Consequence

(sequel to Fallout)

Chapter 1

Wham! A snowball hurtled over the snow fort into Connie's cheek. "Ow!" she said, wiping the half-melted snow off her face.
"Are you okay?" said Jason, beside her. He gently touched her skin where she was pretty sure there'd be a red mark for a while.
"I've had worse," she said, attempting a smile; the cold across her face made it hard to move her mouth. Come to think of it, it'd probably hurt more once she went indoors.
"We're running out of snow." He took their shovel and tossed some more into the pile, careful to stay out of the line of sight of Wooton and Penny, their opponents.
Connie gathered some snow and packed it into a ball, as Jason built one of his own.
"On three," she said. "One—Two—"
They dashed out from behind the fort, and ambushed Wooton and Penny with a hailstorm of snowballs over the top of their high, pinnacled fort. From behind the white wall, there was a yelp of 'ow', and a laugh from Penny. "We'll get you back for that!" she yelled.
Jason grabbed Connie's shoulder, pulled her into a huddle. "I have an idea. We'll sit tight here, make more weapons, and wait so long they can't help but come out. Then we'll attack!"
"Is that something you learned as an agent?"
He mock-gasped. "Uh oh, I've given away my secrets!"
"So that's what you were doing all that time you were a spy."
"Trust me, it got pretty intense."
"Like this."
Jason laughed. "Yeah, I haven't had a snowball fight like this since I was a kid." He knelt in the snow, started crafting more missiles.
Connie joined him. "Who knows who's going to win? Wooton and Penny are pretty good."
Jason nodded. "But how do we decide who wins? Whoever gives up first?"
"I think so."
Connie glanced up at the sky. Overcast, it was late in the afternoon. They'd met here in McCalister Park after church. They'd started by making a snowman, but his head had fallen off, and so Wooton had started making him into a fort. It had escalated from there.
After amassing a giant pyramid of snowballs, they sat there and waited. Connie rubbed her gloved hands together, trying not to shiver, and looked over at Jason, wondering if he was getting cold too. After he'd been kidnapped two months ago, she'd taken to watching over him, making sure he was taking care of himself.
The images assaulted her mind again--of him being beaten, of the blood spreading across his chest from the gunshot. She tried to stifle those memories as much as she could; she never wanted to think of him like that. She's rather see him always as this strong older brother, invincible, next-to-perfect (what do you expect from a Whittaker?). The past few days, she'd almost forgotten what had happened. Things were almost back to normal—except in times like this, when she had time to wonder whether he was as recovered as he acted, or how much scarring, not just physical, lay beneath the surface. He had shared some of his thoughts with her, but she suspected there was a lot he hadn't…and she didn't blame him. As horrible as it had been for her to go through those two days when he was missing, it was nothing in comparison to what he must've experienced. He was stronger than her in every way—she had no illusions about how she would have emerged from that—but it still must've affected him in ways that he couldn't come to terms with. Even after two months.
His face was in profile, the glare of the snow reflecting off of it. He's in agent mode, isn't he, she thought. He isn't even thinking about me, just about the 'mission'. That's okay though; as long as it makes him happy. At least this kind of mission can't get him killed.
He leaned toward her. "They're out there. Ready?"
She grabbed some snowballs and nodded.
"Go!" he said in a loud whisper.
They both leaped from opposite sides of the fort. She ambushed Wooton and slammed a snowball at him but he dodged it and hit her with one, which crashed into her shoulder. She ducked his next volley and dashed behind the fort, grabbing more snowballs, and hurled them toward him like arrows from a medieval castle.
