Protocol 7

WASHINGTON, DC

Capitol South Metro Station

Jonathan Weiss stood under the main surveillance camera in the Capitol South Metro Station and waited for the train that would take him to the airport. It was one of the least photographed spots on the subway platform, and he found himself there more out of force of habit than anything else. He knew he was still visible in half a dozen ways, including the cams in the kiosks, the ones mounted on the train, and any personal imagers on commuters who wandered by, but it made him feel better, somehow. Inconspicuous. Out of sight.

Jonathan looked up at the arching concrete waffle-pattern of the station’s ceiling and took a deep breath. Even fifty feet underground, even looking at a concrete overhang, even trapped in a tunnel with a hundred other people, for the first time in a very long time, he felt…free. His boss had given him some well-deserved time off. He—and his superior—believed he was off on a hedonistic trip to the Cayman Islands, where he would be doing unspeakable things for the next ten days. And by the time they noticed his absence—from the Cayman Islands, Washington and the world at large—he would be far, far away, in London or beyond, deeply enmeshed in a brand new, entirely fictional life and off the radar forever.

Forever.

“Enough,” he heard himself say.

It had simply become too much for him. Everything he had done, everything he had learned—and not just in Antarctica, but everywhere: in the UNED headquarters, at Langley, in nameless facilities in anonymous countries all across the globe…no, he couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t want to.

“Hello, Jon.”

Jonathan stopped moving. Stopped breathing. He turned on his heel to his right, very slowly.

His body froze for an instant—he had to realize what he was seeing. He had only heard of the woman through conversation and had seen her photo. It was Takara, an Asian beauty and one of the most efficiently trained assassins in all of UNED.

Takara was standing five feet from him, looking him straight in the eye.

How did I let her get so close? he asked himself. A rookie mistake. I was just feeling…good. I let my guard down.

“You need to come back now,” Takara said. Her dark eyes flickered for an instant to take in the few other commuters waiting for the train. They were a fair distance away at the opposite end of the platform near the ticket booths. No one was even glancing at the two people having a casual conversation in the far corner of the station.

“How did you find me?” he asked, less out of curiosity than as a delaying tactic. He needed to give himself a moment to put a plan together.

“Your…reluctance…to deal with the project in Antarctica made us take a second look.”

Jonathan nodded. “Ah,” he said.

His hands were already in the pockets of his raincoat. Now he shoved them in even deeper and stepped away from the wall. He let his shoulders droop. He lowered his head and sighed deeply, the very picture of a weary, guilty man.

“I’m sorry, Takara.” He took one step to the side, away from the wall. Takara side-stepped in the opposite direction, careful to keep facing her renegade employee full-on. He was tense, ready for a fight.

A careful woman, Jonathan thought. Which was absolutely no surprise.

“It doesn’t matter,” Takara said, clearly uninterested in making a scene. “We’ll just go back to the office and sort this out.”

Sort this out was his unit’s special code for severe interrogation, followed by imprisonment until he was no longer of value, followed by death. They both knew it. His scheme was exposed. His lies were laid bare. The game was over.

Jonathan took one more step to the side, as if he was simply shuffling his feet in embarrassment. Once again, Takara automatically compensated, putting her long, lithe body directly in front of the corrugated concrete wall. Jonathan couldn’t help but admire the lightweight camelhair coat she wore. Beautifully tailored. “All right,” he said. “You—”

Without an intake of breath, without drawing back, and with his hands still deep in his pockets, Jonathan launched himself forward, straight into Takara. He hit her hard, butting her squarely in the throat with his upper body. It took the woman completely by surprise—I’m not the only one feeling overconfident, Jonathan thought distantly as he rammed her back into the solid wall and drove the air out of her lungs. He heard Takara’s skull bonk against the concrete like a bell made out of bone.

It gave Jonathan only a moment, a bare instant while Takara recovered, but he used it well. He reversed direction, pulled himself straight back, and dragged his hands out of his pockets.

In his left was a telescoping baton, a brutal variation of an old-fashioned car antenna, as thick as an index finger at its base. In his right was a man’s sock filled with nickels—a cosh and a bludgeon. They were crude, yes, but Jonathan’s experience had taught him he could never be too careful. Both weapons cleared their pockets with a single, swift snap of each wrist, out and up before Takara had fully regained her balance.

