Chapter Text
The shot pinged off the armored edge of the black SUV’s windshield frame and set Khalil’s heart racing, his hands trembling on the wheel. Fortunately they had come to a stop outside the main house and weren’t still on the road. Christ and Allah, this was not the time—
“Dammit!” his companion in the passenger seat yelled and started to roll down his window.
Khalil closed a hand on his arm, trying to stave off a fullblown flashback. “What the fuck are you doing, Marc? We’re under fire!”
Sheriff Winston laughed, seeing nothing of what Khalil’s peripheral vision was feeding him. “That’s just Obi being an asshole.” He finished rolling down the window and stuck his head out while Khalil tried not to totally lose his shit. “Obi!” Winston yelled. “Put the goddamn gun away. Mr. Cahill bought this place fair and square. If you’re nice to him, he might not make me arrest you.”
Khalil took a series of deep breaths and consciously unclenched his hands, focusing on the pines and fall-colored leafy trees around him, the fresh air coming through the window, not a whiff of smoke or dust or cordite or death in it. Not Syria, not Syria, not Syria. “Who the hell is Obi?” he managed.
Winston’s expression was a mixture of anger and pity. “Just a kid, really. He must be about 16 now. His parents were—are—end of the world preppers, the fundamentalist kind, and they moved away and left him behind when they discovered he was queer as a three-dollar bill. That was two years ago. He’s been here alone ever since.”
“Wait, the Kenners are his parents?”
Winston nodded. “Did you meet them, in the course of the sale? I’d be surprised.”
“No,” Khalil said, “it was all done through our brokers and lawyers. I was in Dublin for most of it, after I came back from Syria.” He was calmer now, back where he belonged, but the adrenalin had left him a bit shaky. He hoped Marc wouldn’t notice.
“Syria,” Winston shook his head. “What a clusterfuck. I’ll bet you’re glad to be out of there. Afghanistan was bad enough.”
“You have no idea,” Khalil muttered, suppressing a shudder. “Why isn’t he in school? What happened with social services?”
“Can’t catch him. He’s a wily little shit. Home schooled and half feral, like a lot of prepper kids who grow up in these woods. We’ve had more than a couple run wild. Social services can’t do much as long as the home schooling paperwork is in order and the kids seem okay.”
“Christ and Allah.” Khalil shook his head. “I wish I could say I can’t believe they abandoned him, but I’ve seen parents do worse.”
“Yeah, we both have, Kal,” Winston said grimly. “Let me go first. He probably won’t do anything else, but—”
Khalil touched his arm to get his attention and nodded out the windshield.
Ten yards away stood a young man with a rifle over his shoulder. Marc was right—he didn’t look much more than 16, maybe 17, just old enough to be growing some real scruff instead of peach fuzz. His hair was long—almost as long as Khalil’s, which fell to just below his shoulders—and matted into unintentional dreads, his clothing threadbare and dirty and too small. Scrawny didn’t begin to describe him. The look on his face was a mixture of desperation and anger.
“Let me talk to him, Marc,” Khalil said, and unlocked the doors. “You’ve got history with him.”
At the sound of the door locks clicking open, the rifle came down off the boy’s shoulder as he waited to see which side would open. Khalil swung his door open slowly and stepped out, keeping the armored metal and glass between himself and the boy, though he suspected he wouldn’t need it. The kid looked ready to cry. But he’d been fooled by kids before, ones less visibly armed.
“Who’re you?” the boy barked, standing up straighter in a vain attempt to make himself look bigger. “What’re you doing on my land?”
Khalil slouched a bit behind the door to do the opposite, keeping his hands in view. “My name’s Khalil Cahill, sir. My friends call me Kal. And your name is?”
The boy seemed surprised by Khalil’s tone, which was respectful and distinctly lacking in hostility. “Obi. Obidiah Kenner. I live here. This is my parents’ house, but they’re not here. What’re you doing here?” he asked again, a little less hostile himself. The rifle barrel drifted downward and away.
“Well, as the Sheriff said, I bought this property from the Kenners, but I didn’t realize there was a caretaker already on-site. Thanks for keeping an eye on it before I could get here.”
“You got proof?” the boy said, setting his mouth in a grim line.
“I have the contract right here, sir. I’d be happy to show it to you. I appreciate your caution and attention to detail. Are you staying in the main house?” Khalil could not have been more polite.
