EIGHTEEN

•   •   •

Jed’s foot bumped against something solid. He felt with his hand along the wall to a corner that led to another concrete wall. This surface was smooth, newer concrete than the other walls. This one had been poured recently. But there was no door, no entry or exit of any sort. It was just a solid barrier.

And still, the voice was behind him —“Vengeance. Devil. Kill” —whispering to his ear, slithering through the damp, musty air.

As much as it sent waves of shivers down his spine, Jed ignored the voice and the footsteps and continued searching the wall. There had to be something. Who would pour a new concrete wall in the middle of a lightless maze of tunnels? There had to be a reason.

Suddenly the wall began to move and rotate, scraping against the floor like sandpaper across rough wood. As it broke free from the adjoining wall, a light gust of cool air breathed across Jed’s face. He stepped back, out of the wall’s way, but kept one hand on the concrete. The wall rotated until it was perpendicular to its original position. Still there was darkness —whatever passageway the barrier had opened to was just as dark and void of light as the tunnel in which he currently stood.

Jed felt his way along the wall and into the corridor. The walls here were smooth and cool. When he had fully crossed the threshold into the newer passageway, the scraping of concrete on concrete resumed. Jed retreated and groped for the rotating wall. He found it just as it locked into place, sealing off the corridor from which he came. There was no turning back now. This new tunnel did not have the same musty odor as the previous one, nor was the air as damp. And the voice had ceased as well. Silence deafened him.

Jed reached his hand above his head to feel for the ceiling. It was there, eight feet above the floor, and lined with electrical conduits and PVC piping.

Then, as if the mere touch of his hand had switched a sensor, the passageway filled with light from a series of LED bulbs running the length of the corridor. The light cast a greenish tint on the walls and floor. The hallway ran for about fifty feet before ending at a T. Green metal doors lined each wall. But no one was there. The place was as empty and quiet as a school in the dead of summer.

Jed took a few steps forward, intent on checking to see whether the doors were locked. But before he could reach the first door, it opened into the corridor. A man emerged, wearing slacks and a dress shirt.

Murphy.

Jed raised the gun and pointed it at the man.

Murphy put his hands in his pockets and smiled. “Hello, Patrick. Welcome to Alcatraz.”

Jed looked past Murphy into the empty corridor. “Where’s Lilly?”

“Are you going to shoot me?” Murphy said.

Jed wanted to. His finger trembled; it begged to be allowed to depress the trigger. But he wouldn’t; he couldn’t. And Murphy knew that.

Murphy kept his hands in his pockets. “I can’t talk with a gun pointed at me. You’ll have to put it down.”

Jed lowered his sidearm.

“Thank you,” Murphy said. “You didn’t have to break his leg, you know.”

He knew about the man in the dungeon, the attack, the fight.

“He wasn’t there to harm you,” Murphy said.

“He had a gun.”

“Only for defense. His orders were simply to follow you.” Murphy tilted his head to the side. “You’re getting a history of aggressive behavior against those who mean you no harm.”

“I’ve been through a lot.”

“I know you have. Too much.”

“Maybe your men should announce their intentions a little more clearly.”

Murphy shrugged. “Possibly an oversight on our part. I underestimated your survival instinct. Your training.”

“You’re underestimating a lot.”

“Quite possibly.” Murphy motioned toward a door. “Now, please, come with me.”

“Not until you tell me where Lilly is.”

Murphy frowned. “That’s not how it works.”

“It’s gonna have to work that way,” Jed said. “I’m not going anywhere until I get an answer.”

An emphatic sigh escaped Murphy’s mouth. “She’s fine, Patrick. Of course she is. You’ll get to see her soon enough. But for now I need you to come with me.”

“Where are we going? Why am I here? Why did you bring me here?”

Murphy’s frown deepened. “So many questions.”

“You’re not giving me answers.”

“You’ll get answers in time. For now, let’s go.” He stepped through the doorway and out of Jed’s sight.

Jed looked around the corridor. There was no one else present. Hesitantly he moved toward the doorway through which Murphy had passed. It led to a room, well-lit, sparsely furnished with one table and a few unpadded chairs. In the corner, a large monitor had been mounted to the wall.

Murphy stood by the table. When Jed entered, he motioned to a chair. “Please, sit. Let’s talk.”

Jed pulled out a chair and sat, keeping the gun in his hand.

Murphy shifted his eyes from the gun to Jed. “You won’t need your weapon here. You have no use for it.” He patted the tabletop. “Please. It’s just talk. Nothing more at this time.”

Jed didn’t like any of this. Murphy clearly had the upper hand. He was calling the shots and it pushed against every fiber of Jed’s being. But he knew that if he ever wanted to see Lilly again, he’d have to comply. For now.

He put the handgun on the table. “Now what? I’m here, so where’s my daughter?”

Murphy smiled. “We’ll get to that in due time. First, do you have the drive?” He paused for effect. “The real drive?”

“I do.”

Murphy stared at him for a long time as if searching his face, looking for the telltale signs of lying. Finally he sighed, glanced around the room as if he’d suddenly become disinterested in the conversation. “Can I have it?”

“When you tell me where Lilly is.”

“The drive first, Patrick, and then I’ll give you what you want.”

Jed leaned forward. “I want to know she’s safe first.”

“Fine. She’s safe.”

“I want to see that she’s safe.”

Murphy took a seat at the table, then turned his head to the right and dipped his chin. He spoke in a soft voice. “The feed, please.”

In the corner of the room, the monitor flicked on and an image of Lilly flashed onto the screen. She sat on a bed with a pink bedspread and a pink pillow, her hands in her lap, head bowed. The room had concrete walls, no windows.

