Fallout Chapter 11

The fog of the drugs that had been injected into his system gradually faded. He was lying against the wall of the shed. No one was in sight. For the moment, there was no pain.

He tried to sit up, and managed to prop himself up against the wall, but by this time, pain had smoldered back into existence, snapping into his back, clamping down on his chest. But the worst was his arm. Beneath the fire that ringed his shoulder, his arm hung listlessly at his side. It must've been dislocated, he realized, but he didn't remember it happening.

He dragged himself to the door, looked out. Could it be possible that they'd just left him here, unrestrained?

But then, around the corner, he glimpsed Gray looking out over the valley. He darted back inside, gasping as his shoulder twisted sideways.

Before he could recover, Gray stepped back in, his nondescript Germanic face studying him.

"Are you ready to continue?" he asked. He pulled something from his pocket. A syringe. "During the last session, you were very forthcoming. I want you to tell me more. Maybe you will without my having to use this."

Did I really give in so easily? Jason wondered. I can't remember--but I trained in resisting interrogation drugs of all types. With some, you can't remember what happened under their influence.... He must be trying to manipulate me into thinking I've given something away.

"That trick's not going to work on me," said Jason.

"Well, then, we'll have to give you some more." He crouched down, grabbed Jason's dislocated arm. Plunged the needle into it. He couldn't pull away, because he knew how much it would hurt if he did.

Everything Gray did was calculated, Jason knew by now. Causing him pain was just part of the equation. This cold indifference to suffering was harder to deal with than the heat of Nadira's anger. Jason had killed in the name of his country before; mostly, it had been people like this, with their callous disregard for human life, who, in his opinion, had no souls left to save.

Now he was the victim of one of them. Anger burned inside him—he would not, could not, give this man what he knew. I can't have given in so soon, he told himself, though a part of him wasn't sure.

And now, the drug was taking effect, soothing his nerves, taking the edge off his pain. He carefully set up blocks in his mind, severing contact with his vital secret in order to keep it protected.

The hypnotic pull of the drug was not unlike pentothal sodium, one of the drugs he'd been trained to resist. There was no truth drug invented that could break through the mental barriers of a trained agent if he was strong enough.

I will not give this man the satisfaction, he thought.

He sat back, his good shoulder leaning against the wall, knowing at the moment he had no chance of escape. An artificial sense of calm swept through him.

The side effect of the drug was the dulling of his senses, for which he was grateful, dousing the fire that raged over his skin.

Gray scraped the chair across the floor and sat down in front of him. "I must say, I'm disappointed."

"What do you mean?"

"During the first session, you broke. You spilled everything willingly."

"I know…what you're doing…."

"You didn't even try to resist. Did you neglect that part of your training, or are you really that weak? All this is is sodium amytal. Basic." He held up the empty syringe.

"I didn't break after—all this." He looked down at his arm, his lacerated skin.

"This? This is nothing. It helped soften you up; I just had to give you a little encouragement—and you toppled."

"What is the weapon then? If I told you…. you must know."

"I do know. I also have more insight into your character now. You only got accepted into the Agency on the influence of your father, didn't you? It wouldn't surprise me if he had doctored the reports of your accomplishments."

"He…wouldn't do that."

"But without him, you never would have gotten as far as you did. What would your brother think of you?"

"Don't you dare speak of him!" Jason lunged forward, but was unable to hold himself up. Gray grasped his shoulder, pushed him gently back.

"You are nothing compared to what he was. Look at you. Can't even sit up straight. Where is your strength now?"

An image of himself, this pathetic half-naked creature with shredded skin, kneeling on the floor, contrasted with the shining image of his brother, in his dress uniform, tall, heroic, marching to the end with his head held high.

Who am I, compared to him? What have I done? I have lied, cheated, lived in the shadows. I have killed innocents.

What do I truly have left?

What would my father think of me? How could I ever tell him what I have done? He would never have sacrificed his values like I have.

But—if this secret is really all I have left, then that's what I have to hold onto.

"No," he said. "I'll never give it to you."

"You already have. There's just a little more I need to know—and you just need a little more motivation. It shouldn't take much. Good thing, because I need to get this assignment over with; it was barely worth my time in the first place."

He grabbed Jason's hair, pulled his head back. "You could spare yourself, if you just told me where the weapon is."

"I …don't know where it ishhh…." His speech slurred. Darkness pulled at the edge of his vision.

Just then, Nadira stepped through the door, Akim towering next to her.

"Has he said anything yet?" she asked, her voice indistinct amid the narcotic haze.

"Not with this dose. If we want to get out of here anytime soon, we're going to have to go to extreme measures."

"I thought the drugs were working."

"There is no such thing as a miracle drug when it comes to a trained agent. My employer is getting impatient. And you want to go home, don't you?"

"Very much so," she said.

"Well then. Akim, help me with him."

They pulled Jason up against the wall. He was unable to stand on his own. Akim held him there, while Gray walked across the room to the tool shelf.

"Nadira," he said, fiddling with the tools, "take out the camera. If anything, we want to have footage of him when he breaks."

She stood in front of Jason, holding the camera at her side, not attempting to film. Eyes brimming with conflict, she looked away.

Gray strode back over. In his hand, he held–Jason's breath caught in his throat.

A hammer and nails.

"Hold his left arm out please."

Akim pulled his arm away from his body. He knew he should feel pain, but he didn't. Not yet.

"The drug should be fading by now. It's no good if he can't feel it. Lay his hand against the wood, like this." He raised his hand in demonstration, palm facing backwards.

