore, and then a third, and now a fourth in rapid sequence. Blood slopped onto rock and melted into snow.

Four men down, all of them guards. Leaving Sarbaz, the fifth man, in play. Where was he?

Still splayed over the boy, she turned her head, craned over her left shoulder.

Flowers and Meeks had hit the deck. She was in time to see Shahida suddenly yank her hands straight up.

Her ropes fell away and then Shahida was moving, swinging off the yak’s back and snatching Amu’s rifle from its scabbard.

At the same moment, the bundle over the yak’s flanks heaved; the skins fell away; and then a man rolled out.

The yak snorted as Driver landed in a crouch.

Pulling a shotgun from a back scabbard, he scuttled to the two clansmen crouched in a protective huddle.

But where was Sarbaz? Had he already?—

She felt a sudden pain in her scalp and then Sarbaz, snarling, his head turtled between his shoulders and weapon drawn, was hauling her up, dragging her off the boy by her hair.

She didn’t weigh much anymore, and in another second, he’d heaved her aside as easily as if she were nothing more than a child’s discarded rag doll.

Off-balance, she flailed, tried catching herself, failed, and tripped over Flowers, still prone on the rock.

Crying out, she got an arm up and came down hard on her shoulder and in a mucky mess of brains and blood next to a dead guard—and there was the man’s rifle lying right there in front of her.

Snatching the weapon, she twisted into a sit and spun to bring herself around to where she knew Sarbaz still stood.

And froze.

“Don’t!” Crouching, a fist knotted in the boy’s hair, Sarbaz was crabbing backward, using the boy as a shield. The muzzle of his pistol was jammed against the boy’s right ear. “Don’t!”

For a breathless moment, no one moved.

He saw Roni drop and even though he couldn’t hear her shout, Flowers was going to ground and so was Meeks, and then he stopped watching them and instead drew his beads and squeezed off his shots.

Four shots in three seconds. Not bad. In fact, excellent…but the fifth was the hardest and he knew it and now Sarbaz had the boy.

Damn.

He could kill Sarbaz. He was also the only one who might because as good as Roni was, even she needed to aim. Same with Shahida and Driver. There was no way any of them would get Sarbaz sighted in quickly enough for an accurate shot.

He had an advantage over them all but couldn’t take the shot either. He bet Sarbaz knew that.

The problem was simple biology. Ask any shooter.

For that matter, ask any farmer who’s ever butchered a pig or goose or cow.

Nearly every animal twitches when it dies because all muscles, as they die from lack of oxygen, become hyperexcitable.

This means they fire at random intervals.

Some muscles twitch for a very long time.

It’s not called running around like a headless chicken for nothing, because that’s what headless chickens can and often do.

The same happens with people. Not all the time but often. Drop somebody with a shot—and the chances are excellent that the guy with the muzzle of his weapon pressed into a kid’s ear? Well, that trigger finger just might twitch. Which defeats the purpose of dropping the guy to begin with.

He had no crystal ball. But John had thought ahead. He’d planned contingencies.

Which was why he’d given Amu the two money bags which Ustinov said was tamper-resistant and fitted with an incendiary. Davila’s was already unzipped, the better for Sarbaz to see all that cash. Amu had done his job, too. Both money bags were on the ground now, very close to Sarbaz’s feet.

And another contingency: tying Poya’s wrists with a quick-release knot. Then he’d said, “Listen, very carefully. This is important, Poya. You can’t let Sarbaz see your face until the last possible second. Then, if something happens, if the shooting stops, but Sarbaz is still standing…”

In the two minutes before the shooting started.

“And how did you come by him again?” Sarbaz asked.

“Sarhad,” Amu said. “I bought him for twenty good sheep.”

John. Ears burning with shame, Poya kept his eyes on the ground. His vision blurred and he blinked against tears. John, John, do something. Where are you?

“Did you now?” Sarbaz snapped his fingers in front of Poya’s nose. “Look at me, boy.”

