“Hell is made up of concentric circles,” Chris said under his breath.
Tristan stood. “I think we’re finished here.” He walked out the door, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it from the outside.
“You think the deputy ambassador will figure out trouble is coming before it arrives?” Hannah asked. “If Mordet doesn’t lose all his men fighting the Chinese, he will have enough to storm this embassy.”
Chris tried to wiggle his hands out of the handcuffs, but they were too tight. “I’m afraid the deputy ambassador has too much faith in Jim Bob’s version of events and concentric circles.”
“Sorry.”
“For what?” He stood, walked over to the wall, put his back to it and knocked. He moved over and knocked again, repeating the process.
“For dragging you into this.”
“I’m a big boy.” He knocked on the door and other walls.
Hannah stood and strolled up to him.
He put his lips close to her ear and whispered, “Metal door can’t be broken. Opens inward, so we can’t kick out the lock. And the walls seem solid.”
“How are we going to get out of here?” She spoke softly, her breath heating his skin.
“Ceiling seems weak, from the looks of it. If we stand on that table, we can probably break a hole through it, climb up, cross over to the next room, and bust down. Hopefully it’s not locked from the outside, too.”
“Break out of here while they’re videotaping us through a one-way mirror?”
Fatigue was catching up to him. “Maybe they’ll get bored and stop watching us?”
“Maybe Mordet and his men will give us a diversion,” she said.
“Hope it doesn’t come to that.” He eyed a chair to sit in, but his butt was sore from sitting in vehicles since Syria, so he lay down on the floor on his stomach to rest for a moment.
They’d been waiting for what seemed like hours. Hannah seemed bored and took the same position lying down. After a few minutes, she smiled. His body warmed at the sight, even in the chilly interrogation room.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“When you and I were first stationed together in Syria,” she said, “you and that Syrian gal seemed pretty serious. Caused a bit of a stink on base — people worried that she was a spy. What happened to her?”
“Her parents were opposed,” Chris explained. “Eventually, she sided with them. It upset me at the time, but it was for the best. Our line of work isn’t the greatest support for maintaining romantic relationships — you know, keeping secrets, frequent overseas deployments, and when we’re home, we’re not home — individual schools, platoon work-ups. Few women can accept that lifestyle, let alone live it.”
“After you got out of the Teams, didn’t you meet anyone at college?”
Chris grinned. “Yeah. One of the kindest I’d ever dated. I was interested in finding a spouse, but she wasn’t ready.”
“No one in your church?” she asked.
“There’s a buttercup in Dallas.”
“Well?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and the grin left his face. “She’s married.”
Hannah smiled. “I guess I have you all to myself.”
He chuckled, not knowing how seriously to take her. “How about you?”
She beamed. “Okay, there was the torero from Spain.”
“What’s a torero?”
“He was a matador — his tight little butt fit nicely in those tight pants. In Spanish, their costumes are called traje de luces, the suit of lights.”
“So what happened with you two?” Chris asked.
“His family is all Catholic, and he wanted to marry me, but I don’t believe in marriage. Haven’t seen him in about a year. Lives in Madrid. We’re just friends.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
She shook her head.
His calling as a minister didn’t prevent him from marrying, but since Hannah wasn’t the marrying type and he couldn’t cohabitate, a relationship with her seemed to be a dead-end road. Even so, he couldn’t help wanting to spend more time with her, and a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if, in time, she might change her mind.
Her chocolate-brown eyes glistened, giving him enough bliss to forget about the mission and remember how tired he was.
She seemed to read his mind: “Just close your eyes for a moment; recharge your batteries.”
He did, just for a moment…
17
He was thirteen years old in Syria.
It was an afternoon just days after he’d been rescued, and he stood behind a wall near a doorway to the living room, eavesdropping on his parents.
“We can’t wait forever,” his father said.
“It’s too soon,” his mother said.
“If you won’t tell him, I will. It’s better he hear it from us than from someone else.”
“He needs more time,” she said.
“You mean, you need more time.”
“Give it a rest.” She seemed to notice something in the window and turned to examine it — Chris’s reflection.
He’d gotten in trouble for listening in on a private conversation once before. He wanted to walk away and act like he hadn’t heard anything, but it was too late for that. He trudged into the living room.
Instead of being angry, his mother’s shoulders drooped. He waited for her to scold him, but she didn’t, so he turned to walk away, but she said, weakly, “Chris.”
He turned and faced her. Her eyes glistened. “The day you were kidnapped,” she said, “the same terrorists kidnapped your friend, Nikkia, too.” She took a deep breath — then another.
“They rescued her, didn’t they?”
She shook her head. “Nikkia didn’t survive, honey.”
Chris stood there stunned. After what felt like minutes, he forced himself to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears rolled steadily down his face as if they would never stop.
His mother swallowed hard. “I wanted to, honey. I really did. I just didn’t know when to tell you. Or how.”
“I wish I could see her,” he cried.
His mother stood up from the couch, walked over to him, and hugged him. “I wish I could see her, too.” Her voice lost its steadiness. “I wish I could see her, too.”
The news of Nikkia’s death had hit him like a bomb, shaking the earth beneath his feet, pulling at his limbs, sucking the oxygen out of the room, and paralyzing him. He closed his eyes again, wanting to shut out everything — wanting to know why he’d never see her again. When his eyes opened, he was looking into a pair of startled chocolate-brown eyes, and the ground was still shaking. He’d fallen asleep, but he didn’t know for how long. All he knew was that the air was full of smoke and debris. He coughed.
Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. His ears rang like they’d been boxed, and he couldn’t hear anything more than the ringing. His heart pounded; fear struck. He scanned the room to find the door. Blackened, it hung by a hinge.
There must’ve been an explosion. It’s the only explanation.
He tugged at his handcuffs, trying to free himself before an assault team could enter the room and start shooting, but no one came. Not yet. He could see the room across the hallway, flayed open as though a mortar round had hit it.