TWENTY-EIGHT

WHEN IT CAME time for Julie to head out to college and make the family proud, she didn’t do exactly what everyone expected—medical school. She did the exact opposite. She enrolled in the air force. Turned out his sister wanted to be a pilot. Not just any pilot. A fighter pilot. Two years later she had earned her wings.

“Hang on, Siggy!” she shouted back to Jack, who was in the backseat of the F-14 Tomcat, a dual-engine supersonic fighter jet. She had the wings folded back and they were hauling ass across a clear sky, twenty thousand feet above a deep blue ocean.

The plane slowed suddenly and Jack felt himself tighten against the seatbelt. He saw the wings opening up on either side. He knew what that meant and clung to the leather seat beneath him with both hands. Then they were upside down, twisting and turning through the sky.

He felt his stomach lurch.

Julie was cheering. “Don’t lose your lunch on me, Sig! You know how hard it is to get the smell of puke out of these things?”

The twisting stopped, but a new sensation took over. His stomach was no longer lurching, it was still a thousand feet above him. Jack peered around Julie’s helmet and saw a sparkling swath of blue. A vertical dive.

He opened his mouth to shout, but nothing came out. He pounded on her seat. In his mind he begged her to pull up. Pull up!

The endless sparkling blue resolved into cresting waves, rising and falling. A loud hiss filled the cockpit. All around him the sound grew louder, dominant. Then the blue ocean reached up and grabbed them.

King opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him. The hiss persisted. His body ached.

During times of intense stress, King dreamed of his sister’s death. The event had been the catalyst for him joining the military, but it still unnerved him to think about. And this time, the wave of pain rolling through his body made it feel like the dream was real, like he’d really been in that plane when it crashed. As the memory of his previous torture came back, he almost preferred the dream.

For a moment King wondered if he was still inside the nightmare. All around him, the incessant hissing continued and reminded him of when his grandfather would fall asleep in front of the TV at night. He’d sit through Carson, the national anthem, and then six hours of static. On long visits King could hear the TV all night. It annoyed the hell out of him, but when his grandfather died, he missed the sound and occasionally left his TV on at night. After his grandfather died, and then Julie, he was out of family members that he liked. That was, until the Chess Team came together. They’d become his surrogate family, and he was the father figure. The head of the proverbial household.

He was failing his family.

He lifted his head and grunted. His muscles spasmed as he pulled, slowing only after he stood straight against the pole he was tied to.

“It’s raining.” Queen’s voice sounded as strong as ever. Mentally, King pictured her, beautiful and tough. But he knew she was topless and bearing a brand that would never fade.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“King . . .” Her voice was soft, gentle even. “Shut up.”

King managed to chuckle, but it hurt like hell.

“Guys?” The new voice was shaky and quiet. Sara.

“We’re here, Sara.”

“I can’t see you.”

“That happens in the middle of the night,” Queen said. “It’s dark.”

A table shook, its contents jingling as they rolled back and forth.

What the hell? King strained to see through the darkness. Someone was in the tent with them.

“Keep talking,” Sara said.

“Sara, stay quiet,” King said, his voice managing to sound harsh though it was only a whisper. He was about to speak again when a hand grasped his face. He flinched back as a second hand found his other cheek. Both quickly fell and wrapped around his body.

He expected to be crushed or stabbed, but he felt no pain. Only a shaking body. Sara’s voice was right next to his ear now, her head resting on his shoulder. “Thank God. Are you okay?”

King was speechless. He had to still be dreaming. How could Sara be free?

“How?” he managed to say.

Sara sniffled and wiped her tear-coated cheeks. “I’ve read enough books and watched enough movies to know that if you get tied up to flex your muscles so that the ropes are loose.”

King’s chest shook as he quietly laughed. A jolt of pain took the humor right back out of the situation. “They usually check for that,” he said.

“Maybe with soldiers, but not with CDC lab rats.”

Queen’s voice cut through the banter. “Damnit woman, untie us already!”

