His last visit from his abusive captor had been, by his own reckoning, at least seven months ago. It was hard to keep track of the days, but he forced himself to do it anyway. Besides the daily struggle to speak, and his thoughts of the ways he would get revenge, maintaining a mental log of the days was the only thing to keep his mind off the pain.
His nervous system fired wave after wave of angry buzzing sensations into his brain, and the pain never stopped. He guessed he had not slept in close to a year — the pain was simply too much to endure. His mind could never rest enough to summon the elusive slumber.
Consciousness was both a blessing and a curse. At first, the agony was so much he thought he would lose his mind completely. But his body’s miraculous healing abilities helped to keep him on the edge of sanity. He wondered whether his captor would know that. He wondered a lot of things about his tormentor.
Despite the constant pain, the man was sometimes able to focus his thoughts with a tremendous effort of will, blocking out the stimuli, allowing him to think and plan. These sessions were of varying duration, although in the dark and deep underground, he was never quite sure of elapsed time on a minute by minute or hourly basis. The one thing he knew without question was that the duration would be short, and afterward the waves of unending suffering would return. The surge of pain, when his willpower was finally exhausted, would be overwhelming, and he would silently scream for what he imagined was the rest of the day.
The thing that was more maddening than his imprisonment and torment was the location his captor had chosen for confinement. He knew exactly where in the world he was. He even knew the room. He should after all — it belonged to him. He was trapped in the bowels of a facility he’d designed and paid for, with no way out.
Yet.
He knew that sooner or later, someone would come to free him. He had planned for this contingency. He would have been foolish to even contemplate immortality without having a plan for incarceration. How horrible to be confined eternally. As terrible as his anguish was, he knew it would be finite. He had left the entirety of his escape plan with four different individuals, upon whom he could count implicitly. They would secure his release.
Then, armed with the words, his regenerating DNA and his allies, he would be free to seek out the final prize he sought. The item was so close to his present location. Just minutes away. With that object in his grasp, he would exact his revenge on his tormentor and then on the world. No one and nothing would stop him. He would be immortal. Immune to harm. And with the fabled power the item he sought—invincible.
The pieces would be falling into place on the surface. The last of his wealth would have been accumulated. Forces would be gathering. Traps would be springing. His opponents would be closing in, and his allies would be ready. He would pit them all against one another, and when they thought they had the upper hand, he would move in for the kill. His secret weapon waited, hiding in plain sight. He had transmitted the necessary information to his general, and no doubt, the different installations around the globe belonging to his key adversary would have been eliminated by now.
Soon, his adversary and torturer would be alone, his hideous failed experiments destroyed, his resources used up and even the Chess Team would turn against him. With a little luck, Jack Sigler and the adversary would kill each other.
TWO
Jack Sigler was on his knees, in the worst pain of his life.
He had come up against a lot of opponents, and he had even faced unimaginable creatures and otherworldly threats, but the thing he hated the most was waiting. And worst of all was waiting for this. Right now, looking down at him as he held the small red velvet box aloft, Sara Fogg’s face was unreadable. And Sigler’s heart was breaking.
“I said, ‘Will you marry me?’ It’s generally a yes or no kind of question.” The broad smile that had been on his face the first time he’d uttered the question was slowly sliding off it now, like an indecisive snail. He could feel the smile. It had turned into a half-crazy leer as he forced it to remain on his face, while she looked down at him with no emotion showing on hers.
“Sara?”
“Jack, I… I… Stand up for a minute,” she gently took his hand and helped him to stand, but he twisted and sat on the bed instead. She sat down next to him, and gently placed her hand on his face, turning it to look at her. “You know I love you, Jack.”
“There’s a ‘but’ coming. So this is a ‘no?’” Sigler began.
“Hush. It’s not a ‘no’, silly,” Fogg smiled. “It’s just that it’s complicated. You know that. You have your life of danger, hunting terrorists and genetically engineered monstrosities, and I have my career with the CDC. We hardly see each other between your missions and my dealing with outbreaks in Africa and the jungles of Borneo. We catch up in hotel rooms around the world, or we spend a few blissful days here in your room in this bunker — with no windows even. And we’re trying to raise a fifteen year old girl somehow in the midst of all this madness.”
“I know,” Sigler sighed. “I know it’s not perfect. But these were never things I planned for. I had no idea Fiona would come into my life. I never pictured myself as a parent. I never expected I’d fall in love with a woman who thinks I can sing well, because to her she smells roses instead of hearing a dog howl.”
Fogg laughed and ran a finger through her dark hair. She had kept it short in the past, but she was growing it out now. The subject of her Sensory Processing Disorder had become a playful joke between them, when they had their few intimate moments.
“It actually smells like regurgitated orange peels, but I still love to see you do it — on those five or six times a year, when we actually get to shower together,” her smile faded. “This is what I’m talking about. How are we supposed to be married to each other with our lives like they are? Our regular jobs aside, you’re searching for your abducted parents, we’re all constantly dealing with security like at the White House—”
“Actually,” Sigler interrupted, “Endgame has better security than the White House…”
“I know, that’s not the point,” she stood and strode around the small room that served as Sigler’s personal quarters. “I can’t ask you to give up your life. Your work with Chess Team is too important. I get that, and so does Fiona. I could quit working for the CDC and just assist here, but even that isn’t an ideal life. How do we make marriage work, when we’re running for our lives from armed incursions and giant mutated spiders—”
“To be fair, there was just the one spider,” Sigler pointed out.
“You know what I mean. I love you. And your foster daughter loves you. We have, despite all odds, built a family in this crazy world of yours. You live in this top-secret base in New Hampshire, with constant danger both here and abroad. You’re hardly ever here. We cherish the days when we see you, but you and your sister are off on this hunt for a man who could be the historical Hercules, for God’s sake.” Fogg sat on the bed next to Sigler. She ran her fingers through his dark shaggy hair. “How exactly do you picture a marriage working?”