As awareness returned to him, Jason tried to struggle away. Akim grasped his shoulder, pressing him back against the wall.

"Akim," said Nadira, "I don't think you should do this."

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" said Akim.

"Not this, no. I want you to stop."

"Is that an order?" he said.

"Yes."

Akim stepped back, letting Jason go. He nearly collapsed to his knees, but managed to stay on his feet by grasping the wall post next to him with his right arm.

"Akim," said Gray warningly

"I don't follow your orders."

"But you work for my employer. While I am here, I am his voice."

Akim looked at Gray, then back at Nadira. "I am working for him, too," he said. "I'm sorry, Nadira."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. Akim stepped back and grabbed Jason's arm.

This time, it hurt. He bit his tongue in order not to scream.

Gray pressed the nail against his hand. In one swift blow, the hammer came down.

Agony burst like a supernova in his hand as the nail ripped through his skin on the way to the wood beneath.

Someone grabbed his chin. Forced him to look up. His hand was pierced to the wall, blood streaming off onto the floor.

"Now," said Gray, "you will tell me what the weapon is, or I will use another nail, and another, until your hand is mangled beyond repair."

What am I holding out for? he thought vaguely. As long as they don't know where the weapon is, what does it matter if they know what it does?

For a moment, he couldn't speak. Then, he said, as if reciting from a scientific manual, "It's an aerosol drug…developed for…certain mental disorders…. Mind control is its accidental but potent application…."

Shame seized him as soon as the words left his mouth. I have given in, he thought, the full impact of what he'd done slamming into him, along with hatred at Gray for torturing him to the point it stripped all his training from him.

But how much longer could he hold out, not giving its location?

Would he end up giving in to this man who had all but torn his humanity from him?

As Gray pressed the second nail against his hand, he prayed, Lord, please help me get through this. Don't let me tell him anything. Before that happens, if at all possible, strike this man down. Kill him in agony.

The second nail, Gray took his time with.

Jason longed for unconsciousness, but all he was granted was a horrible lucidity. He felt every nuance of pain as the rusty nail burrowed through his flesh.

My God, kill him! Kill all of them!

It hit him like an electric bolt.

Another man had once been beaten, nailed to wood, like he was.

Only he had asked forgiveness for the ones who had done it to him. Not immediate torturous death.

Perhaps I am more like Gray in that way…I have that darkness inside me. I could never love my enemy.

I have, said a clear beautiful voice. I have done it for you. I have carried your sin. I can do this for you, too.

Dear Jesus, forgive me! he replied. Help me to love when I can't. Help me to forgive Gray—and Nadira, and Akim. My enemies—but ones that you love.

Strength was born anew in his heart. Not the burning, dark strength from hatred that burnt itself out, but a strong, clear light.

He would not give in. For there was one standing with him, one who would never fail him, even to the end.

"Where is this drug?" said Gray.

"It's –in a place I will never tell you. No one should have such a weapon. It should've been destroyed instead of hidden—but it will be as if it has been destroyed. I have a powerful ally."

"Ally? What ally?"

"My God is on my side," said Jason, smiling through tears of pain.

"God," said Gray. "I am the only god in this room." He pulled another nail from his pocket. This time, he touched the cold tip of the nail against the base of Jason's ring finger.

"Wait," said Nadira. She dropped the video camera, and it clattered to the floor.

"What is it now?"

"I don't think that I want a weapon like this. It is the devil who takes away free will, takes people's souls for his own. This should not end up in anyone's hands. Especially someone like you."

She raised her gun, aiming it at Gray's head. "Let him go."

"He still has information I need."

"I said, let him go! Akim?"

Akim nodded. He withdrew the large pistol from his belt, and pressed it against the base of Gray's skull. "Do as she says," he said.

As each nail was pulled from his hand, it hurt at least as much as it had going in. He nearly passed out from the pain. And he had a suspicion that Gray was making it even more painful than it had to be.

Both nails on the ground in a pool of blood, Akim wrapped Jason's hand in a piece of soft, patterned blue cloth.

With his good hand, he applied direct pressure to the wounds, but was careful not to press too hard, for he was pretty sure at least one bone was broken.

"Now what?" said Akim. He gestured toward Gray. "Do we kill him?"

"I've had enough of death," replied Nadira. "Let's go home."

"It's your home, not mine."

"Akim, I'm sure my father will have a place for a good security guard in his business."

"Even an Israeli security guard?"

"We'll deal with that when we come to it. He's probably not very happy with me, either…"

She waved her gun at Gray, and she and Akim herded him out the door.

Jason followed shakily, not sure what else to do. Now that no one was demanding information from him, he seemed to be a disposable commodity.

Outside, the sun was setting in the west, the orange and gold in the sky reflecting in Trickle Lake in the distance like a mirror of bronze.

Jason reached Nadira's side, emerging between the two of them, though she had yet to acknowledge he still existed.

Then, Gray stopped in his tracks, turning slowly, hands raised. "You two are making a mistake."

"I don't think so," said Nadira. "Move."

"Your mistake is thinking you could ever get the upper hand."

He flicked his wrist, and something silver flew through the air. Akim gasped, grasping his throat. As he fell to his knees, Gray ripped the pistol from his hand.

Akim choked, blood gurgling from his mouth. Nadira stepped toward him, horror on her face as the tiny blade drained her bodyguard of life. He collapsed among the flowers.

Gray stepped toward her. "Now, for you, my trembling little dear. If there's one mistake that my employer has made, it's involving civilians like you in the first place. Your unpredictable emotions would have been his undoing if he hadn't sent me in to troubleshoot this venture."