“Sorry,” Sara said, and then began frantically untying King and Queen. Five minutes later, they had located their discarded clothing and redressed. The only articles of clothing missing were the outbreak meters and Queen’s bra. One of the soldiers had pilfered it as a souvenir. They then set about finding weapons. While their fire-arms had most likely been claimed by the VPLA soldiers, King was pleased to find his KA-BAR knife on one of the tables. He couldn’t see it, but he knew what it felt like. He also found the stun gun that had caused, and continued to cause him, so much pain. He put the device in his pocket.

Queen found an assortment of torture devices that made worthy weapons—three ice picks, a metal hook, and a now-cold branding iron. Sara took a knife from King, but felt sure her shaky hands could do nothing with it. Still, she put it in her pocket, pretending it gave her some kind of reassurance.

With the rain pounding down around them, their hushed voices were drowned out and their movement through the tent was concealed. It would make excellent cover for their escape as well. As the three crouched by the tent’s exit, they peered out into the campsite. A fire at the center of the small compound fought against the rain, but it was a losing battle. Though the firelight shone weakly, King’s wide-open pupils could clearly see the surrounding area. There were two guards patrolling. Both had their heads down, keeping the rain out of their faces. They didn’t appear to be alert, but he had learned his lesson about doubting the VPLA.

He turned to the others. “We’ll make a run for the forest when both have their backs to us. The rain should conceal our . . .”

Before King could finish his sentence the hiss grew quiet and then stopped. He wanted to shout curses at God. One minute more and they would have been gone. One minute more! King peeked through the exit again. The guards were shaking the water from their waterproof ponchos. Then they met next to the fire and lit cigarettes in the lingering flames. They’d have to risk it when the men were looking the other way. Waiting until morning, when Queen was to be executed, was hardly an option.

King looked back at Sara and Queen. “Get ready,” he said, and then pointed to the left. “Head that way and don’t stop until I tell you—”

He saw Sara tense. But she wasn’t preparing to spring from the tent. She was confused. Hearing something, maybe. He’d learned to trust her sense of the world around her and focused on tuning out the jungle noise. Then he heard a distant explosion that instantly registered. Mortar! Sara looked at him with wide eyes. Only then did he realize he’d spoken the word aloud.

Queen had heard it, too, and acted without pause. She pushed between them and pounded from the tent. She held two ice picks, one in each hand.

King followed, but stopped when Sara stayed behind. He turned back to her and reached out his hand. “We only have a few seconds at best.”

She took his hand and felt his strength despite all he’d endured. She’d been ready to give Trung anything he asked for and she hadn’t been touched. But King had endured hell. On her behalf. As she raced beside him, hand in hand, she thanked God for the man and then prayed this wouldn’t be the end.

The guards, now on alert after hearing the sound of a mortar being fired, saw Queen as soon as she exited the tent. But the ice picks had already flown from her hands. One man was struck in the eye. He went down screaming. The other caught the pick with his Adam’s apple and toppled over holding his throat.

As soldiers woke and exited from tents, half dressed, half asleep, but armed with assault rifles, Queen, King, and Sara bolted through the center of the camp in plain sight. Queen veered toward the two fallen guards, intent on taking their weapons. She was knocked down when the two men exploded, burst like water balloons, struck by an exploding mortar round. King hoisted her up as the sound of continuous mortar fire sounded in the distance.

“Run!” King shouted. He knew some of the VPLA were already in pursuit. He could see the trees at the edge of the forest being pelted by bullets. If not for the recently awakened state of the VPLA men, he was sure they’d already be dead. But with the camp under attack, only a small force would pursue them.

As they entered the jungle, mortars exploded all around the camp. The explosions were followed by loud voices, inhuman shouting, and very human screams. Intense gunfire followed—a full-blown battle between the Death Volunteers and someone else was being waged. Had the Khmers followed after all? For a moment, King thought he heard a voice shouting in English, but not Trung’s. He listened, but the sound of violence consumed the night. Pulling an individual voice from the chaos was impossible.

Fire blossomed as some of the tents took mortar rounds. The light lit the first few layers of forest. King saw Sara just in front of him, scrambling over a massive tree root. But Queen was nowhere to be seen.

But he knew she was there. She just wasn’t running.

“You’ll follow us?” he asked the darkness.

“Yes,” came Queen’s voice. “When I’m done.”