The boy shook his head, grimaced. “No. It’s—they emptied it. Before they left.” The last three words nearly choked the kid. He was trying so hard to be brave, with his last bit of shelter and security torn out from under him again. Khalil felt a big hole open up in his heart. Marc was giving him The You’re a Sucker Look through the windshield. Stray dogs. Lost kittens. Hungry kids. Marc wasn’t wrong. “I’ve been sleeping in the shed out back.” Christ and Allah. Khalil hoped it was heated somehow.
He purposefully looked around at the leaves turning in the woods on the property. “That’s got to be getting cold this time of year.” The boy shrugged in the way of all teenagers trying to be hardasses. Khalil let that go for now. “How about you show me around, after I show you the contract? I haven’t been back in this part of the country for a long time. And I never got to see more than pictures of this place.”
The boy looked torn and confused and unsure of what to do or say. He also looked like he had run out of options and knew it.
Winston opened his door and mirrored Khalil by keeping it between himself and the boy, though his window was still down. “Hey, Obi,” he said, gently, following Khalil’s lead. “If it means anything, I can vouch for this guy. I’ve known him a long time. He’s a good man. He’ll be fair with you.”
“From whose point of view?” the boy muttered. It was an astute question, from a homeless kid facing down law enforcement and the ruthless side of capitalism with nothing but a rifle.
“You know,” Khalil said, “it’s going to be a while before my stuff shows up, since it’s coming from overseas via government shipping. I don’t know how much work the place needs and I could use some inside information about the property’s quirks. The broker’s pictures don’t show everything and I wasn’t here for the inspection, obviously.” Not to mention they’d somehow overlooked or failed to mention the kid’s presence on the property. “I’d be happy to pay you for some of your expert knowledge and the past caretaking you did, from, say, the closing date to now? And maybe beyond that. I’ve still got some loose ends to tie up and I’ll need someone to keep an eye on contractors and such. Maybe we could negotiate some kind of working arrangement?”
Eyes showing a little too much white, the boy glanced over at Winston, who nodded encouragingly, then took a deep breath and mirrored him. “Okay, yeah. If you’ve really bought the place. Nothing I can do about that, and I’m not ready to go full mountain man and live in the woods if I don’t have to.”
“Seems wise, the way the winters get here,” Khalil agreed, relieved at the boy’s decision and not unhappy to have a delicate problem to solve to keep his mind from other things. “I’ll just get the contract for you.” He ducked inside the SUV, keeping his movements slow and easy, and dug the folded sheets from the messenger bag he was using these days instead of a briefcase. He walked it over to the boy with his hands in sight, stopped well outside his personal space, and extended the papers to him. He watched as the boy perused them carefully, whether for show or in fact. Finished, he looked up at Khalil.
“What happens if I rip this up?”
Khalil shrugged. “I get another copy from the lawyers, or the county.”
“Right,” he muttered. “Of course.” He flipped to the last page. “So the closing date was six weeks ago? What took you so long to get out here?”
“A job I was on stretched out longer than I thought it would,” Khalil said vaguely, not eager to discuss that part of his life with this boy. “If you’re satisfied, how about that tour?”
The boy gave him a closer look, up and down, then took another deep breath and nodded, more to himself than Khalil. He snapped the rifle’s safety on and, in an unexpected move, handed it to the Sheriff. “I hate these things,” he muttered and turned back to Khalil. “Inside or out, first?”
It was a long and thorough tour of the several-acre property. They walked the land, first, after Khalil checked that his keys worked and that the power and water had been turned on as he’d arranged. Obi took him around the back first, pointing out the shed where the generator had lived, which was now empty, to the winter-ready remains of a large vegetable garden that ran behind a good-sized greenhouse where the start of a hydroponics garden resided. “D—my father always meant to do that, but never got around to it,” the boy explained when Khalil queried its state. “I’ve been working on it when I can get the parts.”
“Ambitious. Looks like it’s coming along,” Khalil observed truthfully.
Behind the house was another rough corrugated shed hung with mostly empty pegboards, the shadows of tools still visible—what had once been a woodshop. The few tools that remained were old but well cared for. Another shed beside it, open-sided, held several cords of wood, some of it freshly chopped and split, drying to one side.
And beyond the greenhouse was another tiny shed, possibly 250 square feet, this one looking nothing like the other sheds. It had started rough, as the rusted corrugated shedroof revealed, but had clearly been renovated, if in a piecemeal fashion. It was sided clapboard-style with what looked like reclaimed palette lumber, and was pierced by an odd assortment of windows, one or two of the panes filled in roughly with pieces of colored glass. A metal chimney poked out one side, looking almost whimsical. A rain barrel collected water from the roof.
