Free The Secret Soldier by Alex Berenson

got a kid who helps him. I’m not saying it’s him. Just that it could be.”
    “He have a name?”
    “He goes by Mark. I think.”
    Mark. Keith Robinson’s dead son. Robinson’s life had gone off the rails when his son died. Would he be crazy enough to have taken his son’s name as an alias? Wells suspected the answer was yes.
    “Is he American?”
    “I think so.”
    “Where can we find him?”
    “I’m telling you I’ve met him, like, twice.”
    “I need you to find out where he lives.”
    “He’s connected, just like me. Come after him, you piss off some nasty boys. I help you, they may take it out on me. Nothing more I can tell you. And if you’re smart, you’ll catch the first plane out tomorrow and hope the boys don’t chase you back to whatever hole you’re from.”
    Wells grabbed Ridge’s handcuffed wrists and twisted them back and up until he felt Ridge’s shoulders come loose from their sockets. Ridge let out a low moan.
    “You think we’re negotiating? Get this guy to meet you. Tell him whatever you want. Tell him there’s a gang war coming and you’ve got to talk to him.”
    “If he’s even the guy you want.”
    “Get him to us. Let us worry about what happens next.”
    “Then you’ll let me go?”
    “We’re not after you.”
    “All right. Let me call somebody.”
    The quick turnaround bothered Wells. But maybe the guy had taken enough of a beating for one night. Wells uncuffed Ridge’s wrists, recuffed his right hand to the base of the passenger seat. He put a disposable phone in Ridge’s left hand and sat him up against the side of the van. “Do it, then. Whoever you have to call.”
    “I need my phone,” Ridge said. “The people I’m gonna ask, they’ll want to see it’s my phone on the caller ID.”
    Wells dug through Ridge’s pockets, found a book of rolling papers, a baggie of dark green weed, and an iPhone.
    “What kind of phone?” Gaffan said.
    “iPhone.”
    “Don’t let him touch it. He could have tracking software on there, some app that signals he’s in trouble.”
    Wells felt his anger boil over. All the frustration of his last failed mission. No more sass from this drug dealer. He reached for his studded baton and lifted it high and watched Ridge’s eyes open wide. He swung it in a long whipping arc, getting his shoulder into it, and cracked Ridge just over the left ear. The van echoed with a hollow metal ping. Ridge’s skull snapped sideways, and he slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. He gasped and wriggled against the side of the van, trying to put as much distance between himself and Wells as he could.
    “Who are you?”
    Wells met Gaffan’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Gaffan didn’t speak, just raised his eyebrows, the question obvious. Wells ignored it. He grabbed Ridge and stretched him on his back and straddled Ridge’s chest and laid the baton across his neck. Ridge turned his head furiously, tried to rock his shoulders, swiped at Wells with his free left hand. But Wells was two hundred and ten pounds of muscle. Ridge stayed pinned. Wells held the baton in both hands, let Ridge feel the metal against his skin.
    “I swear I wasn’t going to double-cross you.”
    “I want you to live, but you’re making it hard. For the last time, you are going to help us get this guy.” Wells sat back. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. This violence came much too easily to him. He could bow his head and pray for peace five times a day, but part of him would always want to pound skulls. Might as well admit the truth. To himself, if no one else.
    “You ready to be a team player?”
    Ridge nodded.
    “Tell me the number.”
    Ridge did. Wells unlocked the iPhone, dialed, held the phone to Ridge’s face.
    “Sugah. It Ridge, mon. Need your help. I looking for dis jake snakes at Sandals.” Ridge suddenly sounded like a native Rasta to Wells. “Axing on me. Gonna tell him, ease up.” A long pause. “No, mon. Do it mi own self.