He yelled "Retreat!" and ran back to their fortress, not before throwing a few more snowballs toward Connie, which missed except one which grazed her hood.
Jason and Penny were locked in combat in the center; Connie ran to help him and ended up tackling Penny, who managed to crawl away and limp back to the fortress.
"Penny, are you okay?" said Connie.
"Not really!" said Penny from behind the wall of snow.
Connie turned to Jason, who was kneeling in the snow. His face was pale; he was breathing hard. "Jason, what's wrong?"
He made an attempt at a laugh, though he clutched his chest as if it hurt. "It's just the gunshot wound. Close quarters combat- got a little intense there."
"Yeah. Maybe we should…call it a draw?"
"I don't….Well…maybe." He grimaced. "I hate to call it a day just because of my…infirmity."
"It's not your fault. You shouldn't push yourself too hard yet."
"Yeah, I know." He sighed.
"Besides, I think Penny's kind of injured too."
"How are you guys doing?" said Jason.
"We have a fallen warrior!" said Wooton. "She wants to keep playing, but she twisted her ankle."
"Okay, let's go home," said Jason, unable to keep the relief out of his voice.
Wooton emerged, helping Penny limp from behind the fort. Wooton looked at the fort wistfully. "Goodbye, Yoda," he said. He gave it an affectionate pat. "You served us well."
"You were a terrible snowman," said Penny, "but an awesome fort." She looked at Connie. "Did you guys have a name for your fort?"
She shook her head. "Just 'Fort'."
"That's what I'd have called our fort," said Wooton, "if he hadn't been a snowman first."
Jason drove them to his house and they filed inside, shedding dripping boots and coats in the entryway. He started the teapot and got out hot chocolate and marshmallows while they all sat down in the living room and Penny propped up her foot with some ice. Connie wrapped herself in a blanket, while Wooton and Penny got their hot chocolate. Jason brought her a mug of tea. He slid in beside her and they started a movie while they waited for the pizza to arrive. After pizza, they played Scattergories.
Then Wooton took Penny home, since he had to get up early for his mail route. Connie helped Jason clean up, then turned on the rest of the movie.
The movie faded in and out of existence and finally….she was asleep.
She stirred. She felt comfortable, warm, safe. She snuggled into the warmth, and grabbed the pillow she was leaning on.
Except it wasn't a pillow, it was a shoulder. She looked up into Jason's face, shadowed in the low light.
"Oh, sorry," she said, words slurring with sleep. "Didn't know it was you." She sat up.
"I didn't want to wake you," he said.
"So you didn't move? You could've, you know. I wouldn't care."
He smiled ruefully. "You looked so comfortable and peaceful, I…well, I couldn't risk it."
"Would you have stayed there all night?" she said.
He cleared his throat. "Probably not."
"You should have just woken me up in the first place, Jason. Now what time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty." He inched away from her a little, hands clasped in front of him.
"I missed the whole end of the movie. Great."
"Wasn't the best movie in the world."
"Maybe next time we can watch a better movie. One that you pick out." She stood up, stretching.
"I'll drive you home," he said.
"You don't have to."
"It's not far. I can walk back."
She was too tired to argue. "Okay."
They drove home in silence. It was so dark, and the soft rhythm of the car almost rocked her back to sleep.
They stopped at her house. "Thanks, Jason," she said, getting out of the car sleepily.
He nodded, face solemn under the street lamps. "You've done so much for me and Dad, Connie."
"Cut it out, Jason. I haven't done very much."
"More than you know." He took her hand, pressed it in his--the one that had been injured. Suddenly, he withdrew it, turned, and walked down the sidewalk, while she stood there in the cold, shivering, as if he had taken all warmth away with his absence.