Should he? No, best not to. John said not to do what Sarbaz said, at least not right away.

John said distraction was best and nothing made someone more distracted than anger.

On the other hand, if Sarbaz got a look at his face, his ghost eye, would he remember?

Maybe Sarbaz wouldn’t see. It was already too dim in here, too dark for Sarbaz to see his eye clearly. It might still be all right?—

“What, are you deaf as well as stupid? Look at me!” Two fingers clamped onto his chin and then Poya’s head was wrenched up by the man’s grip. There was a second’s silence and enough light for Poya to see Sarbaz’s dark eyes thin to slits and then his face cleared.

His eyes were out, so his ghost eye was clearly visible. Unlike Amu, Sarbaz didn’t scream either because, of course?—

“I know you,” Sarbaz said. “You’re the boy who ran, the one Zahid spat on. The boy whose mother ran away.” Then, Sarbaz crouched and whispered into Poya’s ear, “And do you know something else, boy? I had your mother.”

At first and for only a split second, Poya had no idea what Sarbaz meant. Then, the knowledge flooded him with a surge of heat and rage and grief.

“Yes.” Sarbaz’s breath was hot and stank of rotted meat and decay.

“I had her and do you know why? Because she was going to Kabul while I was coming to Sarhad, and there she was, trudging down the road, a woman without a mahram, and so I knew that taking her, enjoying her, and then putting her out of this life would be doing the work of the?—”

That was when the woman-doctor had shouted something and barreled into Sarbaz, knocking him aside and bearing Poya to the ground. He had lain there, barely hearing the hollow explosions of men’s skulls because of the blood roaring in his ears.

Mami, Mami, Mami. No wonder she had never returned. This man had taken Mami and her honor and then her life.

Now this same man, this devil, this evil man had him, was going to use him, would kill him …

And then that was when Poya remembered what John had said, what John had done when tying Poya’s hands.

I’m going to tie you the same way I will tie Shahida.

All you have to do is jerk your hands apart and the rope will away.

She has a rifle, but I want you to have this.

He’d shown Poya a slim cylinder with a tiny catch and how to flick the catch with a thumb, so a sharp, thin blade sprang out and locked into place.

That belonged to a boy who needed to protect himself.

I will try very hard to kill Sarbaz if I can, but if something happens and I can’t, don’t be afraid to use this. Because then we have one more trick ? —

If Amu did what John told him to do: make sure to give Sarbaz both black bags.

Now, as Sarbaz shouted, his grief swelled his chest and then burst in a hot, roaring cry of rage and anguish and grief and despair.

He jerked his hands apart, and he was moving even as the ropes fell away: flicking the catch with his right thumb and driving his fist backward, point first, as hard as he could into Sarbaz’s right thigh.

Sarbaz screamed; The gun jerked up and away, and then Poya was falling as, at the same moment, he heard Driver bellow: “Cover your eyes!”

Sprawled on cold stone, Poya flung his arms over his eyes—as the two bags exploded.

Still on her rear, still with a bead on Sarbaz, Roni heard Driver’s bellow, didn’t have even a split second to think but did what he said and squeezed her eyes shut.

There was a very loud bang , the sound of a car’s backfire, and then the smell of molten plastic and then something else that reminded her of the times she and her friends took strands of their hair and held them over a candle.

She opened her eyes.

“Ah!” Sarbaz was reeling, clawing at his face with his free hand. The hilt of a small knife or stiletto was buried in Sarbaz’s right thigh and already a crimson rose was blooming. But that was not why Sarbaz was screaming.

His beard was on fire. His beard was, in fact, already ash, the fire having eaten its way all the way up his face to touch off his hair and his fur-lined hair and now streamers were spreading over his fur coat and the crackling flames, which even the cold could not put out, grew brighter and higher .

“Ahhh!” Roaring with pain, Sarbaz wheeled and spun like a dervish. “Ahh ? —”

Roni shot him in the mouth.