Nothing but static from the earpiece. Jorge was about to repeat himself when a hand clutching a pistol thrust itself into view from around the left corner of the alley. Jorge barely had time to duck before another shot was fired. The bullet missed him by several feet; a quick glance at Inez confirmed that she hadn’t been hit either, but he knew that the shot had only been meant to remind them just how precarious their position was.
“That’s your last warning!” Sam yelled, still unseen yet far too close for comfort. “We can turn this into a firing squad if you don’t give up.” A long pause, then he went on. “And if you don’t think we can do it, listen up!”
A shrill whistle from above them, and Jorge looked up to see that two of Sam’s men had taken positions on the rooftops overlooking the alley, one on each side. Their guns were trained on both him and Inez.
“Last chance!” Sam shouted. “Put your guns down and kick ’em away, or . . .”
“Jorge,” Inez said. “They mean it. They’ll kill us.”
There was fear in her eyes, even though her expression remained stoical. And even if he managed to reach the shuttle—why the hell wasn’t McAlister responding?—there was no way the pilot could rescue them before they were shot to death.
Jorge took a deep breath, let it out . . . then he put the rifle down, stood up, and shoved it away with the toe of his boot. “All right,” he said as Inez tossed her pistol into the alley. “Have it your way.”
Another whistle from one of the men on the rooftop, then Sam and the fourth man entered the alley. They said nothing as they marched toward Jorge and Inez, but when they reached them, Sam pulled back his fist and threw it straight into Jorge’s stomach.
Jorge doubled over, the wind agonizingly knocked from his lungs. He started to rise, but Sam’s fist came down again, this time against the back of his neck. He fell forward, his face scraping the cracked asphalt of the alley. He heard Inez cry out in pain, but when he started to push himself up on his elbows, a heavy foot came down upon his back, forcing him to lie still with his face against the ground.
“Don’t move,” Sam snarled from above him, “and you won’t get hurt.”
Jorge didn’t care what happened to him. “Inez . . . !”
“I’m . . . !” Then she yelped, this time more loudly.
“Shut up!” another voice demanded. A second later, Jorge heard footsteps running into the alley; Sam’s other men had come down from the rooftops. He couldn’t see anything except the worn-out toes of someone’s boots, though, as someone else grabbed his hands and yanked them behind his back.
Coarse, heavy twine was quickly wrapped around his wrists, yanked tight. A flapping sound, then a black canvas bag that smelled like potatoes came down around his head. A moment later, something came down against the back of his head. A flare of pain, then it was over.
Consciousness returned as a headache like none he’d ever had
before, and with it the awareness that he was no longer where he’d last been.
The bag had been removed from his head; nonetheless, it took a few moments for Jorge’s eyes to become accustomed to the dim light of the room in which he found himself. He lay upon an old mattress that was bare except for a small pillow and the brown-wool blanket that had been thrown across him. His parka, cap, gloves, and boots were missing, leaving him with only the clothes he’d worn underneath. At least his hands had been untied—he discovered this when he sat up to look around—and he wasn’t alone.
“Are you all right?” Inez sat on another mattress a few feet away, her own blanket pulled up around her shoulders. “They said you weren’t badly injured, but I’ve been worried. You’ve been out for a while.”
“I’m . . . okay.” Jorge raised a hand to the back of his head, winced as his fingers found the large bump that something—he presumed it had been a gun butt—had left behind. A small adhesive bandage had been placed over the scrape he’d received on his face. “How about you?”
“I’m good . . . except for a headache where they hit me, that is.” A wan smile. “I expect you’ve got the same thing.”
Jorge nodded painfully as he looked around. The room was small and cold, and empty save for the little battery-powered lamp that had been placed on the concrete floor near their feet. No windows in the redbrick walls, only a narrow air vent. A single door—heavy wood, reinforced with iron strips, lacking a knob or handle—rested within the wall to the left. There was a thin sliver of light beneath it, but he couldn’t hear anything from the other side. He suspected that they were in a basement—perhaps the place had once been a storeroom—but if so, then it could be anywhere.