Fallout Chapter 13 (final chapter)

Jason sat huddled in blankets in the huge easy chair at his dad's house, the grandfather clock ticking into the silence. For the first time since returning to consciousness, he felt at ease. After two weeks in the hospital, they'd brought him home yesterday. It had been hard, settling in through all the pain, and it still hurt to move; he tried not to, if at all possible.

There had been so much commotion yesterday, with all the people coming over to visit. He was glad beyond words to see all those familiar faces, but it had exhausted him.

Part of him longed to be up and moving again, hated to be trapped in this pain-wracked body. Sometimes, though, it was good to just sit, in the still of the silence, and relax. Breathe.

Especially now, when the painkillers were working, and he had a book to read. It was even quieter in the house than normal, since his father was out running errands. Though Jason would have liked his dad to be around all the time, he was glad he was getting out of the house; Whit had been almost constantly at his side all through his stay at the hospital. Connie had been there a lot too, and she had, he'd learned, given him some of her own blood.

Once he was awake, he'd had many other visitors from around town. He was glad to see them, but part of him was afraid that they'd ask him questions. He wasn't even sure how much they knew; he hadn't told anyone anything, beyond giving the police his statement. Of course they knew of his injuries. It was a miracle he'd escaped with his life. Besides the gunshot wound, he'd had a broken nose, a deep cut in his shoulder, the same shoulder dislocated, a collapsed lung, two broken ribs, multiple burns, bruises, lacerations, cuts; infection, dehydration, a fingernail torn off, and two puncture wounds that went straight through his left hand.

It's amazing I was able to get out of the hospital so soon, he thought. He didn't anticipate the long recovery…and he knew there were other wounds he was avoiding that went much deeper.

He didn't want to think about what had happened, so at the hospital, when he didn't have visitors, he'd watched TV shows all day, even soap operas, in order to shut off the voices clamoring in his head.

There was no TV at his dad's house; he could have watched a video on his computer, but he thought that it would be better to read, in order to sharpen his mind.

He settled in to read his dad's copy of Till We Have Faces by CS Lewis. For some reason, though he'd read most of Lewis's books, he hadn't read this one yet. By the time his father walked through the door, he had reached the middle of chapter five.

"Dad!" said Jason, relieved to see him. For some reason—he hadn't even realized this—but he was afraid to be alone. To be trapped. Someone could easily creep in and take him down without a fight--

"Are you all right, son?" Whit walked inside, set a package down on the counter.

"I'm fine. Just reading the book you gave me."

"How is it?"

"Good, so far."

Whit nodded. He sat down in the chair beside Jason, holding an envelope in his hands.

"I stopped by the police station to tie up some loose ends. They had something for you there."

He handed Jason the envelope. Jason set the book facedown in his lap, and took it with his good hand.

Jason Whittaker was written across it in careful cursive.

"Before the NSA took Nadira into custody," said Whit, "she wrote that and left it at the police station for you."

Jason ripped open the envelope with his thumb.

Covering a single sheet of note paper ran the same careful script as on the outside. Now that he'd opened it, he wasn't sure he wanted to read it. It was too soon to face the memories that he knew would rush in on him, overwhelm him.

Despite his misgivings, he read:

Dear Jason,

I can't begin to say how sorry I am for what I have done to you. If I hadn't been bent on revenge, none of this would have happened. I didn't even see how the mysterious man I partnered with was manipulating me, and I didn't think to ask what his motives were—I only wanted to hurt you for what you'd done to Noor.

I was wrong. After I saw you and got to know you, I knew you were no ruthless killer. You made mistakes, like everyone does, but you are good at heart. That makes it all the harder to face what I did to you.

All I know is that you have given me a second chance at life. I will try with all my heart to make the most of it.

Right now, I'm not sure about what my future will be; the NSA is going to take me for questioning about the man who calls himself Will. I know next to nothing about him. Maybe they will torture me. That would be a fitting punishment.

If they let me go, I will ask them to let me take Akim's body back with me. He deserves more than an unmarked grave. All he did, he did out of loyalty for me. I hope you can forgive him for that.

Jason, most of all, I keep thinking about the conversation we had. You said you would sacrifice yourself for me, and I didn't believe you. But when it came down to it, you stepped in front of Gray, and got shot in my place. I know what I would have done; I would never have traded my life for yours. I'm not even sure if I'd have traded my life for my own father's, as Noor did, Allah forgive me.

It makes me think of what was going through Noor's mind when it happened. She let go of her own life—she counted it as nothing—for someone she loved.

I may have to take a look at the Christian Bible, and see what else it says. If it gives you the strength to love your enemies, well--I used to think all Christians were hypocrites, but after my sister, and now you—

Her Bible is still at home, hidden somewhere in the house. If I ever get home, I will read it. And remember your sacrifice.

I don't think we will ever speak again. I just wanted to let you know I could never thank you enough for what you've done. And I wish for you a wonderful life to the end of your days.

Love,

Nadira Jaheem

Jason sat back and set the letter down on the book. Tears slipped from his eyes.

"Are you okay?" said his father.

"No," he said, more tears spilling onto his shirt, not caring because his dad was the one person in the world who would not hold his weakness against him.

