“How do you suppose you get in? I didn’t see any doors—”
A workbench moved just five feet to Boxers’ right, causing them both to snatch their rifles back to their shoulders, poised to shoot.
The movement stuttered, and then started again. Only it was more than just the bench. It was the entire section of wall that contained the bench. It was a door, and because it was opening toward them, they wouldn’t be able to see who was behind it until he’d stepped into the clear.
Jonathan tugged on Boxers’ sleeve, then mimed with a patting motion in the air for them drop down to one knee.
The door opened all the way.
And the silhouette of a man emerged into the expanding wedge of light on the floor. The silhouette held a pistol in its hand.
“Is somebody out here?” the shadow called. “Show yourself or get shot.” It was Horne.
Boxers gave Jonathan a curious look. What do you want to do?
“It’s Scorpion,” Jonathan said in a conversational tone. He didn’t want to sound overly threatening.
The silhouette jumped and raised its weapon.
“Arc Flash, if I eyeball you and you still have that pistol in your hand, I’ll kill you.”
“Unless I do it first,” Boxers added.
As often happened, the deep rumble of that second voice sealed the deal. “I’m putting it on the ground,” Horne said. And the shadow did exactly that.
“Is that the only weapon?” Jonathan asked.
“The only one on me,” Horne answered. His voice had always had a tinny, boyish quality to it, but the quaver in it tonight made it sound particularly young.
“Is there anyone else back there with you?”
“Only the ones that were sent to me. For crying out loud, Scorpion, why are we—”
“Because I don’t trust anyone tonight,” Jonathan said. “After what’s been going on, everyone is a threat until they’ve earned otherwise.”
“Even after all these years? I’m hurt.” The silhouette stretched its arms out to the sides and splayed its fingers. “What’s next?”
“Step into the open where I can see you,” Jonathan instructed. “And keep your hands exposed.”
Griffin Horne emerged slowly and tentatively from behind the door. Maybe five-eight and thick through the middle, Horne looked like he’d been born into a long tradition of bureaucrats. The pastiness of his skin told of far more hours indoors than out. If you saw the guy on the street, you might mistake him for a lawyer or an association executive. You’d never in a million lifetimes guess him to possess the special skills for which he was so famous in the covert community.
“Big Guy, check the inside of that room while I check out Arc Flash.”
Boxers made a point of growling as he brushed past Horne and disappeared into the back room.
“I’m getting an ungrateful vibe from you, Jonny,” Horne said as Jonathan patted him down for weapons.
“Code names, Torture Boy.”
“After all the good times you’ve had here at my place, I’d think a little deference would be in order.”
It was cold enough to see your breath in here, yet somehow Horne had managed to work up a sweat. “It’s nothing personal,” Jonathan said. With the thorough frisking completed, he picked up the revolver Horne had dropped, unloaded it by dumping the cartridges on the floor, then slipped it into the patch pocket on his thigh. “You get this back when I leave.”
“May I put my arms down now?”
Jonathan answered with a nod. “So, what’s going on in there?”
Horne gestured to the open door with his palm. “Look for yourself. I’ve been setting up for you.”
“You first,” Jonathan said.
Horne smiled. “You really are spooked, aren’t you?”
“I’m not one to toy with tonight. Read the body language. If not mine, then the Big Guy’s.”
Arc Flash made a point of smiling even more broadly before stepping through the open doorway into a brightly lit room. Five steps in, the temperature had climbed twenty degrees
Boxers turned to meet their approach, his fists planted on his hips. “Wait till you get a load of this,” he said.
The hidden room turned out to be only about twelve by twelve feet — leading Jonathan to conclude that there must be several more such rooms lining the back side of the barn. To the left, on the far end, Vasily and Pyotr sat naked in high, straight-backed chairs, bathed in bright white light that emphasized their facial bruises in a kind of three-dimensional relief. Horne had positioned them so that they were facing each other, and he’d spared no expense in dispensing the duct tape. Loops of the stuff bound every joint to the structural elements of the chairs — forehead, chin, biceps, waist, thighs, knees, and ankles. Every tender part of their bodies was fully exposed, and they would be powerless to protect themselves.
Jonathan found himself recalling his last encounter with Arc Flash in a stinky, steamy basement in Yemen. The prep there had been nearly identical.
“What’s the plan?” Jonathan asked.
“We’re going to learn things that we didn’t know before,” Horne replied. “I’ve been tendering them up with a little electricity, but I thought you’d want to ask the questions.”
It wasn’t until Horne mentioned the electricity that Jonathan noted the cables that disappeared from view into the men’s respective crotches. He knew without looking that the cables led to heavy alligator clips on the prisoners’ genitals. On the other end, the cables led to a hand-cranked generator.
Jonathan looked away. The pain of the clamps alone would be unbearable. The thought of high-voltage electricity turned his stomach.
“Take those off,” Jonathan said.
“But they haven’t told us anything useful.”
“I said take them off.” Jonathan drilled the man with a glare. “My interrogation, my rules.”
Arc Flash glared right back. “Don’t kid yourself, Scorpion. My property, my rules. And you are not my client. I’m letting you ask the questions as a courtesy.”
Jonathan said nothing.
After maybe ten seconds, Horne broke. “Fine,” he said. “If you want to play the good cop, I suppose I can go along. For a while.”
As Horne removed the clamps, Jonathan found what could have been a milking stool and carried it to a spot roughly between the two prisoners.
Boxers stood at the back of the room, blocking access to the closed door. He kept his hand on the grip of his rifle, poised to hurt anyone who posed a threat.
Jonathan shrugged out of his rucksack and laid it on the floor. He worked his shoulders a couple of times to ease away the phantom strap marks and sat on the stool.
“Hello, Vasily,” Jonathan said. Under the bruising, the man had broad Slavic features, complete with the orbital ridge and the pugilist’s nose. Something flashed behind his eyes — it was there and gone in a second, but long enough to show Jonathan that he’d struck the truth.
“You, too, Peter,” he said to the other one. Jonathan wasn’t going to take a shot at the pronunciation of Pyotr. He figured he was close enough. “Welcome to America. I apologize for my friend’s attraction to male genitalia. Are you both reasonably comfortable now?”
Neither prisoner spoke. Instead, they stared at each other.
Jonathan pulled his iPhone out of his trousers pocket, thumbed it to life, and navigated to the dossiers Venice had downloaded to him. He recapped the intel that they’d discussed in the War Room.
“So, let’s get past all the covers and bullshit Secret Service identities,” he concluded. “You know how this works. You answer my questions through a haze of agony, or you answer them because you know it’s the better solution. Which will it be? Peter, I’ll ask you first. Are you going to cooperate, or are we going to hurt you?”
Pyotr started to answer, but Vasily cut him off. “We are here legally,” he said. David had made no mention of so thick a Russian accent. Jonathan figured that under stress, he’d forgotten to fake his words. “I don’t know what you want to know.”