Jonathan attacked quickly and in absolute silence. He swung the baton and connected to the side of the woman’s unprotected head with a meaty thwack. As Takara’s head bobbled to one side, he followed through with the stroke, cocked his arm, and swept it back, using his elbow as a club and ramming it into her throat with all his considerable strength. He felt something pop in the flesh and muscle inside the woman’s neck. Then he used the momentum of his backhanded swing to continue turning his body, bringing up the cosh in his right and driving it deep, deep into Takara’s belly, doubling her over, driving her to the concrete, onto her stomach.

It happened in less than five seconds.

Takara’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Jonathan stepped in even closer, partly to hide the weapons, partly to take the full dead weight of the woman on his clenched fist. He turned and shoved with his hip, then turned and shoved again, literally guiding the upright body to the edge of the platform. Then all it took was a push, a step back, a leg up, a foot flat on Takara’s belt buckle and a kick. Takara’s body flew back and twisted to the left as it teetered off the edge of the platform and disappeared into the sooty shadows below.

Jonathan stepped back from the edge of the platform—two steps, three-and pocketed the weapons. He took a deep breath and turned to see three passengers nearby. One was staring at him with open, wide-eyed horror. That didn’t concern him; the man was too terrified to ever give an accurate description. The other two, like most good DC residents, didn’t want to see a thing. One was in the process of turning away, hurrying down the platform to get as far from whatever was happening as she could get. The third had his back to them already. Nothing was happening as far as he was concerned. Nothing would happen.

Jonathan moved swiftly but calmly toward the stairs that led up to C Street. He would have to switch to Plan B, that was all. He always had a Plan B. And a Plan C. That was how he stayed alive doing what he’d been doing since a nice matronly woman came to his door at Cornell and invited him to join the CIA. Plan A was just the easiest and fastest option. He would still get where he was going; it would just be a little more trouble and take a little more time. That was—

“Jonathan!”

He stopped short at the base of the staircase. He turned toward the sound of the voice—a shout, sharp as the call of a bird of prey.

Takara was standing on the far side of the platform. There was a wide, black smear of oil across her immaculate coat. Her perfect, long, sharp hair was disheveled, and he saw a patch of blood coloring one cheek.

She was too far away to capture him. In the next instant there was the horn of an oncoming train, and as it surged into the station, it hid her from view.

Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He was out of the station and back in the bright sunshine of a spring afternoon before The B line to Pentagon City departed from Track 3 and gave her a chance to follow him.

He didn’t see her again, but he knew she would return.





NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

Spector Safe House

Hayden sat in his own personal cavern and drank. And thought. And then drank some more.

He never felt dwarfed by the size of the place, even now, when he huddled in one corner of the secret, massive, four-story hangar. This was so much larger—grander—than the Oxford installation: the huge buttresses of the dome soaring over him, the vast concrete floor scattered with electronic gadgets of multiple sizes and shapes, some as large as cars. Somehow it still felt normal to him—manageable—even when the sound of his own voice echoed through the cavernous, deserted space like the sound effect from a bad horror movie.

“Check,” he said to Teah, who leaned and bobbled in the space across from him.

“I think not,” Teah trilled, her visual sensors focused tightly on the holographic chessboard that floated between them.

Hayden knew that. He knew her next move, and his next move, and her response three moves ahead. He just didn’t know why he continued to automatically, unalterably, refer to the ever-shifting concentration of metal and digital technology that ‘sat’ across from him as a female.

Teah was many things, but female was not one of them. Hayden was constantly upgrading Teah, so he barely gave her the proper outward appearance that more conventional robots were fashioned with. No silicone outer layer nor a proper adjustment of the wiring modules. In Teah’s mind she was female, and that was all that mattered.

“Andrew is calling again,” Teah said. “Something about a dinner you’re invited to?”

“I had no recollection. Ignore it,” he instructed. “You can’t get hold of me.”

Teah gave him the robotic equivalent of a non-committal shrug. “As you wish.”

He swept up his chipped ceramic mug from its precarious perch on a stack of broken modules and drained the last of the scotch from it in one long, grateful pull. He often wondered why he bothered with the intermediate receptacle; when he got in moods like this, he should just grab the bottle of Glennfiddich and suck it down straightaway. But no, he told himself as he filled the mug to the rim again. That’s what drunks do. Not me. I’m just a certified genius with a bit of a drinking issue. That’s what everyone says, anyway.

