“Excellent coordination,” Drummond said. “You look like you’ve had experience with basketball. But this game has aspects of volleyball and soccer as well. How were you at those?”
Distracted, Buchanan felt the wind knocked out of him as Raymond attacked headfirst, plowing his skull into Buchanan’s stomach, knocking him over.
Buchanan writhed, struggling to breathe. Meanwhile Raymond scooped up the ball and scored another point.
“What’s the name of your Special Operations unit?” Drummond asked. “This mythical unit that’s supposed to come and rescue you or else punish me if I harm you.”
Buchanan wavered upright, wiped blood from his chin, and squinted toward Raymond.
“I asked you a question,” Drummond demanded. “What is the name of your unit?”
Buchanan pretended to dart toward the ball. Raymond lunged to intercept him. Buchanan zigzagged, coming toward Raymond from the opposite side, once more ramming his padded elbow into Raymond’s left kidney.
The repeated damage to the area made Raymond groan, faltering with his hands on the ball. Buchanan yanked it away, wedged it between his forearms, and started to throw. Pain blurred his vision as Raymond tackled him from behind at his midsection.
Falling, Buchanan was terribly conscious of the ball beneath him, of Raymond’s weight on top of him. When he hit the court, he felt as if the ball were a wedge against which the top and bottom of his body were being split in opposite directions. Raymond’s plummeting body shoved the ball against Buchanan’s stomach. For a terrifying moment, Buchanan couldn’t breathe. He felt smothered.
Then Raymond scrambled free, and Buchanan rolled off the ball, gasping, knowing that his abdomen had been bruised-worse, that the stitches in his knife wound had been torn open beneath the leather armor that girded his right side.
Raymond picked up the ball with his forearms and, without any visible strain, threw it, scoring another point.
The court echoed with the powerful thunk of the ball as it landed. Construction equipment kept roaring in the background. The fires kept crackling. A gunshot reverberated from the forest. Smoke, tinted crimson by the sunset, drifted over the court.
Drummond coughed.
He kept coughing. Phlegm rattled in his throat. He spat and finally managed to say, “You’ll have to try harder. What is the name of your Special Operations unit?”
Stiff, weary, in pain, Buchanan stood. If he and Holly were going to get out of this alive, he had to convince Drummond that the old man couldn’t afford the consequence of killing his hostages.
“Name, rank, and serial number,” Buchanan said. “But I’ll go to hell before I give you classified information.”
“You don’t know what hell can be,” Drummond said. “What is the name of your Special Operations unit?”
Buchanan grabbed for the ball. Although his movements were an excruciating effort, he had to keep trying. He had to ignore the sticky wetness beneath the leather pad on his right side. He had to overcome his pain.
Raymond sprinted to intercept him, stooping to grab the ball.
Buchanan increased speed, getting to Raymond much sooner than expected, kicking, his right shin striking the unprotected area between Raymond’s shoulders and his abdomen.
Bent over, Raymond took the kick so hard that he was lifted off the court. He tilted in midair, landed on his side, rolled onto his back, kept rolling, came to his feet, and whacked his forearm across Buchanan’s face so hard that Buchanan’s teeth snapped together.
For a moment, Buchanan was blind, jolted backward.
Raymond struck him again, knocking him farther backward. Blood flew. Dazed, Buchanan prepared for a third blow, shielding his face, ducking to the left, unable to see clearly.
“What is the name of your unit?” Drummond demanded.
Raymond struck again, smashing Buchanan’s lips.
Then suddenly Buchanan had nowhere to go. He was thrust against the wall of the court. Through blurred vision, he saw Raymond drawing back his arm to strike yet again.
“The name of your unit?” Drummond shouted.
“Yellow Fruit!” Holly blurted.
“Yellow. .?” Drummond sounded confused.
“You want the unit’s name! That’s it!” Holly’s voice was unsteady from terror. “Stop. My God, look at the blood. Can’t you see how hurt he is?”
“That’s the general idea.” Raymond struck Buchanan again.
Buchanan slumped to his knees.
Keep going, Holly. Buchanan strained to clear his vision. Damn it, keep on. Hook them.
Yellow Fruit! She hadn’t told Drummond about Scotch and Soda. Instead, she’d used the name for a unit that was no longer operative. She was following what Buchanan had taught her during their search. When you’re absolutely stuck, tell the truth, but only that portion of the truth that’s useful. Never expose your core identity.
“And what exactly is Yellow Fruit?” Drummond demanded.
“It’s a covert Army unit that supplies security and intelligence to Special Operations units.” Holly’s voice continued to shake.
“And how do you know this? A while ago, Buchanan assured me that your knowledge was limited.”
“Because of a story I’ve been working on. I’ve tracked down leads for a year. Buchanan’s one of them. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t tried to get close to him and hope he’d say more than he meant to.”
“Did he?”
“Not enough to satisfy you. Damn it, I’ve got nothing to do with this. I want out of this. Jesus, tell him what he wants, Buchanan. Maybe he’ll let us go.”
“Yes,” Drummond said, “take her advice and tell me everything I want.”
Buchanan was kneeling, his head bowed. Wiping blood from his mouth, he nodded. Abruptly he struck Raymond in his solar plexus, doubling Raymond over, striking again, this time with an uppercut that made Raymond’s eyes cross and sent him reeling back, collapsing on the court. Raymond’s feathered helmet rolled away.
Buchanan struggled to his feet. If he’d been allowed to use his Special Forces hand-to-hand-combat skills, he would not have had so much trouble dealing with Raymond. But winning in hand-to-hand combat wasn’t the point. Winning the game was. Otherwise, Drummond might become so outraged that he’d order Buchanan and Holly to be executed. And Buchanan doubted that the rules of pok-a-tok included karate.
As it was, the damage that he had inflicted on Raymond was sufficient to leave Raymond sprawled on the court. Wavering, Buchanan picked up the ball between his forearms. He studied the vertical hoop, tried to clear his blurred vision, and threw the ball underhanded. His stomach turned cold when the ball struck the edge of the ring and thunked back toward him.
Shit, he thought. He wiped sweat from his eyes, whirled to make certain that Raymond was still on his back, then glared up at Holly.
“You bitch!” he shouted. “You were just leading me on! All I meant to you was a story!”
“Damned right!” she shouted back. “Did you figure you were so wonderful I’d fall hopelessly in love with you? Get real, and look in the mirror! I don’t intend to get killed because of you! For God’s sake, tell him what he wants!”
Buchanan turned toward the ring, threw the ball underhanded again, and this time the ball went through.
“Tell him what he wants?” Buchanan glared harder. “I’ll tell him, bitch. Just enough to save my life. You’re the threat to him, not me. You’re the damned reporter! I’m a soldier! I can be trusted to keep my mouth shut!”
Buchanan threw the ball yet again. It arced through the ring. “And I’ll win this fucking game.”
“Just enough to save your life?” Holly turned paler than she already was. “Hey, we’re in this together!”