One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [72]
I stopped, lost in thought, unsure of why I was talking about this. Jennifer said nothing. Eventually, I continued, feeling a little catharsis.
“Because I wanted to keep doing a bunch of bullshit stuff in the name of the United States, my wife and child were killed. If I’d stayed home they’d be alive. And nobody was making me go. The unit was voluntary. Because of my selfishness, I killed my family. That’s the only reason I came for you. I was reminded of my wife, nothing more. I’m not a good guy.”
JENNIFER WAS SHOCKED BY THE STORY. She thought she might be hearing something that hadn’t ever been said aloud. She looked at Pike, gripping the steering wheel like he was trying to choke it to death, and didn’t know how to respond. She knew that what he’d said wasn’t true. Nobody with those character flaws would do what he just did. Nobody else on God’s green earth would even attempt it, saint or otherwise.
She asked a simple question. “Would you have come for me if your wife was still alive? Would you have attacked that place all by yourself?”
Pike considered the question, reflecting on it for a few moments. “Yes. It’s what I used to do. It’s what I used to be when I believed in a lie. But I’m not that man anymore.”
Jennifer smiled to herself in the darkness. She gave a simple response, not realizing the implications of the words. “Well, I don’t think it was a lie. Welcome back.”
I’M SURE SHE MADE THE COMMENT simply to break away from the awkward conversation, but it struck a chord deep inside. Back when I was operational, I had a quote from George Orwell hanging inside my Taskforce locker that defined the essence of what I believed I was: People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would do them harm.
The death of my family had shattered that illusion, leaving me believing my life was nothing more than an act in a play that others directed. I had turned my back on everything I once held as sacrosanct, convinced that I had been used like a puppet because all of the terrorists I had killed had done nothing to prevent the death of all that I held dear.
Even so, deep in my soul, I desperately wanted to believe again. I wanted to feel the faith of my past, to be what I once was. Jennifer’s comment sliced through the pain, opening up a window, albeit small, to the hope beneath. I liked the feeling. Is it really that simple?
I glanced over at her and squeezed her hand, choking out two words that meant far more than she could possibly realize. “You’re welcome.”
44
Passing through a small town, really just a collection of huts spanning the highway, I began to look for a vehicle to trade for our Suburban. I needed one that appeared mechanically sound but was old enough to allow me to carjack it without too much trouble. Something built before all the newfangled computers, laser keys, and complicated steering-wheel locks. On the outskirts of the village I saw a Ford Fiesta parked in the yard of a house that looked like it had been made from flattened beer cans. The car itself was at least twenty years old, dented and patched many times, with a coloring consisting of mottled spray paint covering the original finish like a bad rash. I drove past it a hundred meters and pulled over.
“I’m going back to get that car. You get behind the wheel here. When I start it, I’ll pull out and flash you with the headlights. Let me pass you, then pull in behind me. We’ll go about a mile down the road, then pull over and swap cars.”
“Are you sure you can steal it?”
“Yeah. I’ve done it before. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
I pulled out the little