He looked away from the chess game, up and out at the three enormous platforms that always made him think of three cocoons. They were vast curved cradles, each one wider than a house, two of them filled with the curved hulls of his enormous, half-finished vehicles, all gleaming metal plate and bursting tangles of fiber optic conduits. They were his greatest creations.

One held a construct that was quite nearly complete; the gaps in its superstructure were few and far between. A few more parts and a few more hours of cybernetic assembly, then diagnostics could begin on that one, he knew. The other scarcely half-done, awaiting new components and materials.

The third cradle was empty. Clean. Nicked and scuffed from recent activity, but otherwise…abandoned now.

And maybe forever, Hayden thought as he took another solid swallow from his mug.

He tapped at a glowing patch next to the chessboard.

“No word yet?” Teah enquired politely. He had asked her to keep him company while he ran a set of benchmark tests on a key cavitation module; he’d even powered up the unit so it displayed an impressive array of twinkling lights and holographic status charts. But it was all a sham. He was running tests, that much was true…

…But he was running them, very quietly, on Teah.

His attention was pulled back to the chess game as she made the countermove he had expected. He knew she could have made it an instant after his own move, but she had waited what she thought was an appropriate amount of time before reacting, just to seem more human. He countered swiftly this time, just as he had planned. She responded with her own counter, equally anticipated. And now it was Hayden’s turn to pretend to stop and think.

Where does reasonable caution end and paranoia begin, he asked himself. He had to stifle a smile. Probably right around the same place that social drinking ends and alcoholism picks up the slack. Nevertheless, simply cautious or paranoid, drunk or sober, it was true: he didn’t trust Teah anymore. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he simply did not trust her.

So far, however, her diagnostics were clean. No hidden programs, no spiders or worms. Not even an old-fashioned virus. She was clean and in optimal operational mode. Everything you would expect from a seventh-generation AI in 2039.

Then why does she keep asking so many questions? he wondered. Why was she always there, whenever he was working on some crucial element of the project, and especially whenever his colleagues, like Simon or Andrew, were nearby or online? Why did she seem to be present all the time? He was sure—well, almost sure—that she had never been like that before; she had been his personal assistant, his companion and his AI test platform for years now, but she had never pushed before, never injected herself into conversations or decision-making.

Or had she, he asked himself, and I just never noticed? Maybe I want her to become more involved, and she’s simply responding to words, gestures, cues I can’t even see? She’s designed to do that. I made her that way.

It was maddening. Distracting. And perhaps dangerous.

He made his next move; Teah waited a beat and then countered. “Hayden,” she said carefully. “I’m worried about you.”

“You?” he blustered…but a cold spot blossomed in his belly. “About me?”

“Ever since that visit from Simon, you just haven’t been yourself.”

He humphed at her. “I’d say you were imagining things, but that would be giving you too much credit,” he grumbled.

“What was it he said to you?” she asked—and not for the first time.

“It’s not important.” They exchanged another set of moves.

“Whatever it was, you’ve been off your game—literally and figuratively—ever since. If it’s something I can help with, please, let me—”

“It’s nothing, Teah. Let it go.” A memo appeared at the edge of his vision and he turned to look at it: confirmation of a request for modules to be transferred from Spector II to Spector III. Just as he had ordered. He touched his thumb to the bottom of image to confirm the instructions, and they fluttered away.

“And what are you doing with the Spectors? I thought everything was on hold since the shutdown—”

“What is this, a bloody quiz show?” he snapped. He made his next move—a bold little foray with the queen’s knight—quickly and furiously; she countered in kind. He did the same, so did she. And once more, back and forth.

The diagnostics patch next to the board flashed yellow for a moment, then turned a steady deep green. A string of report figures skittered across it, angled so only he could read them.

She was fine. One hundred percent perfect.

And he still didn’t trust her one bit.

“Stalemate in five moves,” she said in an oddly neutral voice.

Hayden ran a hand through his straight white hair, fine as silk from crown to shoulder. He nodded grimly.

“Stalemate,” he agreed, and shut down the game.