“This is where you’ve been sleeping?” Khalil asked.
The boy nodded, defiantly nonchalant. “Easier to heat in the winter than the big house.”
“May I?” Khalil asked, fully prepared to be rebuffed.
“Sure. Why not? You own it,” Obi said, turning the knob and sarcastically bowing him in as though to a palace.
Khalil had to duck to enter and Obi following him in made it crowded. Marc looked in from the doorway, careful not to completely block it. Neither of them were sure what they had expected, but this wasn’t it. For one thing, there was no teen squalor, though there was unwashed fug that was only to be expected given the lack of running water. The interior was neat and orderly, with a minimum of possessions—with the exception of books. The shed was literally insulated with books on shelves everywhere but near the tiny river rock fireplace topped by steel stovepipe that took up most of one corner and clearly served for both cooking and heating. Its corner had been carefully bricked in to deflect heat. A sleeping pad and bag were rolled in another corner. Two old aluminum pots hung beside the fireplace on nails and an old fashioned iron kettle sat on a grate in its mouth. Light came from a hurricane paraffin lamp.
“Snug,” Khalil observed. “Smart using the books for insulation.”
“That and my clothes were the only things—” He looked away, jaw clenched.
“Looks like you could use some new clothes,” Khalil said gently. “Show me the rest of the property and we’ll see if we can get that done with part of your back pay.”
The boy nodded and looked embarrassed. “Yeah, I’ve pretty much grown out of everything. That’s probably a good idea.”
Following along behind as Obi took them through the small orchard, Khalil caught Marc shaking his head and gave him a raised eyebrow. Winston made a face and shook his head silently at the boy and Khalil, clearly indicating the too-typical way he had negotiated his way into a civil relationship with a kid half the county had unsuccessfully been trying to help for the last two years.
They walked the house the same way they’d walked the land, Obi pointing out potential leak spots in the roof, floor joists he might want to replace and where the load-bearing walls were. The biggest surprise was the full basement and the amount of storage space it contained—and the tunnel from the house to the greenhouse. “Because why should you have to go outside in January for fresh lettuce?” Obi pointed out.
“Your father built this house by himself?” Khalil asked.
Obi nodded. “He was always working on it. We lived in an RV all one summer when I was about six and that’s when the bulk of it went up. I remember holding down the copper piping to heat the floors so he could clamp it in place.”
“Circulating water through the hearth,” Khalil nodded. “That was one of the attractions of the house, and the other off-the-grid features. Your father did fine work.”
“Yeah, too bad he’s such a bigoted son of a bitch,” Obi muttered, an opinion Khalil shared.
The next several days involved some intensive negotiations that Sheriff Winston and his wife Adi watched in fascination. Khalil and Marc went way back, so it shouldn’t have come as any surprise to him at least. They’d negotiated equally delicate circumstances, including hostage situations, but nothing quite like this. The Kenner boy—not a boy, really, they discovered, but a young man—was touchy as hell, all wounded pride and seething rage hiding terror and uncertainty. Even so, anything that would help him had to be couched in terms of work, not charity. Khalil wrote up a backdated contract to hire him as a caretaker for the place while he was gone, paid him back wages for doing so from the closing date to the present, and had fast internet installed in the house and provided a laptop so they could ostensibly communicate more easily while Khalil was abroad. Obi couldn’t be coaxed back into the house for anything but showers, laundry, and work though. Khalil suspected there were too many bad memories associated with it; both he and Marc knew what that was like.
From under the dirt and ragged clothing emerged a quite different person that first day. The lad’s hair, shorn down to a military buzzcut courtesy of Khalil, turned out to be a coppery auburn. That had been an interesting negotiation all by itself, Khalil delicately suggesting that it might save Obi’s dignity if it was cut before they ventured out to buy clothing; Obi had one set of clothing he saved for public appearances that was a tad small but clean enough for him to pass muster. When the trim was done with Khalil’s razor, he scrubbed a hand over his almost naked scalp in bemusement but nodded in the mirror. “Looks good. Thanks,” was his only remark. A good scrub in the shower and some new clothing from Walmart revealed a handsome face and an underfed physique that made him look younger than he actually was.
Khalil and Winston both thought it likely Obi had missed some growth milestones in the last couple of years, though he was never going to be a big man. His father, according to Marc, was a scrappy little fucker too and his mother a petite woman. Hopefully some regularly available food would let him at least fill out if not catch up. Skinny or not, he was muscular from the hard physical labor and carried himself with a strangely adult confidence for someone just barely turned 18.