“Not only safe,” Murphy said, “but comfortable. Unharmed, as you can see.” He crossed his legs. “Patrick, this is a business deal. You give us something; we give you something. That’s it. We’re not looking for anything more. Only the drive.”

“You said you wouldn’t hold her as ransom,” Jed said.

Murphy frowned. “The situation has changed. Desperate times . . . you know.”

Jed nodded in the direction of the monitor. “That could have been taped. I need to see her in person; I need to know she’s safe before I hand anything over. If this is only business, I deserve a fair deal, don’t I?”

Murphy uncrossed his legs and pushed his chair away from the table. “You’re grasping for control, but you have no idea how little you actually have.”

Jed reached for the gun, took it in his hand, and pointed it at Murphy.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me? And then what? C’mon, Patrick, remember your training. Are you planning ahead? Are you working through an escape plan now? You aren’t, are you? Because you have no escape. You have no idea where your daughter is. You have minimal ammunition. And you’re on Alcatraz. The unbreakable prison. Now put the gun down and give me the drive.”

Everything Murphy said was true. There was no way out of this. Jed knew it now and he’d known it before he even began this journey. He knew he was surrendering himself, putting his life and Lilly’s life in the hands of a madman. But it was the only way. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to be cowed like this.

Murphy put his hands in his pockets again and smiled. “I understand, Patrick. Of course I do. I’m a father too, you know. I have two sons. I fully understand the paternal instinct, the drive to protect our own. But you have to admit when you’re beat. There is a time to surrender, to stop fighting. History is full of mighty men leading mighty armies who had to eventually surrender. There’s no shame in it. The time always comes and your time is now.”

By the time Jed registered the faint hissing, his mind had already gone foggy, and the floor of the room began to undulate and swell like the open ocean. The walls closed in on him. He wanted to aim and shoot, but he couldn’t. His mind couldn’t find the right gear. His hand wouldn’t work. His legs grew weak, rubbery. He lost his grip on the handgun and let it slip from his grasp. The lights dimmed.

The last thing he saw was Murphy smiling, hands still in his pockets. Smiling. Smiling. Then blackness.

•   •   •

Andrew Murphy opened a drawer under the table and withdrew a mask attached to a small canister of oxygen. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding even as he fit the mask over his nose and mouth and turned the lever on the tank; then he inhaled deeply and nudged Patrick with his foot. The man was out.

Murphy crossed the room and flipped a switch on the wall that kicked on the ventilation fans in the ceiling. He paused a moment, then opened the door, where two men awaited him in the hallway.

“Get him out of here and get him prepped,” Murphy said. “It’s time.”

•   •   •

The sun looms high in the clear sky like a fiery eye, watching the American soldiers struggle to keep their body heat under control. The scorched earth is barren, dry, dusty. A wasteland if Jed ever saw one. Quick bursts of gunfire pierce the still, hot air. Men holler, scream, curse. A nearby explosion sprays sand and concrete and sends a concussive wave of hot air that hits Jed from the back and pushes him against the wall.

“Jedi! Move. Now!”

Weapon high, eyes alert and scanning, Jed forces his legs to move and crosses the open area between two homes. Bullets whiz by his head, kick up dust at his feet; one nicks his arm but only stings. It doesn’t slow him down. Adrenaline floods his bloodstream; he is in pure survival mode.

“Incoming!”

Jed turns in time to see a rocket-propelled grenade an instant before impact. He spins and covers his head. The grenade hits the home, shattering the front wall and throwing mortar and dirt and stones in all directions. The blast deafens Jed. The only sound is a persistent ringing. Mav slaps his shoulder and waves him on.

Again, Jed is on the move. Bullets strike the wall all around him, kicking up tiny chunks of dried mud. He wonders why none have hit him yet. A strange thought. Shouldn’t he be thankful none have hit him?

He sees movement to his left. A band of insurgents. Three of them, two carrying AK-47s, one lugging an RPG-7 launcher. Jed lays down fire in their direction. One of the gunmen falls to his knees, his body limp, arms dangling at his sides, then drops face-first into the dirt.

Ears still ringing, Jed continues his advance. The target home is just a hundred meters away. Andersen is in there, or so they’ve been told. He’s been held hostage by the Taliban for the last three weeks. They have no idea what kind of condition he’s in.

Normally Jed would be a quarter mile away from the action, laying down cover fire, oversight, protection. But the terrain didn’t allow it on this mission. He’s needed up close and personal. Andersen is a priority.

Beside him, Mav grunts and falls. His body twitches uncontrollably as blood spurts from his neck. Jed puts his hand on the wound, but that fast, it’s too late.

Pushing on, Jed sprints across another open area between homes, covering the span of ten yards in a low crouch, weapon high, spraying fire in a wide arc. A round strikes him in the leg, tearing through flesh and muscle. Strangely, there is no pain, only the sensation of heaviness. His leg won’t move, won’t lift. He can still stand on it, but it isn’t stable. He throws himself against the outside wall of the house.

This is the place, the home where Andersen is being held. Jed hobbles around the corner and through the doorway, following the rest of the team. The house is empty save for a crumpled blanket in the corner. Where’s Andersen? The blanket moves. An RPG strikes the home, disintegrating part of the rear wall. Soldiers holler, lay down fire in all directions. They’re surrounded. Where is air support? Another RPG, another explosion. Dust. Debris. Something strikes Jed in the side of the head, then in the back. The ringing grows louder. This is it. This is how he’s going to die.

Lying on the floor, covered in dust and dirt, numb below the neck, Jed turns his head as the blanket is lifted and tossed by the shock wave of yet another explosion. Beneath it is a small girl, but she is not Afghan. Jed lifts his head and squints through the debris-choked air.

The girl is Lilly. His girl. He was sent to rescue her and failed.

He failed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Debris falls on him as the roof of the house collapses.

“I’m sorry.”