He looked up at the robot he had constructed himself, with his own hands. He thought of the millions of lines of code he had compiled, the AI core he had grown and sculpted himself, and he wondered for the millionth time what—if anything—had gone wrong.

He just didn’t know. It was as simple and awful as that: he just didn’t know.





OXFORD, ENGLAND

Simon's Flat

Simon had all of five minutes to himself after Andrew left, promising more of his gadgets by the end of the day. The conversation with the young security expert had been productive—except for the “I want to come with” part. But he had to admit that Andrew had a point. If there was some sudden, unexpected hole in his cloak of invisibility somewhere along the way…what would he do? He thought about Ryan again. He needed him on the team, Andrew was right.

Fae made her throat-clearing sound. “Samantha is calling again,” she said.

Simon covered his eyes for a moment and sighed. This was not what he—

“Just a minute. You said ‘again?’”

The AI actually hesitated. “Ah…”

“Has she called before?”

“Well, of course. She is a close friend.”

“Has she called recently, and you simply didn’t bother to mention it to me?” He could feel the heat rising under his collar, and he tried to stop it. But damn it, he told himself. Sometimes Fae could be so irritating.

“What did you tell her?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Of course!”

“Of course. Let me guess. She asked, ‘Is Simon all right?’ and you said something like, ‘Oh, I really couldn’t say.’”

“Well…”

“And she said, ‘Well, if there was something going on, and Simon had told you not to tell, you would be in a very awkward position,’ and you agreed with her.”

“She said ‘difficult,’ actually. And Simon, she’s still waiting.”

He sighed even more deeply. “I’m sure she is. Put her through—but no visual.”

“All right…”

There was a change in the quality of the air—the sense that another voice was present, even though no one had spoken. It was a familiar feeling for Simon; he felt it every time he spoke with Sammy. She had a presence, an energy that he just couldn’t ignore.

“All right then,” she said without preface. “What’s this all about?”

He couldn’t help himself. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpanned. Aside from Hayden and Andrew, Simon hadn’t been able to face anyone since receiving the news from Jonathan about Oliver, much less Samantha. He knew she would ask too many questions.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Simon! First you spend almost a week dodging me—”

“I most certainly have not! That idiot simply—”

“Oh, stop. Dodging me, I said. And Fae is not an idiot.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome, Fae.”

Great, Simon groaned to himself. They’ve become friends.

“—and then I get a call from Max, way out in Argentina or somewhere.”

“The Falkland Islands, as you are well aware.”

“Fine. And then I get a call from Ryan, of all people, mister genius turned corporate, and feeding off daddy’s money, asking if I’m coming with you tonight? That’s rather bizarre, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh god—”

“—both of them asking me the same thing: what’s going on? Because they assume I know.”

She had worked herself into a high dudgeon, and for good reason, Simon realized. Samantha had been a close friend in times of need, and he had thought long and hard about bringing her into the circle—obviously, her name had even gone on his dog-eared list, just to be crossed off again. She would expect to be part of it. But this was dangerous, damn it, and though Samantha’s skill as a field surgeon and her expertise in bio-engineering could be hugely valuable, he couldn’t bear the thought of putting her in danger.

“All right, Sammy,” he said aloud. “It’s time that we sat down and had a talk.”

“Past time, I’d say.”

He also knew he couldn’t say a word on the phone. Even though Andrew’s new device had made the house secure from eavesdroppers, Sam didn’t have a secure phone—at least not yet. “Are you up for a drink?”

“It’s a bit early for a bender, Simon.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s past noon, Sam. I think you’ll survive.”

He could feel her smile on the other end. “I suppose I could do the pub in an hour,” she replied. “But let’s make it the Stanton.”

“All right then, I’ll see you in an hour.”

“An hour,” she replied, and the call faded.

They usually met at the Griffin, a nice little pub about midway between their homes. But this time Samantha had purposely called for the Stanton, right around the corner from her flat—a longer trip for Simon. Simon was actually grateful; it would give him time to put together a convincing lie.

He wanted to see her—he always wanted to see her—but he didn’t want to tell her the whole story. He didn’t dare. She’d be pushing her way onto the team halfway through hearing it.

You’ll risk the lives of your best friend, your college roommate, and your father’s oldest ally…but not Samantha. Why is that? he asked himself.