“At least we won’t have Child Services on our backs about why he’s not in school or foster care,” Winston remarked over a beer at one of the local bars. Khalil had left Obi with a kitchen full of groceries and basic living supplies, but no liquor. “But I’m surprised he’s as old as he is.”
“The timeline makes more sense, getting outed at 16 rather than 14,” Kal replied, taking a swig from the bottle because that’s how the locals did it. “I’d sure like to wring his old man’s neck. And it doesn’t speak well of his mother, either. He cleans up well though.”
“Why’re you doing this, Kal?” Winston asked. “You don’t know this kid from Sasquatch and you don’t owe him anything.”
Khalil gave him a lopsided smile. “I thought you knew me by now, Marc. I saw that look you flashed me earlier—the Here We Go Again Look.”
Winston shook his head and snorted. “Yeah, you and your strays.”
“This one’s a little different though,” Khalil conceded. His expression morphed into a fierce frown. “I could have been this kid, Marc. Catholic father, Muslim mother, raised in both religious traditions. If they hadn’t been diplomats, the two of them, and travelled the world, I might have been facing the same thing when I came out to them, especially the year I did. Instead, Mama gave me a buss on the cheek, called me habibi, and said she was honored I trusted them so much, and Da just told me to be careful and practice safe sex. And both of them wanted to check out any boyfriends. That’s the reaction this kid should have had. It’s the 21st century, for fuck’s sake.”
“In some parts of the country, it is. In others, it’s still 1895.”
As if to prove the point, Khalil felt a tap on his shoulder and heard the dreaded words, “you’re not from around here, are you?” In his peripheral vision, he could see Marc rolling his eyes and put a hand on the Sheriff’s arm to forestall any further reaction, knowing this would have to be his show as much as his negotiations with Obi had been. He turned on his barstool with his bottle in his hand.
“I am now,” he said to the slightly drunken, approaching middle-aged white man who had tapped his shoulder, letting just a wee bit of auld sod creep into his mostly non-existent accent. “I just bought the Kenner place.”
“You another long-haired hippie weirdo type like the Kenners?” the man said suspiciously. His own hair was cropped as short as Obi’s now was and fast disappearing under his red ballcap. Khalil thought he and Marc were both a good bit older than their new acquaintance.
“I can’t deny the long hair, can I?” Khalil smiled. “But if you’re asking if I’m a back to the land believer in the apocalypse, the answer is no. I like the amenities Kenner put in, but I’ve already plugged back into the grid.” He put his hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder. “Marc was kind enough to let me know the place had come on the market when I was looking for somewhere to retire. It’s good to have friends in the neighborhood when you’re new.” Khalil stuck out his hand. “I’m Kal Cahill. Can I buy you a beer, friend?”
“Watch this,” Winston said to their young bartender in a voice only she could hear. “Kal’s about to make new friends.”
By the end of the evening, Khalil had been vetted and more or less passed by all but the most hardcore of the militia boys Winston had learned to keep an eye on. The two of them tipped their bottles to the small group as they made their noisy way out, leaving the atmosphere behind them in the bar cleaner and more relaxed.
“How’d you ever get elected sheriff here with that bunch?”
Winston shrugged. “You mean me personally with all my handsome charm, or me as a Black man?”
Khalil gave him a wry smile. “Obviously your handsome charm won the majority over.”
“Don’t forget I grew up here,” Marc reminded him. “These folks have known me and my family for a long time. The militia assholes are newish; they weren’t really around when I was a kid, and most folks here don’t like them, secretly or otherwise. It’s military country, even now that the base has closed, and you know what most military types think of the militias.”
Khalil’s expression settled into distaste. “Play soldiers. Or wannabes who couldn’t cut it under real fire.”
The bartender, a young woman with a cap of short blond hair, leaned over the bar and pinched Winston’s cheek. “You know we love you, Marc. If you weren’t already married, and I didn’t adore your wife, I’d be chasing you.”
Winston sighed. “I’m old enough to be your dad, Siri. And you’re just barely old enough to be selling me beer. When are you going to stop flirting with me?”
She gave a sly look to Khalil. “I like experienced men.”
Khalil laughed. “Sorry, darlin’. You’re on the wrong team for me. But I’m flattered.”
“Dammit! Why are all the good ones either gay or taken?” Siri complained. “It’s the lament of good women everywhere.”
“How sure are you that I’m a good one?” Khalil teased. She was fun to flirt with and they both seemed to enjoy it. He hadn’t flirted with anyone—in earnest or otherwise—in far too long.
