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 7

As his mind emerged from a purgatory of delirious dreams, his body cried out for water. Burns crisscrossed his chest, where the stun gun had pressed against his skin, shocks still echoing across it. But even the pain paled in comparison with his thirst. As far as he knew, he hadn't had anything to drink since yesterday, and now it was evening, the cabin completely in shadow, just a few faint glimpses of orange light spilled across the floor; outside, the crickets chirped a mad melody.

Nadira had disappeared somewhere, where he didn't know. He didn't have a particular desire to see her again. But after what she'd told him, he could hardly blame her for her anger. She wanted the weapon, but there was more to it—she blamed him for the death of her sister. Even if she believed him when he'd said that he hadn't known what his employees had done, there was no way that he could repay her for the one she had lost. He saw now there were so many other ways he could have accomplished the same thing, but he'd become intoxicated by his ability to manipulate situations to his advantage, his expertise as an agent, and the exhilaration that came along with it. He'd taken shortcuts, such as hiring men he knew were shady characters, paying them in counterfeit money-and manufacturing the false weapon in the first place. A labyrinth of lies, culminating in the death of a twelve year old girl.

How can I ever forgive myself for what I have done? he thought. All I have gone through so far today is nothing compared to what I deserve.

His shoulder twisted with pain where the knife had been embedded. He tried to maneuver into a better position, but the ropes were too tight. He hoped infection hadn't set in. He was feeling strange, dreamy; shapes moved in the shadows, which he knew to be a product of his mind, taxed by pain and dehydration. But it wouldn't be long until he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between dreams and reality—by that time, it might be too late.

If they want to kill me, he thought, they're doing a good job of it. A slow job, though.

Voices drew nearer, and footsteps rustled through grass, then clicked across the rocks. Nadira and Akim entered the shed.

Akim withdrew his knife. Jason tensed, steeling himself for another round of torture. Akim stepped behind him, grabbed his arm—then there was a rasping sound. Suddenly, there was release as the rope was cut. A whole new world of pain opened up; his shoulders screamed as he tried to bring his arms forward, his shoulder wound stabbing him as if the knife had twisted inside it again.

Rope unwound from his wrists, coiling off onto the floor. It felt like his hands had been severed; he tried to move them, but couldn't.

Then, feeling began to tingle back into them. Nothing more than a few pinpricks at first, it burst into a constellation of fiery needles. He moved his hands, working through the pain, knowing it was best to get the feeling back into them.

Nadira stepped toward him, handed him something, then darted back beside Akim. A water bottle. His fingers still sore and slow, it was all he could do just to keep it from toppling to the floor.

He tried to lift the bottle to his lips. Several times. But his shoulders had been in one position too long, and he just couldn't lift his arms that high. The bottle fell from his half-numb fingers.

Nadira grabbed the bottle, and neared him, gun in one hand. Akim gripped his knife, as if prepared to move in a flash if he tried anything.

She held the bottle near his mouth. "Drink," she ordered, her eyes averted.

She tipped the bottle up and cold water—sweet as if it had just come from a mountain stream—flooded across his tongue, down his throat.

Then, she snatched it away. He glared up at her.

"You don't want to get sick, do you? You will if you drink too much at once."

Of course, he thought, though his craving for water was nearly unbearable, even more so now that he'd had some.

"Why-?" he said.

"We don't want to kill you; we haven't learned what you know yet."

"There is that…"

She looked at her bodyguard. "Akim-?"

Before Jason knew what was happening, Akim stepped forward, and jabbed his right arm with a syringe full of yellowish liquid.

"What…is this?"

"It will restore your strength, and help you sleep," said Nadira.

This time, as he faded from consciousness, all malevolence had disappeared from her gaze; instead, there was sadness, even sympathy. But perhaps it was no more than his mind playing tricks on him….

It only took a few moments for darkness to swallow him whole.
---

Outside, in the cool darkness of late evening, Nadira sat against the wall of the shed, her fingers laced over her knees. Akim, eclipsed by the trees, patrolled the woods, making sure no one got the chance to get near this remote hideout, this makeshift jail their benefactor had handpicked for them.