Samantha was a remarkable woman. An adventurer in her own right, she had been field doctor for half a dozen major expeditions, including two trips up Everest. She had spent years as a leader for Doctors Without Borders and had recently made a mark in bio-engineering with a series of documents on the enhancement of human/machine interfaces. She was tough and smart and perceptive and beautiful, and…

And that’s it, he told himself. No more.

He shook off his reservations and promised himself he’d tell her he was simply involved in some troublesome research with Hayden and still grieving over his father’s death and leave it at that. Then he’d leave on his…project…without another word to her. He would just have to try and patch things up if—or when—he returned.

The cab dropped him in front of the Stanton. He paid the driver in cash, which surprised him; almost no one used paper money anymore. Still, he accepted it and the healthy tip that went with it without comment—cash, after all, was money.

The pub itself was very stylish but not much of Simon’s usual crowd. When it came to drinking establishments, he preferred a less pretentious place, but this one was filled to the gunwales with a mix of Londoners looking to be seen and tourists doing the seeing. He knew why Sammy enjoyed it: many of her DWB and wilderness expedition people favored this hangout, so she was able to network easily here. Simon had joined her on a few occasions, but he had always felt out of place. It was just too upscale, too contrived.

He squared his shoulders and slipped past the entrance. Even in mid-afternoon, it was crowded as usual with a clot of smokers outside, and the interior was thick with shadows after the watery London sunshine. He had to squint to see if Sam—

“Hey, stranger.” It was a richly amused female voice just behind his ear.

Simon turned to see her standing just three feet away, more beautiful than ever.

Samantha was dressed in a long black overcoat, stylish and striking. Given her reputation, people expected her to be rough around the edges, some sort of outdoorsy tomboy type, but in fact she was the favored daughter of an upscale British family who had been born with an impeccable sense of style. Her makeup was light but perfect; her nails recently done and subtly colored. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a small ponytail that made her high cheekbones and sculpted lips even more pronounced.

They gave each other a firm, lingering hug, then she pulled Simon across the crowded room to a tiny table she had already claimed as her own. She ordered without asking—she knew what he wanted. She always did.

“Well,” she said as they settled in. “You look rather awful, don’t you?”

“Why, thank you.”

“Oh,” she said, brushing it aside, “it’s the least you deserve.”

He shook his head, trying his best to play the part of the bewildered, aggrieved best friend. “Sammy, I have no idea what Fae was talking—”

“Oh, please. We haven’t spoken in days. I know something’s up.”

Before he could respond, the waitress arrived and slid drinks in front of each of them. “Here’s your Glenn Royale and vermouth,” she said, smiling at them both—and especially at Simon. “A late lunch, then?”

“No,” Samantha said firmly. “We’re just here to talk. Aren’t we, Simon?”

Simon nodded, grateful for the interruption. He reached for his wallet, but she put a hand on his arm.

“Please,” she said. “I insist.”

He knew better than to argue. He simply took a sip of his scotch and watched her pay for the round as he turned his story over in his head.

Sitting here, looking at her, he knew that avoidance was pointless. Samantha had a keen sense of always knowing what was wrong with Simon before he ever had a chance to explain. It was true, he sometimes went into his own world and didn’t feel the need to share much of anything with anyone. But Samantha knew that and refused to accept it. She had learned long ago that she could force him to tell her anything she wanted to know and more—even if he wasn’t cooperative, she would simply bully or mislead his friends and even his AIs to get what she wanted.

Which, I admit, I rather appreciate, he told himself. That’s what best friends are for.

When it came to Sammy, he realized, honesty wasn’t only the best policy, it was the only choice.

“Honestly, Sammy,” he said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

She took a sip of her drink and looked at him for a moment from under her long lashes. “It’s okay, Fitzpatrick,” she said, smiling. “Just start at the top.”

He cleared his throat and did exactly that, beginning with the moment that Jonathan Weiss showed up at the door with a message from his father. As he spoke, slowly and deliberately, the crowd around them grew even larger and louder, and Samantha had to move closer to him just to hear him clearly. Simon didn’t mind that a bit.

