Then Walker reminded himself that Eddie was part of the crew who had killed and/or captured the other SEALs. In fact, it was time they talked about that.
“So Eddie, let’s talk about your military friends.”
Eddie shifted in his seat.
“Who are they and where are they from?”
“Karen,” he said, only pronouncing it as kayin. “From Kadwan.”
“Are they from the Myanmar military?”
Eddie shook his head.
“Then where did they get the uniforms?”
“We made them.”
“So they wanted us to think it was the military. What was the plan—for us to get mad and attack?”
Eddie shrugged. “I don’t know plans. I know that him wants to rule again. He wants to be king.”
“I wasn’t aware Myanmar had kings,” Yaya said.
“We don’t.” Eddie hastily added, “Not anymore. Not yet.”
“Tell me about Kadwan.”
“Old capital of Kayin. Him has removed everything new.” Eddie paused to swerve around a bike pulling a cart with a mound of old plastic bottles. “Everything is gone. My mother lives there and her home is gone.”
“What do you mean gone? Was it bulldozed?”
“His qilin. They destroyed it for him.” Eddie’s jittery eyes glanced toward Walker. “Please, no more.”
“Not yet. We need to know about the qilin.” He described the creature they’d come into contact with on the cargo ship. “Is this one of them?”
Eddie nodded.
“How do you destroy them?”
Eddie gave a shocked look, then shook his head. “Can’t be destroyed. They are messengers from the gods.”
Walker and Yaya exchanged glances.
Yaya mouthed, Messengers from the gods?
Walker nodded.
“Which gods made the qilin, Eddie?”
“All of them.”
Walker didn’t like the answer, but he didn’t feel that having Eddie try to explain would help them much, so instead he asked, “What’s their message?”
“It is said that they come when a new ruler comes. Him has come.” Eddie looked down into his lap and grabbed the cable. He took it into his mouth and resumed driving. Clearly he wanted to be invisible for a time.
Yaya continued to work on the Android software as best he could. The bumping, jumping ride down the road didn’t help, but there was nothing to be done about that.
Eddie laid into the horn to get around a group of men carrying baskets of vegetables on their backs. They wore sarongs on the lower half of their bodies. They were shirtless. On their feet were simple pieces of rubber with straps. He edged around them, and was once more at speed. But it didn’t last. Suddenly, Eddie slammed on the brakes, stalling the engine. Had Yaya not put his foot on the dash, he would have smashed forward. As it was, Walker was unprepared for the sudden stop and slid from the seat into the front window. He struck with his shoulder, almost losing his grip on the pistol.
They slammed back into the seat.
In front of them lay an overturned vegetable cart and a motorcycle. Two men argued. The one in the motorcycle helmet was taller, but the other man seemed angrier, gesturing in great chopping motions at the produce. There seemed to be space to their left to drive around them.
A policeman approached and smacked the hood of their truck with a baton. He wore a black Mao cap and black fatigues. An orange reflective vest covered his torso. He struck the hood again and screamed in Myanmarese, gesturing angrily down the road. It didn’t take a linguist to understand the international symbol for get moving.
Eddie hastened to start the truck, turning the lever on the dashboard. The engine sputtered and stuttered. He glanced worriedly at the policeman.
Walker noted the policeman had a walkie-talkie on his left hip. A Chinese PM pistol rested snugly in a patent leather holster on his right hip. He held the baton in his right hand, so if he was to grab his pistol, he’d lose precious seconds either dropping the baton, or changing hands.
“Yaya,” Walker whispered. “See that walkie? Can you use it?”
“Maybe. Not getting anywhere with this damned software. Using our tablets, I should be able to use the phone’s SIM chip. I won’t know until I try.”
“Put that stuff away then. I don’t want it to get smashed.”
“What are you going to—” Yaya glanced at the policeman, and comprehension showed on his face. Then he hastened to shove his work into the extra-large glove box.
Walker reached out and put his hand over Eddie’s to stop him from trying to crank the engine. “Remain calm.”
The policeman’s eyes narrowed as he shouted for the truck to move. Traffic had begun to move around them as if they were a boulder in a creek. Eddie shook his head in fear. The policeman moved to the door and stepped onto the running board. He shouted into Eddie’s face. Then he noticed the others in the cab. His furious gaze focused on Walker as he took in the white skin. His baton hand disappeared. It was then that Walker made his move.
“Start the fucking truck,” he yelled, as he gripped the policeman’s collar and pulled him over Eddie and into the truck.
Eddie turned the lever and the truck began to sputter. But he couldn’t see anything. The policeman’s head and torso were in his face. The policeman struggled, kicking with his feet, elbowing Eddie in the face and chest.
Eddie screamed, but somehow continued trying to start the truck.
The policeman’s eyes were wide with fear and anger. He screamed like a woman. Walker shoved his pistol into the man’s chest and pulled the trigger three times. The man bucked with each shot, but stilled after the third. Walker pulled him the rest of the way in. At the same moment, the truck started. Walker and Yaya shoved the dead man into the space beneath their feet.
“Move! Move!”
Eddie’s face was wet with blood. For a moment, Walker wondered if the man had been hit, but then he saw two exit holes in the metal roof of the truck. Each hole was surrounded by an oval of dripping blood and gore. The truck jerked forward, then jerked again. Once it found gear, it rejoined the flow of traffic.
Eddie nodded as he wiped his face with his left hand. He pulled it away and stared at it. Tears welled from his eyes as he began to sob.
“You got to suck it up, Eddie,” Walker told him. “I didn’t see you crying when you were loading the bodies in the back of the truck or when you thought we were dead.”
The driver frowned, but didn’t say anything.
The last thing they did before they entered the expressway was to shove a naked body out of the passenger-door window. It rolled and fell at the feet of an old woman selling cheap plastic jewelry laid out on a blanket.
58
Yaya was starting to find some success. He had wires stripped and attached to different parts of the inside of his tablet and the walkie-talkie. Every now and then it would erupt in a fit of static. Once they heard Myanmarese voices. Still, he cursed the steampunk machination he’d created. He even shook it once. “You should work, damn it!” He was rewarded with the staticky voice of an Englishwoman who was delivering the news. It brought a grin to Yaya’s face, but he didn’t stop there. He stuck his tongue in a corner of his cheek and bent over yet again.
After ten minutes he leaned back and flexed his fingers. He stared at the rat’s mess of wires and shook his head. “It should work. I’ve done everything I know to do. I just don’t understand why it’s not working.”