“Well, you’re friends with Marc. He’s such a goody two-shoes. How do you two know each other?”
“We served in Afghanistan together,” Winston told her. “Kal saved my ass more than once.”
“I think that was pretty mutual,” Khalil said modestly.
“So you were Special Forces too?” Siri asked, wiping the bar down.
Khalil nodded. “I suppose that came out in your campaign,” he said archly. “Using your military service as a campaign tool. Typical politician. Good thing I wasn’t around to tell the truth about what a lazy S.O.B. you were.”
Winston was unrepentant. “Here I thought you were my friend. Of course it came out in my campaign, in the interests of transparency. And you should talk. I have photos of you actually sleeping on the job, which you did a lot of when when you weren’t buttering up the locals or the assholes in your own company who called you raghead behind your back.”
The bantering continued until their beer was gone. Khalil tried to give Siri his credit card but she waved it away. “First one’s on me, neighbor. Don’t be a stranger, now.”
“Thank you. I look forward to the pleasure of your company,” Khalil replied, giving a little bow and turning on the charm. Siri actually blushed and shooed him away.
“Round one to you, Colonel,” Winston said as they exited. “You heading off to the hotel? We’d be happy to put you up for another night.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a long drive to the airport for the redeye, Marc,” Khalil said, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “I don’t want to disturb you folks too much, after I already overstayed my welcome getting Obi settled in. I appreciate the offer though. I’ll be back in a couple of months, hopefully with my own bed by then. I can just leave the Tank in the long-term parking downstate. In the meanwhile—”
Winston let out an exaggerated, eye-rolling sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on your pet project. I always do. And your house, too. Have a good flight. Stay out of trouble.”
The two men shook hands and pulled each other in for brief hug. Khalil walked to the far end of the parking lot to retrieve his “Tank,” the armored SUV he’d bought from government surplus when he decided he’d be settling in the States permanently. It had been a diplomatic vehicle and was already a little dinged from its service in the rough streets of DC, though not as much as the one he’d had in Bahrain. At least it hadn’t been until tonight. Now, he found that someone had keyed the finish on the driver’s side with a long scratch that ran down the length of the vehicle. “Well, shit,” he muttered. “Round two to you, assholes.”
The back of his neck prickled as he stood surveying the damage and wondering whether to bother to tell Marc about it. He let the man attempt a headlock he wasn’t quite tall enough to execute well, ducked his chin inside the man’s arm, then bent over and rolled his attacker over his right shoulder. Then he grabbed one arm and flipped the man over on his stomach, bending that arm up hard behind his back while kneeling on his pelvis. In less than 15 seconds, his attacker was immobilized and grunting in pain.
“Let me guess,” Khalil said in a conversational tone. “You were going to say, ‘we don’t like your kind here,’ or ‘your kind ain’t welcome here,’ followed by some second grade playground slur. Am I right?” When the man said nothing, Khalil increased the angle on his arm just a little.
“Yes!” the man grated out. “Go back where you came from, raghead.”
Khalil rolled his eyes. “Gosh, there’s one I’ve never heard before. You’re like a bad cartoon villain. Let me tell you a little about myself, friend who drank my beer. I was born in the US and hold citizenship here and in Ireland. I speak four languages in addition to English. I served four tours in Afghanistan in the United States Army Special Forces and until recently worked as a security consultant for the Department of Defense. How about you? Did you graduate from high school?” He pulled the arm a little higher when the man didn’t answer.
“Yes!”
“College?” That was answered with a shake of the head. “Serve in the armed forces?” Another headshake. “Ever left the country?” Headshake. “The state?” Headshake. “The county?” A nod. “Good. That’s a good start. Before you start hating people who don’t look like you, get out and educate yourself about people outside your little insular world. You might find they’re a lot like you are. Except they have better manners.” He let go of the man’s arm and got up, then offered him a hand up. The man got up on his own and turned to face Khalil, rubbing his shoulder.
“Jeff Robinson,” Khalil said, and the man seemed startled that Khalil remembered his name. “I’ll send you the bill for my new paint job. Now go home.”
Robinson turned around and started to walk away. “Ice that shoulder,” Khalil called after him.
“Fuck you, man.” Robinson snarled and got into his own beat-up Dodge Ram.
“Not in your wildest dreams,” Khalil muttered and got into his SUV. He waited for Robinson to leave and then sat for a few minutes to make sure his hands were steady enough to drive before starting the Tank and heading for his hotel. He wanted, suddenly, to call Obi, to make sure he was all right. Warm enough, fed, safe. To make sure he knew somebody cared about him.