Leaving him here. Leaving him here to die. To starve to death or die of dehydration in the middle of a huge, teeming city.
Footsteps walking away, a door shutting.
The Dragon must have given them what they wanted; if not, the torture would have started on him. Maybe they were going to negotiate for his release. No. He had seen Gumalar’s face. He choked down the hope that he was going to get out of here. They had no reason to keep him alive.
Choate barely dared to move. The ropes binding him to the chair were as tight as they ever were… but the chair felt strange. The back of its frame moved as he struggled. Wood grated against wood. He closed his eyes and collected his thoughts. Slowly he began to move his bound hands. Thinking of nothing else, ignoring the agony in his foot, in his face.
Crack. The back of the chair, already damaged from one of his attacker’s kicks, parted from the seat. He tried to pull loose from the ropes but they remained too tight. Still tied, now just to two broken chunks of furniture, his arms to the chair’s back, his legs to its seat.
Nothing to do but wait for them to come back and kill him.
When he woke up, the room was still in darkness, the tall window that had provided gray light was black with night.
I will touch your family.
He tugged on the ropes. Tight. He scooted the damaged chair against the concrete wall and began to pound his back against the hardness. Again. Again. Again.
The chair’s back splintered further. He pulled with his fingertips, wriggled his back, and eased out the damaged wood. The ropes loosened as more pieces of chair slipped free. Finally, after what felt like hours, he wrenched his left hand free from the coils. Then, slowly, his right hand. Pain throbbed up both arms as he tried to move them for the first time in two days. After a while he pulled his feet clear from the ropes.
He stood on unsteady feet. Stumbled until he reached a wall. Felt along for the door. Locked. He tried the light switch. It flickered on.
In the distance, he heard a door opening. They were coming back. Lied about staying away for days; they’d probably just left to dump the Dragon’s body.
He glanced around the room. A table, a high window just to let in light. He pulled the table under the window. He picked up the chair the thug had sat in while interrogating him. He put it on the table and grabbed one of the chair legs. It was the only weapon he had. He stuck it down the back of his filthy shirt and he jumped up and grabbed the window’s ledge. He held tight and used his other hand to unlock and raise the window. He fell back down to the table, then climbed back on the chair and jumped up again. He swung a leg up to force himself through the window and dropped onto an alleyway. The night sounds of Jakarta-the purr of endless traffic, honking, the wind carrying the wail of music-hummed in his ear.
He ran for the road.
“I don’t understand,” Choate said. The bedsheets were scratchy, and despite his exhaustion he had little interest in rest now.
“You’re going home,” the station chief, Raines, said. He was a scarecrow of a man, as though the heat and humidity of Indonesia had winnowed away much of him. He smoked kreteks, clove cigarettes, and the sweet smell knotted Choate’s guts.
“But Gumalar…”
“Never mind Gumalar. Our investigation is shut down.”
“But the Dragon… they killed him, they, Jesus, they chopped off his hands. Someone inside betrayed us.”
“Yes. One of his informants.”
“No. His informants didn’t know about me. They grabbed him after they grabbed me. The only people who knew the Dragon and me were working together were the CIA.”
Raines frowned, as though personally insulted. “Listen, then the Dragon talked after you came to town. He was a black ops dirty job guy, he didn’t exist even before he died. He was a free wheel, he wasn’t an actual agent.”
“I’m telling you we have a leak inside the Agency. Gumalar knew about my family, they knew my name… I never mentioned any personal details to the Dragon.”
“Then we’ll seal the leak. But you’re blown. You’re going home. Gumalar’s family knows about the investigation. We’re being asked to back out by Indonesian intelligence. They will handle it.”
“Gumalar owns someone inside Indonesian intel.” Choate put his face in his hands. “He’s dumping money to terrorists. He kidnapped us because we got close and he wanted to scare the Agency off.”
“What part of go home do you not understand? It’s not your problem anymore. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Be grateful and happy you’re alive, Randall.”
The nurse brought his dinner and Randall Choate thought, No, I’m not leaving tomorrow. I’m not leaving until the people who threatened my family are dead. And he felt a debt to the Dragon, a need to see justice done. He nearly laughed. He had not wanted a partner; now he was going to avenge the only one he’d ever had.
24
The bullet shattered the glass, tunneled through the door, and plunged bent and misshapen into Delia Moon’s right eye.
Ben caught her as she fell, dead. A second shot splintered the lock, the bullet passing above his neck as he knelt, lowering her. He flinched.
A third bullet boomed and the lock shattered.
Delia’s gun; he remembered she’d set it down on the kitchen counter.
Ben retreated to the kitchen. He grabbed the gun. Heard the front door kicked open.
The back door off the kitchen was a French door, studded with glass panes, painted a cheery yellow. The back door was visible from the front foyer, and for a few seconds when he rushed the door, he would be in the line of fire. But he hesitated, telling himself, Stop overthinking, just do; stop overthinking, just do, and over the rattle of his panicked breathing he heard a footstep on the tile.
He’d waited too long, let himself be cornered. Stupid. Now he couldn’t reach the back door. Not for sure, not without shooting the gunman.
So shoot him.
I can’t shoot another human being, he’d said, and meant it, but he also couldn’t stand there and allow Delia to die unavenged and himself to be killed. Pilgrim’s taunt- You don’t have what it takes — ran hard in his ears. Ben put both hands on the gun. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he would have to do it.
The house was suddenly as hushed as an empty church. The noise of his own breathing seemed loud as a drumbeat. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.
Ben aimed the gun at the opening in the far corner of the kitchen, which faced out onto the foyer. Where would the shooter think he would stand or hide? He had no idea. He hunkered behind the kitchen island, watching around the corner. He could retreat entirely behind the island, but then he couldn’t see from which way the shooter would come.
A rush of movement past the corner and Ben fired the gun; he didn’t anticipate the kick, and plaster flew from the corner where his bullet struck, well wide of the mark.
He pivoted further around the kitchen island’s corner, extending the gun again, and Jackie, the kid from the parking garage with the elfin dark Irish face, fired at Ben.
Ben felt a tug in his flesh through the jacket, then heat, and with horror he realized his arm was hit. Shot. He hesitated and tried to fire again and missed, the bullet plowing into the tile.
Jackie kicked Ben in his wounded arm. He gasped and Jackie shoved the barrel of his gun onto Ben’s forehead.
“Drop it!”
Ben obeyed, letting go of Delia’s gun. Ben closed his hand around his arm and blood pulsed between his skin and his cheap jacket.
“You’re Forsberg.”
Ben nodded.
Jackie yanked him to his feet. Dizziness washed over him. “Pilgrim. Where is he?”
“I don’t… know. He… took off.” I’m shot, he thought crazily.
“I don’t believe you.” He shoved Ben back with the gun, caught him off balance. “Tell me where Pilgrim is.”
“No.” Ben collapsed against the granite counter.