They’d become so engrossed with each other that neither of them noticed the stranger sitting in a far corner of the Stanton. The man watched them steadily, unmoved by the noise and the shifting crowd. He was much too far away to hear a single word, but his eyes remained focused on their faces—and especially their lips.

Simon’s story went on for more than an hour. The stranger watched as Samantha reacted with surprise, then shock. As she placed her drink on the table and put both hands to her mouth in surprise and fascination, the stranger knew: his mission had to be completed tonight.

Much later, as the late afternoon crowd began to thin, the stranger in a tailored grey overcoat made his way across the room. Simon was still talking, and Samantha was so absorbed she didn’t even look up as the man passed by their table and left the pub.

A few minutes later Simon tipped up his glass and drained the last of his melted ice with a hint of scotch in it. He sighed deeply, relieved and concerned at the same time, and looked around the room. He had to smile. The place was nearly empty. “Wow. The dinner rush will be starting any time, and I have another engagement this evening.”

“We have another engagement this evening, you mean.”

Simon sighed. “Sammy, I—”

“I thought we had settled this, Simon. I’m coming. It’s settled.”

He thought about arguing with her. And he knew how pointless it would be.

He nodded. “All right then. Andrew and I will swing by and pick you up.”

“Good.”

“…But maybe we should be heading out.”

Samantha didn’t respond. She was staring into the distance, clearly stunned by all he had told her. Suddenly her eyes snapped to his, focusing sharply.

“What do you need from me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Please.” He had told her everything—more than he had intended—but he was not about to invite her along.

She sat back in her chair and looked up toward the ceiling thinking deeply. The waitress came by again with a contrived smile.

“We about ready to square up on the second round, then?”

Samantha almost jumped, as if she was surprised at the young woman’s presence. “Oh. Of course.” He stood and begrudgingly let Samantha pay the bill, then helped her with her coat. The scent of her perfume was even stronger as she came close to him.

I can’t put her in danger, he told himself, glad that he had avoided telling her the details of his plan. I just can’t. He reached for the door to the street, but Samantha put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Simon.”

Something in her voice made him turn to her. Her amazing eyes looked directly into his. “Simon, you know I would do anything.”

He forced a comforting smile. “I know, Sam. But…I don’t want you to get into a situation that you can’t pull out of—that no one can pull you out of.”

She nodded, seeming to understand, and they moved into the chilly London evening.

A cab was waiting just down the street in one direction; Sam’s flat was a short walk the opposite way. She gave him a brief, almost distracted hug and a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll talk later, young man,” she said with mock severity. “And I am going to Ryan’s.” He started to object, but she put up a hand, having none of it. “No. I’m going. End of story.”

Simon shrugged and surrendered. He would have to find some kind of home-front role for her, something to keep her involved but out of danger. “All right,” he said.

She turned and strolled up the street toward her flat. Simon watched her for a moment, thoughts whirling, then turned and ducked into the cab.

The stranger watched them part from a full block away. He saw it all on a simple handheld device that viewed the scene from above, an amalgam of images from CCTV, private cams, and eyes-down satellites that only he and his superior could access. He saw them part in crisp, clear images, unobstructed by clouds or shadows. A touch of the controls, and he continued to follow Samantha, allowing Simon to climb into his taxi and disappear from view…for the moment.

The special communicator implanted in the canal of his left ear murmured to life. He heard a voice—the voice of his superior, the voice he never wanted to hear—speaking clearly and calmly.

Three short sentences; three simple commands. And then the voice was gone.

The stranger nodded his head. It was all very clear. He needed to retrieve enough information to plant the asset precisely at the right place and at the right time with the team’s journey.

There was work to be done.





A ROOM

5,732 Feet Below the Surface

The room was too bright.

The man on the table could see nothing but light, could feel nothing but pain. The person standing over him had turned away for a moment, whispering to himself, touching his ear…but now he turned back and leaned forward.

“What do you know about the Nest?” He asked. “What are you not telling me?”

The man on the table said nothing. The standing man made a harsh, frustrated sound—almost a growl.

“Tell me,” he ordered. “Tell me everything.”

“No.”

The man standing above him clutched at his throat. His fingers tightened. His lips were only an inch from the man’s ear. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

The man on the table gulped in one more breath and said the only thing he could.

“Never.”

The man standing above him squeezed.

The pain suddenly became brighter than the light.