His father pulled his chair close to his, laid his hand gently on his shoulder—as close as a hug as he could get without hurting him.

"I—don't know what to do, Dad," he said. His breath hitched; a sharp pain jabbed his chest. I'll tear myself apart if I cry much, he thought, trying to shut his mind off from what had happened. He'd thought his death would be the end of it. But he was still on Earth, wrestling with continuous stabs of pain and ever-present aches, struggling to keep the memories from overwhelming his mind with darkness.

Nadira—he harbored no hard feelings toward her. But Gray—horror stabbed him whenever he so much as thought of his name.

"I wish I could just hold you in my arms," said his father, "like when you were a kid, and tell you everything would be all right. But I'm having a hard time with this, Jason. Whenever I see your injuries, I think of them hurting you. I hate that the son that I love had to go through this at all. And how it's my fault that it happened in the first place."

"How could it be your fault?"

"If I hadn't made the computer program that Will wanted, he would have never come after you."

"You can't blame yourself, Dad. You couldn't have known."

"I should have known better than to create a program that was basically a virus. It went beyond ethical and moral limits."

"At least…it didn't kill anyone."

"But it could have."

"I'd have deserved it. I didn't tell you this before, and then I wasn't up to it, but now--

"I…implied what had happened; after all, you warned me of getting lost in the labyrinth. But I didn't want anyone to know how far I went. The worst part was, it wasn't just out of necessity. I began to enjoy it." Disgust gripped him as it began to come back to him—creating the web of deception, immersing himself in it. And he told his father about everything, all its sordid details—from its inception in Australia, to the finale in Singapore, when he knew, under different circumstances, he would have taken revenge on Grote, and reveled in its taste as much as the agent he'd been working with.

It was in that moment, he'd realized he'd gone too far. He knew he had to step back, recover, remember the visage of truth—and that meant returning to Odyssey.

But he could not just step out of it and recover. No, he had to pay for a compromise that had worked in practice, until its consequences had caught up with him and nearly destroyed him.

"Even though I don't ever know how I can forgive Gray," said Jason, "part of me thinks that I deserved what happened to me. Part of me thinks that I should have died, after what happened to Noor. A life for a life." Pain twisted in his heart that had nothing to do with the shrapnel embedded in the tissue near it, which he'd probably bear for the rest of his life.

"Don't talk like that."

"I'm sorry. It's selfish of me to think that way. You've already lost one son…but I'm a poor substitute." He made an attempt at a smile.

"No, you aren't, Jason. If Jerry could see you today, I know he'd be proud of you. Like I am."

Jason shook his head, unable to speak for fear of more tears.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes. Then Jason picked up the letter. He handed it to his father, who read it.

Tears fell from his father's eyes. "I didn't know that's how you were shot."

"Well, I wasn't about to advertise it or anything."

"You saved her life."

"I couldn't have done it without God's help. I couldn't have even…I gave into him, to Gray." He nearly choked, thinking of it. "I would have given him more…God is the only way I didn't."

"And he spared your life for a reason. Nadira's too. Even Gray's."

"I can't even think of him without…panicking."

Whit nodded, brow furrowed. "It's not going to be easy for you to get through this."

"I still think it would have been easier just to…well, much nicer to be in Heaven now."

"I've been thinking that of myself lately. But if there's still some good I can do, someone I can help, someone I can lead to God, then I will make that sacrifice. It's not all the darkness of evil, either—God made the world good, and that still shines through. It's just hard to see sometimes."

"Right now, I'm not sure if I can see much good at all."

Whit pursed his lips, then rose from his chair. He picked up the package from the counter that he'd brought in, and sat back down.

"I'll open it for you," he said. Jason nodded gratefully. "I was going to give this to you later, when you moved back to your apartment, but here. I found it in the attic last week."

Jason took it in his right hand. It was a faded print from the 70's, everyone in their family wearing bellbottoms, the splendor of the Grand Canyon in the background. Jana, arms crossed, glaring down at Jason, who scowled back at her. Jerry holding Jason's shoulders, grinning like a superstar. Jenny beside him, smiling rather coquettishly into the camera, her eyes so like Jerry's.

"Remember that day?" said his dad.

