"We'll leave that to LG."
"I don't care how it gets done, only that it gets done. Let me be clear, I want both of them alive. I'm sending you our profiles on Tomas and Ursula; take a moment to look them over. I've got to run. Call or text me as needed."
Nathan was tempted to hang up first, but that would have been poor form. The line went dark.
"You look wiped," Harv said to Nathan. "I'll take first watch with Linda. You'd better get some rack time."
CHAPTER 11.
The bamboo cage swings with a gust of wind, quietly creaking.
Twenty feet below, the ferns bend, then straighten.
Nathan can't believe he's still alive. How long now? Three days? He doesn't know, doesn't care.
No one's coming to his rescue.
They would've been here by now.
His emaciated skin hangs like a scarecrow's clothes. He can't weigh more than a hundred pounds.
The reddish glow on the horizon accents the color of his ruined flesh. Is it a sunrise or sunset? Doesn't matter.
Forcing him to stand, the custom-built cage fits like a glove. The agony in his legs and lower back defies understanding, defies description.
His arms are tied behind his back and secured to the bamboo struts. The rope binding his wrists isn't tight enough to cut off circulation, but he can't get any leverage to work his hands free.
It triggers a childhood memory of how helpless he'd felt at being buried up to his neck at the beach. It had been a dumb kid's game. His sixth-grade friend promised over and over he'd dig him out, but once Nathan became helpless, Marty Drugar thought it funny to walk away. Nathan didn't. He'd experienced his first true rage that sunny afternoon. Screaming to be let out, he remembered people staring and pointing, but no one came. His mom and dad couldn't rescue him; they'd taken a stroll down the beach. After the lifeguard dug him out with a shovel, he proceeded to beat the living tar out of Martin Drugar. He put the little punk in the hospital. Broken teeth. A busted nose. And five cracked ribs. Shrinks came next. All he could claim was that he'd warned Marty what he'd do if he left him there. A promise he'd kept. He remembered how good it had felt teaching that skinny little punk a lesson.
Time drifts again.
He opens his eyes to a dishwater gray jungle. Must've been a sunset, it's gotten darker.
Praying for death, he whispers it over and over like a mantra.
Could he already be dead? No, it wouldn't be like this.
The dryness in his mouth is beyond gruesome; it's become his worst enemy. He'd trade twenty more lashes for a drink of water. But no one's around to offer him either.
He hasn't seen Montez or his little runt assistant for a long time. Candlelight no longer fills the shack's windows at night.
He's totally alone, abandoned to a slow death.
The sense of desertion tears at his soul like a jackal stripping his bones.
This must be his penance for the lives he's taken.
What else could it be?
He never enjoyed killing, but he'd been exceptionally good at it.
Too good.
He should've felt worse than he did, maybe if he had . . . What goes around comes around? He'd never believed that stupid idiom until now.
Why has God discarded him? It's so cruel. He feels forsaken and curses God again, then regrets the thought. God isn't to blame, only himself. Deep in his soul, he knows the truth. Denying it changes nothing.
Another truth hammers him: slow starvation is the enemy of impulsive thought. Every decision he's ever made has been questioned-from childhood to the ugly here and now. If only he'd done this differently, or that differently, maybe he wouldn't have joined the Marines and become a sniper. And if he hadn't become a sniper, he wouldn't have been recruited by the CIA and he wouldn't be hanging here to die.
Would haves.
Could haves.
Should haves.
Circular arguments always ending in the same place. This wretched cage.
It's pointless to think about it, but his mind's stuck in a feedback loop.
At least he hadn't caved. His love of Harv had overpowered all else, including the instinct to save himself. Montez never got what he wanted-Harv's escape route.
Didn't that selfless act of bravery buy him a ticket to heaven?
He almost laughs at the absurdity.
No one buys tickets to heaven, they're offered freely. Besides, his pockets are empty. Another stupid thought. Montez had stripped him naked.
Another burst of rage erupts.
Over and over, he bangs his forehead against the bamboo, causing the cage to vibrate. Pain explodes from everywhere. His vision grays, then winks out.
Time drifts again.
A deep boom brings him to consciousness.
What's that sound?
He hopes it's a jet on a bombing run to level the camp and him with it.
Not a bomb.
Thunder.
He looks up and tries to focus.
Rain slaps his face, supplying precious water to his eyes. He opens his mouth and lets a few drops enter, but it's not nearly enough-an unkind tease.
Above his head, the dish-shaped ant barrier is tight where the rope passes through. It will act like a dam, preventing water from running down the rope and into his mouth.
The dish begins to fill. He can hear the sound of raindrops landing in the tiny pool.
He says a prayer to ease the cruelty of having water so close but so utterly unreachable. The dish continues to fill, then begins to lean. Farther and farther. It reaches the point of no return and flops to the side. A torrent falls- Into his open mouth.
The stream bathes his tongue and teeth with something akin to pure ecstasy. Tears of joy flow. He can't believe it's really happening.
Then as quickly as the flow began, it ends.
The dish levels out.
The stream stops.
No! He needs more. That can't be all there is. Please . . . More!
He keeps his eyes on the dish. Then, like the dipping bird toy, the dish begins another cycle. It tips from the weight and another torrent falls into his mouth. Oh, dear Lord, thank you. Thank you, thank you.
The water is beyond anything he could've ever imagined.
Is this real? Could he be hallucinating? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this will prolong his suffering, but he doesn't care.
Over and over, the dish fills, then tips. He's getting more water now than he's had over the previous three weeks. He knows he can't drink too much too fast, but it feels so good. He forces himself to slow down.
Swallowing mouthful after mouthful, he asks God for forgiveness.
The water has an acrid taste, but he doesn't care.
His flesh burns from being drenched, but he doesn't care.
His life has been extended, but he doesn't care.
Another boom shakes the cage, this time louder. What's that sound?
What's going on? Who's there?
Leave me alone! I'm getting water. LEAVE ME ALONE!
CHAPTER 12.
"McBride!"
Where was he?
Reality imploded. I'm not in the cage. I'm in my bedroom. On the floor again.
He looked around.
LG stood in the open door, her horrified expression telling all.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded and wiped perspiration from his face.
"Harvey left me a note. It said he's outside with your dogs and some FBI agents. I didn't mean to intrude, but it sounded like you were in pain. I knocked, but you didn't answer."
He got up. "I'm sorry you had to see that."
"I'm glad I did. It reminds me of the pure hell you went through."
"It happened. It's over."
"Clearly not."
"The aftermath of burned toast. I've learned to deal with it."
"Where were you just then?"
"Hanging in the cage. It rained on the third day. I got water."
"Probably saved your life. Didn't Fontana find you on the fifth day?"
Not knowing how much she knew, he nodded. "I'll be right back, I'm really thirsty."
"Sit tight, Marine. I'll get it."
"Thanks, LG."
She grabbed his glass from the nightstand. "It's the least I can do." She stopped at the door and looked down at herself. "I'm going to need some clothes."
"Angelica will fix you up."
"Angelica?"
"She lives here. Takes care of the place for me."
"You have staff?"
"It's not like that."