He cocked the gun.

Please, God, prayed Jason. Give me the strength. My last gift to you—a life for you to rescue.

Just before Gray pulled the trigger, Jason summoned all the energy within him, much more than he'd have had on his own. All the pain shed from him as he sprang in front of Nadira—

And the bullet meant for her exploded into his chest.

Fallout Chapter 10

Nadira held the video camera, her hand shaking. She tried to steady it, but then thought, I didn't want to be filming this in the first place.

She didn't even want to look at what was going on in front of the camera, but she had to in order to make sure there were no faces in it other than that of the victim, as Gray had instructed.

She thought of him as the victim now. She could never forgive him for what he had done, but he had become human to her in the past two days. Against her will, she had come to see him, not as a ruthless killer, but as a man who had his own ideas, reasons, and feelings. In any case, she would never have gone this far, even in the midst of her worst hatred.

Jason hung by his injured arm, his skin sheened with sweat, brown hair plastered over his forehead. Across of the scars from the day before, large bruises had formed on his chest and back. Gray had taken over the whipping from Akim, who had taken a break outside, and was now sauntering around him, taunting him with the possibility of the next blow. Into the end of the short rope, he had embedded shards of glass and nails that had been lying around the shed.

So far, Jason had not given Gray the satisfaction of a single word. Only his eyes were eloquent, following Gray wherever he moved, burning with defiance.

Gray swung the whip forward. It raked across Jason's chest, ripping a bloody path across his skin.

Sickened, Nadira fought the urge to turn away. I have to keep filming, she thought, though she wasn't sure why. Why did they need to document this? She would have thought the less evidence of their presence, the better. But Gray seemed to have his own agenda, as dictated by their mysterious, nameless contact, who had helped Nadira find "Kohl's" true identity after the trail ran cold.

It still baffled her as to how her contact had found her, and found out what she was after; he seemed to have unlimited resources, except when it came to finding the agent himself. His motives were simple: he'd wanted to partner with her in order to gain his share of the weapon. The only stipulation was that she would never know his identity, contacting him only through his anonymous cell phone number. But now he'd sent this man, Gray, apparently dissatisfied with her inability to get any information from Jason.

Not that Gray was faring any better.

Blood now streaked Jason's chest, welling up from numerous slashes. The whip thwacked down once more, catching against his skin. Gray yanked it off and stood, blood dripping from the whip to pool at his feet.

Gray stepped behind Jason's back.

"Nadira, I want to get some footage from this side now."

"Hasn't he had enough?"

"I will be the judge of that. Besides, he has said nothing yet."

"He needs a break, or he won't be able to speak."

"We will stop after this. Then you can upload the file to my computer."

"I still don't see why we need to record this."

"My employer has his reasons. If you want his continued assistance, you will comply with his orders."

"His orders? I work with him, not for him."

"Of course. But without his assistance, how far do you think you would have gotten?"

Not far, she thought. But that doesn't mean he can treat me like an employee. Does he believe that I am the lesser partner? If so, does he think he's entitled to the larger share? I started this. He should be grateful for that.

And now, this is getting out of hand…and there isn't much I can do about it.

The whip cracked across Jason's back, drawing more blood. Part of her longed to grab the whip away and stop this. Or order Akim to make Gray stop—

If he stops, though, will I get the information that I need? she wondered.

But how much am I really willing to sacrifice for this unknown commodity? Should I just stand by and watch as this man is tortured half to death? It's not like I'm doing it myself. But I am benefiting from it. Isn't that almost the same as if I were the one wielding the whip?

For the first time, she contemplated just leaving. Giving up on this, letting her contact have the weapon.

But if she left, she would have gotten this far for nothing. All her work, all her searching, would be in vain.

And so she stayed, and uploaded the video to the computer. Even as she did, though, she thought, There has to be a way to do this without ripping into a man and taking his humanity from him, piece by piece…and, by my complicity, shredding my own humanity in the process.

-
The clock on the wall chimed one-thirty. About this time yesterday, Whit had discovered that his son had been kidnapped. And in all those hours, he had slept for maybe three.

After studying the photo for about two hours after Might had called, there was nothing else he could do, so he came to his son's house. He hadn't touched anything because it was a crime scene, except that he'd lay down in his son's bed, exhausted. But he still hadn't been able to go to sleep, so he'd sat in front of the computer, waiting for the file that Might had said he was going to send.

It had never come. Whit had fallen asleep in front of the computer at about 5 a.m. and slept till 8. He'd jumped awake, and thought all that had happened was just a nightmare.

Until he saw the mess the room was in, and reality had slammed back into him.

My son has been kidnapped. He is being tortured. For my sake.

He hadn't even gone to church this morning; he wouldn't have been able to pretend that everything was all right when it wasn't, since he couldn't tell anyone what was going on. Plus, he was exhausted. Besides not sleeping much, barely eating except for picking some things out of his son's cupboard, all this had taken its toll on him.

I'm not as young as I used to be, he thought. But as I heard someone say once, when you start thinking you're old, real old age starts overtaking you …

That's another reason to exchange myself. My son still has so much life ahead of him.

The phone rang into the silence. He jumped. Then pressed the phone to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Whit!" It was Connie. Relief washed over him. "Are you okay? I haven't heard from you today."

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound very good."

"Thanks."

"I mean—"

He smiled. "It's okay, Connie. I just…didn't sleep much last night."

"Me either. I couldn't stop thinking about Jason.