Jason nodded. "We'd just hiked all the way back up the Grand Canyon in the 100 degree heat. We were miserable." He smiled; laughing would have hurt.

"Even though it was miserable, I hold onto that memory. That trip was the last time we were all together as a family."

"The last time, before…the war changed everything."

"What happened…wasn't easy for any of us. But just like back then, we have to remember that someday, all this will be swept away, and we'll be reunited with the ones we love, and there will be no more sorrow, or pain, or tears."

Whit touched his shoulder, their understanding of a hug which they'd developed in the days following the surgery.

Jason knew he would have a long road to recovery. But his dad was right; there was light in the world, as well as darkness. He just had to cling to the truth that something beautiful that he couldn't yet comprehend could be born out of the darkness and ugliness that he'd been immersed in for what seemed like so long.

He set the picture on the lampstand beside him, and sat back to read his book, while his dad went into the kitchen to fix them both some supper.

Fallout Chapter 12

Connie stirred from her awkward position against the chair in the hospital waiting room. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds; a baby cried. Its mother bounced it in her arms, walking back and forth by the window.

The baby must've woken me up, she thought. Then it all rushed back to her. Discovering where Jason was. Telling the police as discreetly as possible. Renting a helicopter and pilot to fly to the former site of Zebulon's cabin, following the police helicopter as close as they dared.

They landed in the aftermath. There had been a gun battle, one woman shot in the leg, a man who'd been shot by the police leaving a trail of blood into the forest, another man, dead, some sort of blade in his throat.

And Jason, horribly wounded, blood spreading over his chest. The police were applying pressure to the gunshot wound and radioing in the ambulance. A policewoman ordered her to press a piece of cloth to it, but blood soaked it almost as soon as they tore a new piece.

It wasn't long before the hospital helicopter landed. After paramedics had rushed Jason off on a stretcher and the helicopter rose into the sky, Whit and Connie had left for the hospital in the rental helicopter.

She'd been there all night. For most of that time, she'd been pacing the halls while the surgeons worked to save Jason's life. A few hours ago, they'd come in and said he was stabilized; they'd gotten most of the internal bleeding under control. He was fortunate the bullet had missed his heart and hadn't done more damage at such close range.

After that, she must've nodded off. Now it was 7 a.m., and Whit was nowhere in sight. She got up and took a drink from the water fountain.

As soon as she sat back down, Whit reappeared. His hair was in disarray, showing his old war wound. He looked thinner, infinitely weary.

"They said we can go and see him now. But…he's not conscious. And he's not in good shape."

"I want to see him anyway."

"They think he'll pull through. It's still just a seventy percent chance—but that's a lot more than it was last night." He shook his head, tears gleaming in his eyes. Her own breath caught in her throat as they walked down the hall. She wished she could speak, comfort him, but if she did, she knew she'd start crying again.

When they reached the room, she couldn't hold back the tears any more. Jason's whole face looked swollen. Bandages covered his chest and most of his visible skin. A breathing tube was taped to his mouth, and a respirator went up and down, in concert with the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor. She made her way through all the equipment, and knelt beside the IV stand.

It was hard to believe this was the Jason she knew, the man who was so strong, so full of life. She touched his hair, the only way to be sure to touch him without hurting him, and carefully smoothed it back from his brow.

"How could anyone do this to him?" she said, looking up at Whit.

Anger blazed across his eyes. "What we saw was pure evil, Connie. I have no doubt about that." He touched his son's right hand, the only part of him that looked relatively undamaged. His other hand was bound in bandages; when they'd found him, it had been wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth.

"Have they found the man that shot him yet?"

He shook his head. "The police have been searching, but they haven't found him, even though the he's wounded. The FBI will be here soon, though. They're going to question the girl."

"What do you think she has to do with it?"

"I wish I knew."

"Maybe she'll tell who Will really is."

"I doubt it. But who knows what he'll do now. He's still out there, somewhere."

"What if he comes after us again? What if he tries to hurt Jason?"

Whit looked down at his son. "As much as in my power, I'm never going to let anyone take him away from me again."

A nurse walked in, a clipboard at her side. "He is going to need another blood transfusion."