“Have they said anything? Told you who they are?” Sitting up a little straighter, he patted the pockets of his vest and trousers. Nothing in them, nor was he surprised. If their captors had removed their winter gear, they would have also taken the precaution of taking away their headsets, utility knives, and datapads. The last was probably the worst, he realized; there was a lot of information in them that could be useful to whoever had kidnapped them.
“No, but I’ve got an idea who they are. Look behind you.”
Trying to ignore the pain shooting through the back of his neck, Jorge carefully turned his head and saw that the room wasn’t as unadorned as he’d first thought. A flag had been draped across the wall above their mattresses: crude and obviously handmade, it had thirteen red and white horizontal stripes beside a dark blue field, at the center of which was a single white star.
He’d recently seen one much like it, among the historical exhibits at the Grange Hall: the banner of the United Republic of America. He stared at it for a few moments, remembering what Sawyer Lee had told him that night in New Florida. “This . . . isn’t a good sign,” he said at last.
“No. It’s not, is it?” Inez hesitated, then lowered her voice to a near whisper. “My mother told me that, when she searched Sergio’s mind, she found . . .”
“I know. Sawyer said the same thing to me.” He sighed, looked away from the flag. “I guess . . . or at least I think we can guess . . . what Vargas’s role in all this has been. He set us up.”
Inez’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “We can’t assume that. If he’d been hiding something like this, my mother would have found out. She . . .”
From just beyond the door, footsteps. Jorge placed a forefinger against his lips, but Inez had already fallen silent. A key rattled in a lock, then the door swung open on creaking hinges and, one at a time, two men walked in.
Jorge recognized the first man as belonging to the group who’d captured them on Beacon Hill. He carried a small wooden chair, which he silently placed on the floor on the other side of the lantern. The other man was a stranger: thickset and squat, with grey-flecked hair combed back from a jowled and pugnacious face. They were dressed in what appeared to be military-style field jackets and dungarees; both wore black armbands upon which a small URA flag had been stitched.
“That’ll be all,” the older man said. “I’ll knock when I’m done.” His companion nodded before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him. The visitor remained standing; he quietly regarded Jorge and Inez for a moment, then a humorless but not unkind smile stretched across his face.
“We waited until we thought you might be awake.” His voice was hoarse, like someone accustomed to speaking more loudly than he was now. “I imagine you’re hurting a little.”
He stopped, clearly expecting an answer. Jorge didn’t reply, though, and neither did Inez. “Well . . . I’ll take that as a yes,” their captor said, then he reached into a breast pocket. “Here,” he went on, pulling out a small plastic bottle and tossing it to Jorge. “It’s not much, but it might help a bit.”
Jorge didn’t try to catch the bottle, instead letting it fall to the mattress between his feet. Something rattled inside. “Go ahead,” the older man said. “It’s just ibuprofen. Two for each of you.” He paused. “We don’t have much to spare . . . hard to come by, when we can get them . . . so if you don’t take ’em, I’ll have to ask that you give it back.”
Jorge hesitated, then picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and shook out two small pills. “Good,” the older man said, waiting until Jorge had passed the bottle to Inez before he sat down in the chair. “Sorry we don’t have any water for you yet, but that’ll be brought to you soon. Along with food, or anything else you might need.”
Jorge was tempted to ask for their headsets, weapons, and the rest of their clothing and gear, but he knew that was pointless. So he swallowed the ibuprofen and sat back on the mattress, folding his legs together as he silently waited to see what their visitor would do or say next. But he seemed to be just as capable of patience; knitting his hands together across his broad stomach, he studied them with a gaze that was both curious and unrevealing.
“All right, then,” he said after a few moments, “let’s start by getting better acquainted. I’m Major General Roland Black, commander of the First Massachusetts Regiment of the Provisional Army, United Republic of America. Which means that I’m in charge here, if you haven’t guessed already.” A smug and self-important smile. “And, of course, we already know who you are . . . Lieutenant Jorge Montero, of the Coyote Federation Corps of Exploration, and Corporal Inez Torres, also of the Corps of Exploration.”