"I...was glad I had a headache, so I could just lie in bed, and not have to pretend everything's okay. But I'm feeling better now. Do you want some company?"

"I suppose I would. If you wouldn't mind."

"I'll be right over. Are you at your house?"

"I'm at Jason's. Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah."

There was a beep. Call waiting. "Connie—I have a call. I think it might be Might."

"Oh—I'll call back. Wait, I have a call too."

He answered the call; it was Might, or whatever he called himself now.

"Good afternoon. I've sent you a file with some riveting new footage."

"Listen, Might—"

"It's Will."

"Will?"

"You may call me Will now."

"Might—and Will. I see. Both have double meanings."

"You're quick for an old man."

"Yes, well, I'm the same 'old man' you tried to go up against last time."

"I know. You were good. But this time, I have you at a distinct disadvantage. And you and your son are just two small pawns in the middle of a grand master's strategy."

"So this isn't about revenge?"

"Revenge? Maybe, just a little. But mainly, I know you. I've read up on your file. You have something I want, and I know how to hit you where it hurts."

"Who are you, really?"

"That, my dear Whit, you will never find out. No one will, until I have the world in my hands."

"It's the world you're after? That game's been played before."

"Not like this. I am snatching up piece after piece, before anyone else even realizes they're in the game."

"I see why you'd want Zephyr. That's also why I can't give it to you."

"Maybe you'll change your mind once you see what has been done to your son. The pain he is in." Whit hated how casually Will talked about what he was doing to Jason.

"I will exchange myself for my son."

"Noble gesture. But I won't be able to take you up on that."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not how this game is played.

"Open the file, Whit. The next time I call, I expect you to have made the right decision."

After he hung up, Whit leaned his head in his hand, feeling faint. He had been counting on giving himself up for lost, but Might, or Will, had dismissed his offer without consideration.

But it made more sense now. Will wasn't just a hacker. Getting Zephyr was part of a larger plot for world domination. If not for the program, Whit might have dismissed Will as all bluster. But with Zephyr in his possession, even a moderately resourceful person would be able to make a large step toward his goals. It was that powerful a program.

I shouldn't have been involved with it in the first place, he thought. But I didn't know of its capabilities when I started. And then, I was so invested in its completion, I was blinded to the fact it had little real world application, beyond its parasitic nature.

Dreading what he'd find, he checked his inbox. Sure enough, there was a new email with an attachment.

He opened it.

At first the shaky video aimed down at the floor. Then, it swung upwards, revealing Jason, hanging by his wrist—

Pain shot through Whit's heart. He knew there was more to come.

Two men took turns beating him with a knotted rope. The camera never showed their faces. After a cut in the film, something must've been added to the rope, for when the makeshift whip dragged across his skin, it left more than bruises. By the end, Jason's arms, back, chest, even face were torn and bleeding.

Whit couldn't imagine the pain he was in. Still, something gave him hope. His eyes. They were not listless, broken; they blazed with defiance, showing that it was still the Jason he knew. The one who would never give up.

No matter what, he didn't want his son to have to go through this. Alone.

No, he was not alone.

Heavenly Father, protect my son. Make your presence known to him in that place. Show him—somehow, in all that darkness—show him the depths of your love.

When Connie called back, he found out she had gotten a call from Will too, along with a shorter version of the video file on her phone. She was so upset she could barely drive, though she was already on her way over.

After letting her in, he sat with her on Jason's couch in the middle of the destroyed living room.

"It's my fault," she said, tears streaking her face over her freckles. "I mean, he said it was my fault. He told me—it was because I found out, that they did that to him. And he said if I told anyone, he'd kill Jason. I should've just left it alone, but I had to see what you were doing in that room and now—" She shook her head, eyes closed.

Whit squeezed her shoulder. "Connie, it's not your fault. Will is the one doing this.

"If anything, it's my fault. I should've been more careful, and closed the door to the secret room. I didn't think anyone was there…But it goes further than that. I created Zephyr. If I'd've known this would happen, I'd've destroyed it completely, even though it wasn't mine to destroy.

"It's too powerful. What it does is…enslaves other programs. In theory, it could spread throughout the world like a virus, taking over every computer that's connected to the Internet.

"The only thing that matters now—is that I can't give him the program. But I can't let my son bear the consequences for something I did."

Connie sniffed. "We…could look at the video some more. I don't want to ever see it again, but maybe it'll give us some clues."

"We didn't get any clues from the picture, but you're right. There's a lot more to work with in the video. No matter how careful Will might have been, there might be something that gives him away."

Over the next hour, they played the video over and over. Connie had to get up several times, unable to face Jason's torture again and again. Whit tried to focus as much as possible on the background; it pained him to see his son being whipped before his eyes. But if there was a chance they could save him…

There was nothing about the place he was held in that looked familiar to either of them. It was built out of some dark boards, and there was a shelf with some rusty tools on it. A board behind him had a knothole that looked like a star, but that was the only thing distinctive about it.

Connie suggested they take a break, and Whit agreed. He needed some fresh air. They walked about a mile down to McCalister Park. Whit thought it was interesting that, without even intending to, he naturally gravitated toward Whit's End. As if it was more of a home than his own.

They sat down on a bench to rest. Birds flitted through the trees, singing. Beyond the frame of maples branches, Odyssey was bathed in golden sunlight, the people inside its buildings and homes innocent of the horror that three of its citizens were facing.

Whit wished there was some way to know where Jason was, some way to rescue him. He didn't want his little boy to have to go through another night away from home, in a strange place, enemies surrounding him and hurting him.