Whit started rolling up his sleeve, as if preparing it for the needle.

"They don't recommend someone your age giving any more so soon."

"I'll take the risk."

"What's your blood type, Whit?" said Connie, her heart pounding.

"AB negative. The same as Jason's."

"Mine's O negative. That would work, wouldn't it?" She turned to the nurse, who nodded.

"Connie, you don't have to—" Whit said.

She looked at Whit. "This is the least I can do. If there's any way I can help save Jason's life, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Connie." The gratefulness in his eyes pierced her heart. She turned away so he couldn't see her tears, and followed the nurse to get prepped for the transfusion.

-

Will sat at his desk, waiting for Gray to call. It had been too long; something must've gone wrong. Neither Nadira nor Akim had contacted him either, and he couldn't get ahold of them. He hated feeling like events were spinning out of his control.

He twirled his pencil, resisting the urge to slam it lead-first into his antique desk. He had set up his plan up so well. While researching leverage to make John Whittaker give him the almost too-good-to-be-true computer program, a bonus had fallen into his lap—he'd discovered a woman who wanted revenge against the man who happened to be Whittaker's son. And this man also held a valuable secret in his mind. It had been such an elegant solution. He had the people who were all too willing to get their hands dirty for him. He had the leverage. He would soon have both secrets, and then—he could take the next step.

But suddenly, in his public life, things had become precarious. If he didn't get these secrets now, he wouldn't have the resources later. Time was running out.

It must be taking longer than expected to extract the intel from the younger Whittaker, he thought. Doesn't surprise me. Both father and son's profiles are pretty substantial.

His phone rang. He'd only used this phone to contact Nadira or Gray during the mission, and he would incinerate it soon as it was over.

"Yes?"

"This is Gray." The agent sounded out of breath—uncharacteristic for him.

"What happened?"

"The girl turned against me. I took her guard out of the picture, and I was about to take her out too, but-–the target stepped in the way."

"What?"

"His mind must've been compromised by the drugs still in his system. He stepped in front of her, took the bullet, and that gave the cavalry enough time to arrive."

"You mean—"

"We've lost the target. He could not have survived the wounds he sustained."

"That is…unfortunate."

"As this mission has been terminated, do you have any further orders?"

"You'll have to stand by."

"Copy. And sir, in the future, you know who to contact if you want the job done."

"You didn't accomplish much this time."

"I obtained the identity of the weapon. It was only the civilians who—"

"If you allow two civilians to beat you, perhaps you're not as good as the image you sell."

He shut off the phone before Gray could say another word. He'd probably regret it later on; contrary to what he'd said, Gray was the best freelance operative he'd ever employed. It was best not to alienate him, especially since Gray was a dangerous man to have as an enemy.

There has to be a way to get what I want, he thought. I'm going to prevail in this and every venture I set out to do. I have to. I deserve the world. And the world needs my guidance.

There was a knock at his door.

"Come in," he said, after shoving the phone in the wastebasket. He'd burn it as soon as possible.

It was his aide. "I have some…news for you, Senator."

"You don't look like it's good news."

"No, sir. Here." He handed him some papers with bell curves scrawled across them, percentages—He knew what they added up to.

"I'm not going to be reelected, am I."

"The polls are down by another two percentage points. I'm sorry, but only by a miracle would you win this race."

He sighed. He'd seen this coming, but he'd let himself become distracted by the other section of the game. "Thank you, Parker. Thanks for all your hard work in this campaign. I suppose I'll have to make a concession speech now."

"I'll help you with that."

Will fought the need to snap back at him. "No, I want to do this thing on my own." And he dismissed Parker, and sat down at his desk, trying to figure out what had happened. How everything had fallen apart so quickly.

And how he could recover…

Someday, he thought. All great men have had setbacks. With this comforting thought, he stepped to the window and looked out at the Capitol, its dome gleaming golden in the early morning sunlight.

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 8

Voices snapped him awake, coming from somewhere outside the shed. The bluish light of early morning was seeping through the door; cold mist clung to his skin.

His throat was still dry, but he felt much better, despite the nightmares he'd been immersed in the whole night. Strangely, he hardly felt any pain. He was sprawled across the floor on a mat, one ankle chained to the sturdy pinewood leg of the tool shelf.

