He yelled out to the other man, “Arto! Arto! Tights! Tights!” He drew a hand across his neck in a cutting motion. Nothing happened.
He got up and marched away. A second later, the lights went off and they were moving, fast. The rain whipped at her face, but she just lay there, unable to move.
He picked her up again, just as he had carried her out of the tall tower. He took her below and laid her down on a small bed in a cramped room. She tried to reach for him again, but he was gone. Then back again, then gone, as if appearing and disappearing like magic.
She heard voices. Saw him pointing at a man. “Arto, plop, plop!” He pointed again.
Then he came for her, collecting her in his strong arms and they were off the boat, on land again. They walked along a beach, toward a wrecked town, like something that had been bombed in World War II. They were inside some kind of cottage, and the lights were on. She was so tired, couldn’t stay awake a second longer. He set her down on a bed of flowers, no a floral comforter. She closed her eyes and almost went to sleep, but she felt him at her feet, pulling her wet pants off. She smiled. He reached for her shirt. He would see — the scar. His hands gripped the shirt, but she held them, struggling to hold the shirt down.
“Gate, view half dew foot try blows on.”
“No.” She shook her head and turned over.
“View half…”
She could barely hear him.
He tugged at the shirt.
“Please don’t,” she mumbled. “Please don’t…”
Then he was releasing her, the weight on the bed shifted, and he was gone.
A motor started, a small one. And warm air around her, on top of her, then she twisted and it warmed her stomach, her hair. Her whole body was warm.
CHAPTER 38
Immari Jakarta Headquarters
Jakarta, Indonesia
Cole lay face-down on his stomach, waiting. He had been waiting for almost an hour as the bomb tech fiddled with his vest. He fought not to squirm, not to lose control of his bladder, not to scream. One thought ran threw his head, over-and-over: I’ll never see my family again. He should have never taken the job, regardless of the money. They had saved almost enough — $150,000 of the $250,000 they needed to open a Jiffy Lube. With his money from two straight deployments with the Marines, they would have been fine. But he wanted to have “a little extra” saved — just in case business was light those first few years. The Immari recruiter had said, “You’re mostly there for show, to make our clients feel safe. As you requested, we’ll assign you to a low-security region, definitely not the Middle East, or even South America. Europe requires seniority. Southeast Asia has been very quiet. You’ll love the weather in Jakarta.” Now some other Immari Suit would be knocking on his wife’s door. “Ma’am, your husband was killed in an unfortunate Cadbury Cream Egg incident. Our deepest condolences. What? Oh, no ma’am, this never happens. Here are his cream egg remains.” Cole let out a harsh, almost irrational laugh. He was losing it.
“Hang in there, Cole. We’re almost in,” the bomb tech said from behind a thick curved blast shield. The man wore a bulky helmet and peered through a glass strip at the top of the blast shield. His arms jutted out through two silver accordion-type metal arm sheaths that looked like the arms from the robot on the 60’s TV show Lost in Space.
The tech carefully cut the straps on Cole’s back vest. He lifted the vest slightly and bent closer to the glass slit in the blast shield for a better look.
Sweat drops popped up across Cole’s already soaked face.
“It’s not booby trapped.” Inch-by-inch, the tech peeled the vest back. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Cole almost jumped when he heard the man throw the vest the rest of the way over. Was there a timer? A backup? He felt the man’s hands work quickly at his spine. Then he felt the gloved hands go limp. He heard the screeching of metal on metal as the tech forcefully slid the blast shield out of the way. He worked with his bare hands now.
Cole felt the man lift the bomb off his spine.
“You can get up now, Cole.”
Cole turned, holding his breath.
The man looked at him with contempt. “Here’s your bomb, Cole. Be careful now, you could be allergic to polyester.” He handed Cole a rolled up T-Shirt.
Cole couldn’t believe it. He was embarrassed, but mostly, he was relieved.
Cole unrolled the t-shirt. It read, in big black magic marker letters: “BOOM!” Below it, in smaller print: “Sorry…”
CHAPTER 39
Batavia Marina
Jakarta, Indonesia
Harto put his arm around his wife and gathered his son and daughter at his side. They stood on the wooden dock at the marina where Harto had retrieved the boat the soldier had told him about. The four of them beheld the machine, no one saying a word. It sparkled. It all still seemed like a dream to Harto. The boat was the most beautiful thing he’d seen since his wife on their wedding day.
“It’s ours,” he said.
“How Harto?”