This was the worst nightmare for a parent. It didn't matter that Jason was grown up. He was still his son, his and Jenny's youngest. Their baby boy. He remembered Jenny, holding him after he was born, glowing with happy exhaustion, her red hair tumbling down over her shoulders, and that tiny little bundle with dark brown hair…

"He has your eyes," Jenny had said. And Whit had held him, kissed him, and wanted nothing more than to protect him from everything evil in the world—

I'm sorry Jenny, he thought. I couldn't keep him safe….In fact, in more ways than one, I'm responsible for his fate…

Perhaps it is best that I give Will the program. We can always try to get it back—trace it to its source. Catch this criminal, make him pay for what he's done.

Connie nudged Whit's shoulder. "It's Emily," she said.

Emily pedaled up on her bike. "Hi, Mr. Whittaker! Hi Connie!" She slid to a stop and jumped off. "Even though it's Sunday, I thought you might be at Whit's End. I'm glad I found you!" She held a package in her hand.

"Hey—you guys okay?"

"Neither of us slept very much last night," said Connie.

"Oh." She sat down beside Connie, and looked at Whit. "You know how I was on a case and you told me not to get carried away? Me and Matthew spied on my neighbors, and we heard that grinding noise again last night. We….kind of trespassed, but we thought it was okay because we thought they were counterfeiting money.

"Then, just as we were looking in the window of the basement, somebody came around behind us. It was a woman. She told us her name was Mrs. Steward, and she invited us in to eat cookies and milk. It turns out, her son was home for the first time in ages, and he was using the tools in the basement to finish something his grandfather had been making. Here. Here's a picture." She showed them a picture of a wood carving. It was a galloping horse that looked almost like it was in motion. Something about it was familiar… "Her son's learning how to make them like her grandfather did. His name was Zebulon."

Something clicked. "I remember a Zebulon...who used to make carvings like that. Something happened to him…"

"That's the other part of the story. He made all these wood carvings for the kids around town. But one day there was a huge storm, and his house fell down the mountain in a rockslide. He kind of went crazy after that, and Mrs. Steward's mother had to take care of him. Only recently she found some old pictures of what the house used to look like, and Zebulon's workshop. She's trying to understand him, in order to forgive him for how he acted when she was growing up.

"Here's some of the pictures."

She handed them to Whit, and he flipped through them. One caught his eye. The tool shed, decked out with toys and shiny new tools. Next to a half-finished running horse was a knothole in the shape of a star.

The exact same shape as the one in the shed where Jason was being held.

The cabin had been near Odyssey. Forrest Mountain.

Whit breathed a prayer of thanks.

"Thank you, Emily."

"For what?" she said.

"For being an excellent detective."

She laughed, as if she didn't quite believe him. Then she dashed off into the bright sunlight in the west.

Whit turned to Connie. "I think I know where Jason is."

"I saw it too," she said, her eyes sparkling with the same hope that filled his heart.

Fallout Chapter 9

"My alias is Gray," said the man, after taking a smoke from the cigarette. "Please, sit."

"What's your real name?"

Gray ignored his question. "Sit, if you would."

"I'd rather stand, thank you."

"I think you would rather sit, Jason. You would feel much more comfortable."

"I've been sitting far too much lately."

"Suit yourself."

From the back of the shed, he dragged the chair that Jason had been bound in. The ropes were long gone, but there were bloodstains on it. His blood.

Gray sat down, casually blowing out a cloud of smoke. Jason had always hated cigarettes; he'd tried one once in middle school, and his father had made sure he'd never try one again.

This man (whatever his real name was) had implied he was a professional interrogator. That made everything he said and did suspect to being a tactic to elicit information. With Akim and Nadira, he had just had to withstand the pain and not let it have anything to do with what they were asking him. A trained interrogator was a different story. Jason wouldn't put it past him to be using the cigarette to remind him, the prisoner, of who was in control of his environment, and made him wonder whether or not the cigarette would be used as a tool of torture.

On the other hand, he was on familiar turf now. Nadira and Akim had been wild cards; you never knew how someone untrained would act. During training with the Agency, Jason had learned most of the tricks counterintelligence interrogators used. He'd passed those tests with flying colors.

No matter how good you were, though, there was always someone who was better. Jason would have to study Gray, gather information from him at the same time he was resisting the interrogation, in order to get an idea of who he was dealing with and how he could prevail.

"When did you first find out about the weapon?" asked Gray. Akim stood, hands behind his back, near Nadira; Nadira leaned against the wall, looking on with interest.

"I'm not going to answer any of your questions, you know."

"The answer to that question isn't classified."

"Do I look like I've been willing to cooperate?"

"You look like you could use a rest from not cooperating."

Jason leaned back against the tool shelf. "So you're the good cop, is that it?"

"Maybe."

"That's a pretty old trick."

"Would you rather we used a different 'trick'?" He rose, and walked toward Jason. "For instance, I could use this—" he brandished his cigarette, the smoke trailing through the air—"as motivation."

Jason tried to keep his face impassive. "Torture doesn't work."

Gray clicked his tongue. "That's just an official platitude. You and I both know that in expert hands, it does work. Bludgeoning your way through, though, like amateurs—" he waved in the general direction of Akim and Nadira—"most often results in either false intel, or an unconscious subject." He dropped the cigarette onto the floor, ground it with his heel.

"It is true that one of my problems is that you are a seasoned agent who's been interrogated several times before. You can resist most forms of questioning—intimidation, deprivation, physical pain, even most chemical coercion."