He struggled to sit up, tugged experimentally at the chain, which didn't budge. Meanwhile, he listened to the voices, hoping to pick up any clues that might help him escape.

"Are you working for me, or not?" said Nadira.

"Of course I'm working for you," Akim replied. "But I am also employed by…another party."

"I don't understand why we can't just use a truth drug. He's had enough punishment—"

"Enough? After all you've said about him, Nadira?"

"I've lost my….appetite for it, Akim. It makes me feel sick, doing this. I can't just keep pretending I'm not acting like our enemies. I want to be better than that.

"And I don't see why our contact cares so much about the secret. It's not the one he wanted in the first place, but he seems to want it just as much, even though he doesn't know what it is."

"We want it just as much."

"That's because we can't go back empty-handed. I have to have something to give to our people."

"I see," said Akim. "So you want me to ask our contact for some kind of truth drug?"

"It'll probably be more effective than what we've been doing. And when we have the information, we can leave this place for good."

"Are you sure you'll be okay here by yourself?"

"I'll be fine. You left me here yesterday, and nothing happened."

"I don't like leaving you alone."

"I have my gun. And as long as he's chained securely—"

"He is."

"Go on, Akim. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back."

The rustling of footsteps diminished into the distance.

A few minutes later, Nadira appeared in the doorway.

"You're awake," she said. "How are you feeling?"

The raging, consuming pain had faded to multiple aches. "Much better. What was in that syringe?"

"All I know is that it has a lot of restorative powers."

He tried moving the arm that had been stabbed. That hurt, and he resolved not to attempt it again. "Where did you get it?"

"What does it matter, as long as it works?"

"Did you get it from your contact?"

"You heard."

"Yes. I also heard that you wanted to ask him for a truth drug. Why the change in tactics?"

"It's not what Noor would have wanted." She slung the pack off of her shoulder, carefully sat down opposite him, and leaned against the wall. She opened the pack, took out two water bottles, and rolled one over to him. He reached it with his left hand, and twisted the top off. With difficulty, he was able to drink it. She took out some bread from her pack, and tossed a piece to him. He tried to catch it, but it fell onto the dusty floor.

He leaned over to pick it up; his shoulder sparked with pain. He snatched it from the floor, and took a bite. It was hard to eat with his still-swollen face, but it was worth it. Crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, it tasted better than any other bread he'd had in a long time.

He finished it, and leaned against the tool shelf leg. Even eating was exhausting.

"I must look terrible," he said, half to himself, wondering what he looked like. He rubbed his jaw; there was a day's growth of a beard there.

"You do, kind of," said Nadira, tipping her head. "But you look a lot better than yesterday."

"Not that there was much to look at to begin with."

"Even when I saw you the first time, it was hard to think of you as a hardened criminal."

"Appearances can be deceiving."

"But I can tell you're not all bad. You have probably done some good things in your life." She smiled wryly.

"I have tried. But lately, I have gotten lost, and all that I was entangled in resulted in–what I can never forgive myself for. All that you have done to me—it's not enough to make up for what I've done."

"But I shouldn't have…hurt you anyway. It was wrong to let myself get so carried away, I didn't even care what Noor would have wanted. I suppose you could say I got lost too. I'm sorry for—" she waved her hand in his general direction—"this."

"Well—I can't say it was fun. But I do understand, a little."

"Unless you're really trying to manipulate me, Jason Whittaker, you sure aren't what I expected." She took another drink from her water bottle. "Are you sure you don't want to just tell me the truth? It could save us a lot of trouble. You want to go home, don't you?"

He longed to be back in town, to see his father again. For a while there, he'd thought he might not make it. But now, hope dangled in front of him, a tantalizing prize.

"Very much."

"Do you have family in Odyssey?" asked Nadira.

He hesitated, though he didn't know why he couldn't tell her. "My father. He owns an ice cream shop called Whit's End."

"Maybe, when I'm done here, I will go see what it is like."

"Maybe I will show you around." Though the very idea of it struck him as odd—him showing Whit's End to the one who'd had him tortured. It was true; they were not likely to become fast friends.

