David raised his hand, happy to have something to contribute. “It won’t fire. The bolt’s still open.”
“Jimmy Olsen gets a point,” Big Guy said.
“He was a photographer,” David said.
Big Guy fired off a glare that would have been funny if it wasn’t so friggin’ scary. “Don’t cross me, son,” he said. Then he winked.
Big Guy demonstrated the bolt release button on the left-hand side of the breech. “If this isn’t closed, the weapon won’t fire.” With the bolt closed, he turned and fired another round into the woods.
“So, that’s the exercise,” Big Guy said. “One round, drop the mag, insert a new one, seat the bolt, fire a round and drop the mag and seat a new one. We’re going to do this until you’re really tired of doing this.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
By the time the exercise was done, David’s “dead time”—the interval between the last shot fired from one mag and the first shot fired from the next — was down to three seconds. Big Guy pronounced that to be survivable.
Who would not feel confident with such gushing words of encouragement?
“Dad, I’m scared,” Josef said.
“I know,” Nicholas said. The boy had only been awake for maybe fifteen minutes. Thankfully (tragically?), the drugs they’d used to knock them out were far more effective on a child than on an adult. “Try not to be.”
What a stupid thing to say. Try not to feel what every sane person in the universe would feel under the same circumstances.
“Why are they doing this?”
“Because they’re bad people,” Nicholas said. Was that an acceptable response from a father who cares?
“They’re going to hurt us, aren’t they?”
Nicholas looked at his son. Josef had chosen to place his face in the single shaft of light — single shaft of warmth — that invaded their shell. With his dark eyes and dark hair and bruised cheek and filth-streaked face, he looked like a picture from a movie poster. Gavroche from Les Misérables, perhaps, or the Artful Dodger from Oliver!
“They’re going to try to hurt us,” Nicholas said.
“Just as they already hurt us. But we need to be brave and not let them do that.”
The boy stared back at him, his face a giant question mark.
“Have you ever been in a fight, Joey?” It ripped at his heart to ask such a question. He was the boy’s father, for heaven’s sake. He should know every momentous event in his life. He had no doubt that Marcie did.
“Not many,” Josef said. He looked down when he spoke, exuding shame.
“Look at me, Joey,” Nicholas said.
The boy resisted.
“Please. Look at me.”
Those huge Bambi eyes, with the eyelashes to match, rocked up to meet his. Nicholas had never seen him look more like his mother.
“I don’t know what they have in store for us,” Nicholas said, “but if they’re left to their own means, I don’t think it can be good.”
The eyes reddened. “Do you think they’re going to kill us?”
Nicholas shook his head and moved closer to his son on the floor. He offered his arm for a hug, but the boy refused. “No, I honestly don’t think they’re going to kill us. What I think they’re going to do is take us to Russia.”
Josef recoiled. “Why?”
“Because that’s where your babushka is from. I think this is about her.”
“Because she is the president’s wife?”
“I think so. I think they are using us to get something from the Americans.”
“But we’re Americans.”
Nicholas nodded. “Yes, we are.” Once you start hearing the words spoken aloud, they become so complicated. “But these people who took us. I do not think they are.”
Josef’s eyes folded into a scowl. “But the police will rescue us,” he said. “Babushka is the First Lady. She’s the president’s wife. They have to rescue us.”
“I certainly hope they will try,” Nicholas said. Josef knew nothing of his father’s refusal to accept protection, but he’d felt the animosity from Tony Darmond. “But if that doesn’t happen,” Nicholas continued, “it will be up to you and me to determine our fate.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means that we may have to fight.”
“But they’re bigger than us,” the boy said. “And stronger.”
“They seemed stronger than they really are because we were surprised at the house. We were asleep. If we had been awake—”
“The people who grabbed me were very strong,” Josef said. “I tried to dig my fingers into his arm, but his skin felt like stone. He was very strong.”
Nicholas lowered his voice. “But they have balls,” he said.
Josef gasped. It was not the kind of thing he heard from his father every day.
“Testicles,” Nicholas clarified, as if it were necessary. “And they have eyes and they have noses and knees. These are all very sensitive areas. If they come to take us away, I think we need to fight.”
Those beautiful Bambi eyes clouded with fear, but Nicholas pressed on.
“If they drug us again, or take us onto another airplane, I don’t think we’ll ever see home again. We might not even see each other again. I don’t want that to happen.”
“I don’t want that to happen, either.”
This was the opening Nicholas had been hoping for. “Then we’ll have to fight,” he said.
“But they’re big.”
“They’re not that big. And I don’t think they’re very smart. In fact, I think that we’re smarter than they are.”
The fear in the boy’s eyes deepened.
“Didn’t you hear the way they were talking?” Nicholas donned a comically heavy Russian accent. “You must come with us or we will hurt you. You must help me scratch my butt because I cannot find it.”
The word “butt” was always a sure thing. Always elicited a giggle.
“I mean, think about it,” Nicholas went on. “They were so scared of you that they had to pump you full of drugs so that you couldn’t fight them back.”
A smile bloomed.
“Look,” Nicholas said, “Maybe it will never come to this. Maybe I’m wrong and this will turn into some kind of vacation—”
“A vacation in a prison?”
“Okay, a really shitty vacation.”
Another laugh.
“But if it turns out that they want to take us away, or if they come at us with drugs again, I want you to know that I’m going to fight them.”
“But they might kill you.”
“They might. But if it comes to that, I’m going to die fighting. If we allow ourselves to be knocked unconscious, or if we allow ourselves to be put on an airplane, our lives as we know them will stop. Do you understand that?”
Josef started to cry, but Nicholas didn’t think he was aware. “I really don’t know how to fight grown-ups.”
“Balls,” Nicholas said. He pointed to his own.
“Every man has them, and it doesn’t matter how strong they are. A kick in the balls stops everyone.”
“And the eyes?” Josef asked. “You said something about the eyes.”
“A strong man who has a finger in his eye is not very strong anymore,” Nicholas said.
“But they’ll hurt me.”
Nicholas took a deep breath. He’d been rehearsing this speech in his head for a while. “Maybe,” he said. “I hope not, but they might hurt you. You’ve been hurt before, right?”
“Not like—”
“Hurt is hurt, Joey. When you broke your arm doing the trick on the skateboard, was it worth it?”
“That hurt a lot. I had to get surgery.”