"So you might as well give up now."

"Except that if I gave up, I'd be losing a very valuable commodity."

"You don't even know what it is. How do you know how valuable it is?"

"You created an elaborate diversion in Egypt for the sake of escaping with the weapon. Anything worth that much trouble is worth looking into."

"Just how do you fit into all of this? Are you working for Nadira, or is it the other way around?"

Gray smiled. "Let's just say we have mutual interests.

"So, I'm curious. How would you elicit high-stakes intel from an agent with almost twenty years of experience?"

"You want to know how I would do things."

"One agent to another."

"Well," said Jason, "I wouldn't use torture, for one. And, let me see. I'd give the agent a nice, comfortable place to sit down. I'd give him water, food. I'd let him sleep without knocking him out first. In fact, I'd give him the best treatment possible."

"And you think this would get results."

"Maybe, maybe not. But my conscience would be clear."

"In this business, a conscience is a liability."

"I believe that we should at least try to live up to the ideals that we uphold."

"Perhaps the ones who cling to their ideals at the cost of practicality are doing their cause a disservice by not being willing to sacrifice everything, even their souls, to defeat the adversaries of their cause."

"By winning that way, haven't you changed what you've won? I mean, if you're willing to go that far, I'm not sure I'd want to live in a world like that. It sounds a little too much like Nazi Germany. Or a terrorist's paradise."

"We're talking about extremes there, I suppose. Selling your soul might not be completely necessary in this game, but compromise is. For instance, a spy has to construct a complex lie in order to survive long enough to perform his duty. It's just the way things are."

"We do have to compromise. But when you get so absorbed in the performance of your role you forget even what truth looks like, you've betrayed your mission."

"How so?"

"I lost sight of it so much that I caused the death of an innocent girl."

"It wasn't your fault."

"But what I did resulted in her death."

"Some would say you are being overly sensitive. These things happen. 'Acceptable collateral' I believe is the term."

Jason whirled on Gray, chain clinking, pulling against his ankle. Gray stepped back, out of his reach.

"I will never accept an innocent life as merely 'collateral'," said Jason.

Gray looked at him, as if sizing him up. "You're a good agent, Jason. I've seen your file. I've also seen the notes on why you left. It was not even about the death of a girl at that point. It was about 'feelings'. You felt you'd gone too far in pursuit of Grote, lied for the sake of the truth. You have a conscience, fine. But if you'd learn to ignore it, not all the time, but when it matters, you'd still be working for the Agency. Still doing good, putting the 'bad guys' in prison."

"Sorry, but some things are even more important to me than my job. My relationship with people I love. With God."

"God," scoffed Gray. "That would open a whole new avenue of discussion.

"But, as interesting as this has been, I want to keep things moving.

"Akim—come over here."

Akim stepped over beside Gray. "Yes?"

"Make sure the prisoner does what I tell him."

Akim nodded.

Gray looked at Jason. "Take off your clothes."

Shock ran down Jason's spine. No way was he going to comply with such an order, though he knew he probably had little choice in the matter.

"Just your shirt will do at the moment," said Gray.

Jason fingered his tattered shirt. There wasn't much left of it; one sleeve was torn off, and all the buttons had been ripped off the front. Though it would hurt to take it off, he wouldn't miss it much.

But if he did comply, it would be an act of submission. He would concede nothing willingly.

"I don't see what you need it for."

Gray nodded. Akim stepped over to Jason.

Jason backed away until the chain tugged at his ankle. In a flash, Akim grabbed his throat, fingers digging into his neck. As he struggled to breathe, Akim forced him to his knees. With his other hand, he tugged the shirt off his shoulders, yanking it down his arms. Pain shot through his injured shoulder.

"Now, we need him in a more restrained position. We don't have a lot to work with in this place, so we'll have to improvise." He looked up at the ceiling. "Ah, there. A crossbeam. Take your rope, and sling it up there."

Akim took some rope from in his pack. It took two attempts, but he flung it so that both ends dangled down onto the floor.

"Good. Now attach one end to his wrist."

"Which wrist?"

"The left one."

"His left shoulder is injured."

"That's why I want that one."

As Akim advanced on him, Jason lashed out with his fist, hitting the larger man in the jaw. Despite his weakened state, Jason was glad to see that he had enough strength to make Akim reel backwards, though it felt like his hand had hurtled into solid rock.

Before Akim could recover, Jason punched him in the stomach, and he doubled over.

"Enough," said Gray. He strode over to Jason, and rammed his fist toward his face. Jason blocked him with his arm. But then, Gray's hand slammed down against his shoulder, sending him to his knees. Gray kicked him in the side. He collapsed to the floor, unable to keep his face from hitting the hard cement.

He tried to struggle up again but Gray's heel ground into his back.

"Now you may tie his wrist, Akim."

Kneeling on the floor, Akim pulled Jason's arm out straight. Jason gasped in pain as the shoulder wound felt like it had burst open again. The rope was pulled tightly around his wrist.

Gray ordered Akim to pull the other end of the rope. Jason braced himself but was not able to anticipate the inferno of pain as the strained muscles in his shoulder tugged against the knife wound.

The rope was tied so that he dangled several inches above the floor, all his weight relying on one injured arm.

Agony surged through his veins; hatred for Gray ripped through his heart.

Gray sat back down, looking up at him. "I think we might as well strip him the rest of the way. Go ahead, Akim."

"But—" said Akim. "I would rather—"

"Whose orders are you obeying?"