Despite his relief, Jorge managed to keep from smiling. The fact that Black referred to Inez by her last-name alias meant that he’d pulled their identities from their pads; if he’d called her Sanchez instead of Torres, then it would’ve meant that Vargas had told him who she really was, and that could’ve meant even more trouble than they were already in.
But why didn’t Sergio let him know?
he wondered.
He knows that Inez is the
chaaz’maha’s
daughter. Why didn’t he inform his people of this?
Again, Black seemed to be anticipating a reaction. Upon receiving none, a slight frown betrayed his disappointment. He crossed his legs and went on. “I regret to inform that one of your team, Sergeant Gregory Dillon, was killed during the effort to detain you. As with you yourselves, we discovered his identity through the pad he carried on his person. His body has been retrieved, though, and it will be given a respectful burial in accordance with his standing as . . . ah, a war casualty.” Another pause. “On the other hand, you’ll be relieved to know that the last member of your team, Captain Hugh McAlister, has been captured alive.”
Jorge struggled to keep his emotions in check, but he heard Inez let out her breath. That small, involuntary response seemed to satisfy Black, because his smile reappeared. “He was injured while resisting capture by our marines, but he’s receiving medical attention in separate quarters. Your spacecraft, of course, has been impounded. So if you were expecting to be rescued”—he shook his head—“then you should know that is no longer an option.”
Once more, Black waited for either Jorge or Inez to say something. When neither of them spoke, he shook his head. “Please . . . there’s no reason to be silent. It won’t get you anywhere, and it’ll only make your situation worse.” He cocked his head toward the door. “It’s locked and guarded at all times, and this location is very secure, so don’t even consider trying to escape. We will make you as comfortable as possible, and I promise that none of you will be harmed in any way. But your cooperation will have a lot to do with how long you and Captain McAlister remain here, and the first step toward that cooperation is your speaking with me.”
Jorge looked over at Inez. She said nothing but only gave an indifferent shrug. Jorge was proud of her willingness to tough it out; however, he was also all too aware of the fact that, as prisoners, they were vulnerable to Black’s every whim. And he didn’t trust the man to keep his word not to harm them or McAlister.
He hesitated, then spoke. “So . . . how do you want us to cooperate with you?”
Pleased that one of his prisoners had finally decided to talk, Black nodded. “We just have one small thing we want you to do. It’ll help us achieve our goal, and once that’s accomplished, you’ll be released.”
Black was doing his best to present himself as an affable host, but Jorge wasn’t fooled for a moment. One look at him, and he instinctively knew that Black wasn’t someone to be taken lightly. He had to approach the situation carefully, so as not to arouse his ire. “I’ll . . . do what I can,” Jorge said, “but there are a few things I’d like to know. Like why . . .”
“Why you were captured, and even why my people took such an immediate interest in you.” Black nodded. “Of course, and the answer to that is simple . . . we knew you were coming.” His smile became a broad grin. “In fact, we’ve been waiting for you for quite some time now.”
Although Jorge had already deduced that Vargas had betrayed
them, what Black said rattled him more thoroughly than he had expected. He felt a shiver that had little to do with the chill of the room, and when he glanced at Inez again, he saw that her mouth had drawn into a taut line.
“You’re saying that this was a trap?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s exactly what it is . . . a trap.” Then Black shook his head. “You’re not the prey, though, but rather the bait. My people are after much bigger game than any of you.”
“The
chaaz’maha
.” When Inez finally spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. “That’s who you’re really after, isn’t it?”
Black favored her with a wink. “Correct, Corporal. The
chaaz’maha
. . . or Hawk Thompson, as we prefer to call him . . . is who we want to meet, not you. You’re just the means to an end.”
“Then why . . . ?” Jorge was baffled. “I mean, how did you . . . ?”
“‘Why’ isn’t important, really. At least not to you. But ‘how’ . . . ah, that’s quite interesting, indeed.” Black shifted in his chair, making himself more comfortable. “Let’s start at the beginning . . . your friend and mine, Mr. Sergio Vargas.”