Nadira knew she should get some sleep, as Akim had advised her. But she also knew that if she tried, she wouldn't be able to. Thoughts were churning through her mind at a breakneck pace. She needed rest from them; they were like demons, constantly attacking her defenses. But they wouldn't stop.
She looked up at the moon, desperate for distraction. At first glance, it could be mistaken for full, except for the tiny sliver sliced off the edge of it.

Strange, she thought. The moon looks the same here as it does back in Egypt. But it is still the same moon, even in this alien place.

A wave of homesickness washed over her. Her mission for her homeland had taken her far away from it. She was beginning to forget details—what her apartment looked like, her sister's grave. She hoped her father was doing well, despite the fact that his injury left him wheelchair-bound. He hadn't sanctioned her trip; she had a feeling he wouldn't have approved. She was paying for the trip and Akim's wages with her monthly allowance, which she'd get till she was 21; as a lawyer for a multinational corporation, her father denied her almost nothing. Her identification with the masses was a way of making up for her privileged, sequestered life, partly due to Noor's influence.

Noor. Her heart still ached whenever she thought of her, even though it had been a year since her death. Beautiful Noor, my little light…

She took out her phone and looked at the picture on its background, glowing against the dark. Dark brown eyes, so like Mother's….

Nadira flipped through some more pictures. An old one, from when she was a curly-headed two-year-old, stopped her short. Her breath caught in her throat.

Back then, she thought, I still resented her for being the 'cause' of Mother's death…though she was starting to win me over. How could you not be won over by that smile.

I'm so sorry, my little light. I'm sorry for how I treated you at first. I'm sorry for sending you to Father's office that day—I can hardly say I'd rather have Father dead instead of you, but why did you have to do it? Why did you have to step in front of that man, sacrifice yourself…your brave, beautiful little soul…

She leaned her head into her hands, rocking back and forth, fighting the tears. But they came anyway, and spilled between her fingers as she sobbed in the dark, aching for the presence of her sister, hoping against hope she would see her again someday.

At last, she curled up against the wall, huddled beneath a thorny bush, not caring that she would get dirty. She didn't feel like walking over to the one-person tent that was set up in the woods, and she certainly didn't want to go inside the shed, where the prisoner was bound, sleeping deeply from the concoction Akim had given him.

Guilt gripped her when she thought of what she'd done, using the stun gun on Jason. It was different when Akim had hurt him; she'd been able to go outside, block her ears from the screams. But after the first surge of anger had burned away, it had become harder to press forward with her resolve to get the truth by any means necessary. She had felt…dirty. Akin to the thugs who had used Tasers to subdue the crowd during the revolution. Many of them had thought they were acting for a righteous cause. If she did the same things they did, how was she any different than they were?

Should a righteous cause use the same means at its disposal as an evil one? How far could you go until you had betrayed your ideals, and become the thing you hated?

To the terrorists, any end justifies the means, she thought. I am not a terrorist. I would never target innocents. I am not like him.

But then, he is not like I thought he would be. Face to face, he is different than how I imagined him. Despite the fact that he's a spy, there's a certain honesty about him. He seemed genuinely sorry that he caused my sister's death. I had to keep thinking of the cause, the greater good, in order to keep….hurting him.

An image flashed across her mind of herself using a stun gun to torture the prisoner, and it startled her. I am not that person, am I? Me, Nadira, who detests every form of violence, actually torturing a man—no matter how guilty--with my own hands. Have I changed that much?

What would Noor think of me?

I hated it when he asked that—what right had he to mention her? But now that I've reached the end of the road, I've found that the original weapon was never real, and the architect of the crime was in ignorance of it. Would Noor really want me to continue this…crusade?

She would want me to fight for what was right. But she would not want me to become like the oppressors we both hated.

That's what I've become, haven't I?

She turned to face the wall, away from the phantom image of her sister outlined against the backdrop of her mind, her sister's eyes, normally gentle, blazing with accusation.