Nadira stepped forward. Her face looked gray, her dark eyes wide and earnest. "Please, don't do this. Isn't this enough? Leave him some dignity."

"This is not about dignity, Nadira."

"There's a point when—it's going too far."

"I hope you won't continue to interfere in this interrogation. If so, our interests may be at cross-purposes."

"Listen," said Akim. "She is Muslim. It is not…proper for her to see a man…unclothed. For her sake, not his."

"Oh, very well. I will humor you both—this once.

"Now take the rest of the rope that you have. Knot it in several different places, more heavily at one end than the other."

Jason shivered as he hung there; it seemed much colder, but it was probably more from shock than anything. He was grateful to Nadira for taking his side; even Akim, though that was tempered by the fact that Akim had no qualms about hurting him.

Gray on the other hand—Anger gripped him, directed against this man who had crushed his hope of escape.

As the knotted rope crashed into his back, sending fireworks of pain across it, he held onto that anger, and it gave him strength.

I may not be an agent at the moment, but I will stay true to what I have vowed to protect. I will give my life before I give my secrets.

Fallout Chapter 6

Connie swept the counter with the rag, using the swift rhythm of years of practice. If anyone's a professional at working here, it's me, she thought. After she'd come from California, it was the first place she felt like she belonged, and whenever things went wrong somewhere else, this place was like a second home. Right now, there was nowhere else she'd rather be than here in Odyssey, at Whit's End, wiping the counter after a long day.

Things were settling down. Most of the kids had gone home for supper; right now, there was only Emily and Matthew upstairs in the Imagination Station, and…there was someone else, wasn't there? Oh, that man in the corner booth, sitting as still as a shadow.

Strange. She had never seen him in here before. She wondered if he was new in town. It had been so busy most of the afternoon, she hadn't even thought to ask his name or where he was from. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen him come in….Had he been here all afternoon? Wasn't he the guy who she'd given the root beer float to when she'd first come in at 1:00?

That was odd. And kind of creepy.

Great. I'm just jumping to conclusions. He probably just likes the place and wants to hang out for a while, that's all.

Well, if he's up to no good, I'll chase him out of here. And if he's a secret agent or something…we've had so many of those around here I've lost count.

Well, not that many. None in the past…year. Except for one. The only one that really matters. Because he's Whit's son of course, not for any other reason. Not that there'd be any other reason…

Oh, cut it out, she told herself. It's been a long day. Time to go home and relax. I'll wait a little while until Emily and Matthew get done with their adventure.

She strode over to the man. "Do you need anything?"

He looked up from beneath his hat. He squinted up at her, gray eyes glinting. He had smile lines around his tanned face, but he wasn't smiling.

"No, I'm fine. I suppose you're closing soon?" His voice was low yet pleasant, but something about it was…fake. As if he was trying too hard to be polite, and would rather not be if he didn't have to.

"We will be in a few minutes. You don't have to hurry, though. Take your time."

"That's fine. I need to get going anyway."

"Can…I ask where you're headed?"

He smiled. "You can ask."

"Just curious, that's all."

"I'll just be going for a walk, then to a hotel."

"Oh? Do you have business in Odyssey?" She noted his pristine gray suit.

"Something like that. Thanks for your excellent service." And he rose, showing he was much taller than he looked when he was sitting down. He tipped his hat, and strode out the door.

Connie grabbed her purse and went upstairs to get Emily and Matthew. It was strange, now that the man had gone, the place made her feel jumpy, its silent, unused rooms shrouded in shadow.

In the Bible Room sat the imagination Station. Emily and Matthew were just stumbling out of it, reeling as if dazed.

"What an adventure!" said Emily. "Let's do it again!"

Matthew clutched his stomach. "I don't know if I could handle another one. I don't think I'll eat for a week."

"It's time to be done anyway," said Connie. "I have to close up shop."

"Oh, okay," said Emily. "I didn't know it was that late."

"You two go downstairs. I'll look around and make sure everything's shut down."

She set down her purse and went across the room to shut down the Noah's Ark display, which was stuck in a sound loop, "And it rained for forty days—" over and over. She made a mental note to tell Whit about it.

She hurried downstairs. Whit was by the doorway, talking to Matthew and Emily, something about Emily's neighbor. Right before Connie got there, the two kids dashed out the door into the waning sunlight.

"Hi, Whit," said Connie. "Here to catch up on a project?"

"Something like that." He smiled, but his eyes were sad. Come to think of it, he was pale, his face drawn, as if he were ten years older.

"Whit—is there something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing you need to worry about. I'm just not feeling myself, that's all."

"Are you sure you should be working late? I mean, if you're not feeling well—"

"I'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with me…physically."

"Spiritually?"

He gave a sad smile. "Maybe."

"But it's not something you can tell me."

"If I could, I would."

"There isn't anything I can do?"

He shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. Except—pray, Connie."

"I will, Whit." She walked out the door, wishing she knew what was going on so she could help.

It's none of my business, she thought, as she walked out to her car. If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me.

She stopped by her car, reached for her keys in her purse—and realized her purse wasn't there.
Great. Where did I leave it last? It was in the kitchen—and then I took it up the Bible Room...

Back inside, all the lights on the main floor were off. Whit was nowhere to be seen.

As she reached the Bible Room, she saw the door to Whit's office was open. He wasn't at his desk though. He was in secret computer room, and had left the bookcase open.

I should really let him know that I'm here, she thought. But what if he doesn't want me to know? Maybe I should just leave my purse and come back tomorrow.

