Page 62 of Renegade

I shook my head. “If he’s a willing participant in evil shit, it has to be for some oddball reason. I’ve done nothing but ask myself that ever since spotting him. I just can’t imagine why he’d do that. Do you think he saw something?”

Vonne shook his head slowly. “Can’t imagine what unless you’re right about there bein’ a rogue CIA faction which was smugglin’ shit out of the country. You said they had some kind of outpost. I just can’t figure how no one in camp found out about it.”

“Someone might have.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

I reminded him about the scouting party who’d been ambushed and killed. “They might have found out.”

He frowned. “If’n they did, that’s downright pure murder, Trigg. Still don’t explain how Sutter was left alive if he also found out.”

I nodded. “Trust me, I’ve been racking my brain about it. Nothing makes sense. And I tried to think of anyone he could have been involved with in the camp that he may have told. I always figured if he stumbled on them and saw them moving looted goods, he would have come to us first. The only thing that makes sense is that maybe they’re holding something over his head. I’m open to suggestions because I can’t think of what it could be.”

He stared at me, seeming to think about it for a while. “Hang on,” Vonne said. “Maybe there’s somethin’.” He stood and walked over to the rolltop desk, unlocking it and rolling the door up, rifling inside while I waited. “About a year ago, I got a letter from someone,” he muttered. He looked in one of the drawers before pulling out an envelope and walking over to me. He held it out.

“Who’s it from?” I took the letter.

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.” He nodded at it. “I mean he says he knows me because his daddy told him about me, but I have no idea who his daddy is.”

I opened the envelope. The letter inside didn’t appear to have been manufactured in the United States, nor the envelope. It reminded me of stationery I’d seen in Europe, thinner and more fragile when opened. The style of the writing wasn’t exactly childlike but there was a simplicity to it that made it feel like the person writing wasn’t a native English speaker. My belly filled with butterflies the more I read.

“My name is Daniel Mendez. I live in Paris, with my mother, Niloufar. I was born in Afghanistan during the war, but my mother immigrated to Pakistan with my auntie and uncle. I went to school in Karachi and when my mother, my aunt, and uncle got a visa to France, we all immigrated there where I met my father. His name was John Mendez, but he died after we got to Paris. My uncle told me you were his good friend working together in the Middle East. He gave me your address and told me I should come to see you if I ever go to the United States, California. I don’t know if that can happen because I’m still in school, but if I do, I will come to see you, if you’re still in California. I’m sending a picture of me and my mother so you will know me when I come.”

It was signed Daniel. I looked at the envelope again. It was addressed in the same cursive handwriting. I glanced at Vonne. “Do you know someone named John Mendez?”

He shook his head. “No. I have no idea who the guy is and even though he said there was a picture enclosed, there was nothin’ else in the envelope.”

I frowned, examining the glue on the envelope to see if it had been tampered with. Other than a little buckling, it appeared normal to me. “There was no photo?” When Vonne shook his head, I had to agree that it was the strangest thing. I reread the letter. “I don’t know anyone named John Mendez either. Do you think John Sutter could be this kid’s father?”

“No. I think we would have known if Sutter had a kid, Trigg. You were the closest person to him in the unit, so if he did, I think he’d have told you before me or the others. And now that you’ve got a contact in Mark Evans, you can ask him to follow the lead.”

I nodded. “It’s worth a shot if nothing else.” I took a photo of the letter and handed it back to him. “Daniel said his father worked with you, but you don’t remember anyone named John Mendez? And who’s the uncle?”

Vonne shrugged. “I don’t know. I may have met someone in the camp, but you know it was huge. I definitely didn’t have a friend by that name. It could have been a patient, but I don’t recall.”

“I think if John had a kid and somehow got a visa for his wife, baby, and in-laws to immigrate to Europe, it might be the first step in getting them into the U.S. I’ll ask Evans to check into it. If these CIA douchebags knew about John having a kid and used that knowledge to threaten their lives, working with them might make sense.”

“How the hell did he have a kid with some Afghani woman? We were with him all the time,” Vonne asked.

“Maybe Daniel’s not a blood relation,” I said. “We all took the villagers under our wing when we got the chance. You know that.”

Vonne nodded. “Yeah. I made sure they had medications when they needed them.”

We’d all done whatever we could for the locals. We’d built their schools, shared our rations, and we played with their kids. I just couldn’t imagine John slipping off and screwing some Afghani woman, risking her life if her family found out about it. There were plenty of warm places in camp for him to sink his dick. It didn’t make sense. But if he was helping a family,thatwould make sense.

“I’ll find out if there was a John Mendez on base when we were assigned there,” I said. I examined my hands before glancing up at him. “I’m really sorry, Vonne.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, Trigg.” He stood, and I did as well. He walked around the coffee table and pulled me into his arms, hugging me tightly. I hugged him back hoping he would eventually forgive me for not having told him about John right away. Losing Sutter was bad enough, but I couldn’t stand the possibility of losing Vonne on top of it.

He clapped me on the back as we separated and walked to the front door. “Make sure to give John Mendez’ name to Mark Evans so he can run it down and from now on, please keep me in the loop.” He smiled at me as we stopped at the door. “And the next time you’re facin’ a loaded gun, give me a holler, Trigg. I want to help.”

“Thanks, Vonne.” I reached out and gave his cheek a pat before walking out the door. I ran down the stairs and stopped to take a deep breath before pushing through the door into the bright sunlight. It was nearly three, having spent hours discussing everything we’d talked about. I pulled out my phone when I got to my truck. I was glad for the shade I’d parked in. It was February, but it was a warm day, and my air conditioningwasn’t that great in the old truck. As I looked down at the phone, keys in hand, I suddenly felt all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

A second before I could react to pull my gun, I was body slammed front first into the driver’s side door. My keys dropped to the pavement. Steely arms closed around my midsection, but I reacted without thinking, slamming my head back as my training kicked in. I heard a sickening crunch as the back of my head caught my attacker in the face. The pain in my skull was jarring and I shook my head as I heard the curse.

“Trigg! Motherfucker! Stop!”

I stilled instantly, hearing the voice I hadn’t heard in eleven years. I pushed back, feeling the person separate from my body, and turned. Standing a few feet away from me, looking stunned in a tattered ballcap, blood dripping from his broken nose, stood John Sutter, watery green eyes streaming, as he tried to stem the blood sliding down his face.

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