"Is your mother in Odyssey too?" she asked.

"She died a long time ago."

"How old were you?"

"I was just out of college—somewhere, off gallivanting around the world. I always regret not being there during her final days…She was very sick, at the end."

"I'm…sorry." She looked down. "I was there when my mother died. She was having my sister…For a long time after she was born, I refused to even look at her."

"Noor?"

She nodded. "My other two siblings died in childbirth. I…wished the same thing on Noor. I hated her for killing my mother." Grief haunted her face. "I tried to resist her for a long time. But she loved me even though I hated her. And she had such a wonderful smile—it lit something up inside me. And then, even though we were eleven years apart, we did everything together. She was so much a part of my life…. I don't think you could understand how close we were."

"Maybe more than you think. I mean, our relationship was different, and we were eight years apart, but my brother and I were close too."

"You have a brother?"

"Had. He died in Vietnam. I still miss him so much. Part of me still wishes that I would have been able to convince him not to go… There's so much about him that I should be…but I could never measure up to."

Nadira leaned forward. "It's the same with me and Noor. She was a born leader. She was just as smart as me, even though she was so much younger. And such faith she had! That's why it was so shocking when she became a Christian."

"She became a Christian?"

Nadira nodded. "I've never told anyone this. Most people never knew…

"She'd been hanging around some Christian friends; things like religious barriers didn't bother her. Then one day she told me the secret, and…well, it took me a long time to get over it. That was about a year before…what happened.

"Anyway, she was even stronger in Christianity than Islam, reading the Bible every night. I tried to keep it from my father; we both knew how he'd react if he found out. It's not that we're such devout Muslims, but what it would do to our reputation… Well. As far as I know, no one else ever knew, and I'm not about to tell my father."

Something struck him. "She was living out her faith that day."

"What?"

"She must've known what would happen if she stepped in front of the man with the gun. But she did it anyway. She was showing her love for your father by giving her life in his place. Like Jesus did."

"Don't turn this into some sermon."

"I—don't mean to. It's just that—she knew where she was going.

"And I don't have any right to preach to you…I just…have heard that the ultimate test of love is sacrifice."

"And I have heard that the Bible says to love your enemies. That is asking too much."

"Jesus died for the ones who hated him."

"And I suppose you would follow in the footsteps of the great Prophet?"

"I can't compare myself with him. But I hope that if it came down to it, I would give my life for someone else. Even for my enemies."

"You would die for me or Akim? If anything, we qualify as your enemies."

"I hope that I would."

"Ha!" She stood. "I'll believe that when I see it. Maybe you are trying to manipulate me into sympathizing with you."

She stepped over to him, looked down at him. For a moment, he thought she'd slap him again. Then, she turned on her heel and walked out the door.

It's true, he thought. I can't know what I'd do in that situation unless it actually happened. Would I die in her place? Or would my sense of self-preservation kick in?

In any case, I have no credibility. There's no way I can convince her of anything without actions to back it up—and I can't deny it, I hope it would never come to that. It's looking like she might actually let me go, though there's no way I'm going to give her that information. If the truth drug's as potent as that restorative drug, though, I may not have a choice…

He pulled himself to his feet and shuffled back and forth, as far as the chain would let him, getting his strength back as the mountain air filled his lungs. He almost felt…normal again.

The sun was nearly at its zenith by the time someone stepped into the shed.

It was Akim and a strange man, Nadira trailing them both, breathless.

The man stepped forward, looked Jason up and down. He was tall, lithe, with dark blond hair and tanned skin. His gray eyes were cold.

"So this is the man who has been giving you all this trouble."

"If could have some more time with him—" said Akim.

"No offense, Akim, but you are not a professional at this. You might eventually get the intel, but things have changed, and we are running out of time."

"I still don't understand why we can't use a truth serum of some sort," said Nadira.

"We have our reasons. Do what I tell you, or stay out of my way."

The man rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, which complemented his tan pants and polished shoes. Jason wondered how he'd gotten this far up the mountain without getting so much as a speck of dust on his clothes.

He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a cigarette. Touched it with the flame from a lighter, and the toxic smell filled the room.

"Now," he said, "I think it's time we begin."

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.