She was about to announce her presence, when she saw what was on the computer screen.
It was a man, horribly beaten—but there was something about his face that was familiar—and the blue of his eyes, so like his father's—

Jason! Her hear tore to see him like that. Why would anyone want to hurt him? she wondered. Could it be some of his old enemies? That's probably why Whit doesn't want me to know. But there has to be something I can do!

Just then, Whit got up from his chair—and froze. "Connie? Is that you?"

"What's going on, Whit?"

"You'd better get inside. If any place is secure, it's this room."

She came in, and he shut the bookshelf behind her. Then she pulled up a second chair and sat down beside him.

On the large screen, everything was magnified. Every bruise, every cut, every drop of blood. She had to turn away after a moment and look at Whit to avoid seeing Jason's terribly injured face.

"Who did this?"

"I have my suspicions, but no proof. All I have is this picture, and the texts I've been getting all day, threatening to do more harm to my son if I don't hand over…a certain computer program."

"Applesauce?"

"No, Zephyr."

"Zephyr?"

"No reason we called it that, except that it was the last letter of the alphabet, and Applesauce was the first."

"You've worked on that many programs?"

"Well, some I've had more of a hand in than others. This one, like Applesauce, was developed with the Department of Defense. It's been in 'cold storage', partly because of a security breach. He never got it, but he government feared his access, and so they locked it up, believing that the risks of using it outweighed its benefits."

"Who was the person who tried to get it?" Memories of Blackgaard flitted across her mind, but she knew it couldn't possibly be him.

"We never found out who he was—just an exceptionally brilliant hacker who called himself Might. We never knew anything beyond the communications he sent us."

"Do you think it's the same guy?"

"I'm not ruling out any possibilities, but if it's someone else—our security breach was bigger than we thought. It makes sense why he'd want it, and he knew of my involvement. What I don't know is why he waited to try to get it after all these years."

"But do you even have the program? I mean, they had it in storage."

"That's the strange part. There was only one other person beside me that knew I had a copy of the program, and the other person died several years ago."

"What if he's been spying on you? Saw you had the program somehow….Whit—I saw someone in here tonight. He was here since before you left. Do you think he could have something to do with this?"

Whit hesitated. "Was it the same man that was here earlier today?"

"Well, he had a hat and a gray business suit."

"Sounds like him. Did you talk to him?"

"He just said he was going to a hotel. He didn't say which one."

"Hm. There's no way to find out anything without more information, unless he comes in here again. Right now, I'm studying this picture to see if it'll give me a clue about where Jason is. I've got some software that'll help me analyze the picture. It's the best lead we've got right now."

"If there's any way I can help, Whit…"

"You're helping already." He smiled at her; the first genuine smile she'd seen from him since he'd come back to the shop.

She sat with him the next few hours. It was true, there wasn't much she could do; computer programming was all Greek to her. But she could talk with him and, most importantly, pray with him.
It was about 10:00. Connie was getting tired; she was long overdue back at her apartment, and Penny was probably wondering where she was. She didn't even have her cell phone; it was still in her purse.

"Whit, I think I'd better—"

"Go ahead, Connie. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"I'll just stay a little longer myself."

"Make sure to get some rest. You can't help Jason if you're all worn out."

"That's true. Thank you, Connie, for everything."

"I'll keep praying."

"And make sure you don't tell anyone about this. Jason's life may depend on it."

She gave Whit a hug, looking at Jason's picture and wishing she could hug him too—though it'd probably hurt him too much if she did.

Walking down the dark hallway, she wondered whether it would do any good to go home; she probably wouldn't get any sleep tonight anyway. She'd be up all night, worried about Jason.
-

Whit sat back at the computer. It had been good to have someone to talk to, to not be alone in dealing with this. He just hoped that Jason's kidnapper hadn't found out Connie knew; no one could be that omniscient. Unless the security breach went further than anyone had suspected…

He leaned his head in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted. Ever since he'd found out what had happened, he'd been in a state of heightened tension. Now, it was all catching up with him. He didn't want to stop looking for a lead…but maybe Connie was right. Maybe he'd have to get some rest in order to be fresh enough to start again.

He was just about to get up, head home, when his cell phone vibrated.

It wasn't a text this time. It was an unknown number. He picked it up.

"You did something bad, didn't you?" said a gravelly voice. Something about it sounded automated, as if it were computer-fabricated.

"Who is this?"

"You know perfectly well who I am."

"Is it Might?"

"Might? I haven't gone by that name in years. But yes, if you must know, I'm the man behind the might. Or I could be a woman as far as you know." He laughed. "But we're not here to talk about me. You told someone else, didn't you?"

"I didn't—she found out on her own."

"Did she now?" the voice sneered.

"Don't hurt my son!"

"I'm not the one hurting him. But don't worry, I won't kill him. Yet. I can allow it was a mistake—this time. The girl is harmless. But in the future, if either of you so much as slip one word of this to anyone—he dies."

"What leverage will you have then?" he asked, though he knew the answer before he said it.

"I'm sure I can think of someone you care about to choose from."

"I'm not about to tell anyone."

"Good. But you're not going to be let off scot-free. No, I'm going to have to punish you, and according to my rules, that means punishing Jason.

"Stick by Jason's computer; the next file I send will be to his address. Oh, and even if he lives, there's no guarantee that your precious son will come out of this without permanent damage."

The man hung up. Silence fell.

Time is running out, thought Whit. I'm no closer to a solution—if there is one. The only way may be to somehow convince him to exchange myself for my son.