The next morning, as he dozed on the concrete, he was awakened by a hard poke in his ribs, which were still bruised from some well-placed kicks delivered by Manila's finest. He shot to his feet, his back to the wall, adrenaline rocketing through him. Three guards regarded him, their truncheons out. He looked from one to the other. Reasonably good odds, maybe, but what was he going to do-cut through these three and then levitate over the wall?
One of the guards motioned with his truncheon. Ben nodded and started walking.
They took him to a small room with faded green cinder-block walls and a single rattling fan that in its uselessness seemed only to worsen the clinging wet heat. A black man in jeans, sneakers, and a red polo shirt, obviously fit and somewhere in his fifties, was sitting at a peeling linoleum table in the center of the room, his shaved head beaded in perspiration. He shook his head in mild disapproval as Ben entered.
'Damn, son,' he said in his gravelly Mississippi Delta baritone. 'You look like shit warmed over.'
Despite everything that had happened between them, and despite the humiliation of having his commander find him like this, Ben was so flooded with relief his legs went rubbery. He knew his situation was bad, but until this moment he hadn't realized just how near he'd been to actual despair, how convinced he was beginning to feel that no one would ever find him.
He breathed in and out a few times, pulling himself together. When he trusted himself to speak, he said, 'What are you doing here, Hort?'
Hort laughed, the sound deep and not at all unfriendly. As always, Ben was struck by the man's complete ease and confidence, by his natural command presence. Colonel Scott Horton was a legend in the black ops community. He had personally designed and now commanded Ben's secret unit, the absurdly blandly named Intelligence Support Activity, and his exploits in Nicaragua, Afghanistan, and elsewhere were such that he was held in awe not just by his men, but even by the Joint Special Operations Command brass who were his nominal superiors.
The laugh slowly died away, a paternal grin lingering in its aftermath. 'When I heard they had visiting hours in hell, I just couldn't stay away.'
'I don't need you to bail me out.'
This was so obviously untrue Ben immediately felt like a blustering child for saying it, and expected another baritone chuckle in response.
Instead, Hort said, 'It's not a question of what you need. I'm responsible for you.'
Ben knew he was being stupid, but anger was the only thing keeping him together and he was afraid to let it go. 'Got a funny way of showing it.'
'Don't ask me to apologize for putting the mission ahead of the man, son. I already told you, it was the toughest call I've ever had to make.'
Hort had been tasked with securing and erasing all knowledge of an encryption application called Obsidian. The op started with the liquidation of the inventor and the patent examiner, and would have taken out Ben's younger brother, Alex, too, who was the inventor's lawyer, along with Sarah Hosseini, an associate at Alex's Silicon Valley firm. But Alex had realized he was in over his head and had called his big brother for help. Together, they'd managed to turn things around, though not before Hort, in the service of putting the mission before the man, had tried to erase all three of them.
'Yeah, well don't ask me to apologize for not forgetting.'
Hort nodded, his expression grave. 'That seems fair.'
Ben walked over to the chair opposite Hort, pulled it away from the table, and sat. He knew Hort would read it as a concession, but he didn't care. He'd never felt so wrung out. His ribs ached, he'd only half slept since all this shit had started, and much as he hated to admit it, he was terrified Hort would leave as suddenly as he'd materialized. It was a ridiculous fear, but he couldn't shake it no matter how much he blustered.
'How'd you find me?' he said quietly.
Hort nodded, as though expecting the question. 'Pressure from the Australians. You're lucky you killed one of theirs. If it had been a local, they'd have just dumped you here and no one would ever have heard from you again.'
Ben felt something sink in his chest. He realized he'd still been hoping the cops had lied to him. The hope suddenly felt stupid, and he knew he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, admit what he'd done.
'The guy was a sailor?' he said.
'Royal Marine, yeah.'
He'd known as much already, but somehow having Hort confirm it eliminated Ben's ability to deal with the guy as an abstraction. Having this little window opened on the guy's humanity made part of Ben want to push it open further, but he knew better. Still, even the speculation was no picnic. Had he been married? He'd been pretty young, so maybe not. And Ben hadn't seen a ring, though he supposed the guy might have removed one before a night of carousing on Burgos Street. Regardless, he would have had parents. Maybe brothers or sisters. He thought of Katie, his younger sister, who'd died in a car accident as a high school junior, and what her death had done to his family. The thought that he probably had caused something similar to someone else's family because he was too sullen to just walk away from some woofing was suddenly making him feel sick. Not to mention the guy himself was never coming back, either.
'Anyway,' Hort said, 'the Aussies made local law enforcement go to all the hotels in Makati, asking whether there was a guest who was supposed to check out but who'd ghosted off instead. It didn't take them long to find the right hotel, the right guest, to have the room safe opened, to check the guest's passport. When they found out you were American, they contacted the U.S. embassy. When the embassy realized who you were, they contacted JSOC. And here I am.'
It made sense. But it answered only how Hort had found him, not why. He knew he should ask, but he almost didn't care. He had to fight the urge to blurt out, Please, just get me out of here…
He took a breath and said, 'All right, you want something from me.'
Hort pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to mop the moisture off his face and scalp. 'You're a little more cynical than the last time I saw you.'
'I wonder why that would be.'
'You want me to just leave you here? I could, you know. The Australians want to extradite you. All I have to do is step aside and let it happen.'
Somehow, hearing the threat out loud eased Ben's mind a little. If Hort were really going to leave, he would've just done it. And obviously, he hadn't come all this way just to say hello.
'Maybe your brother could help you,' Hort said. 'Good to have a lawyer in the family when you've been charged with murder. And the girl, Sarah Hosseini. Two smart lawyers. Strange to think of them protecting you instead of you protecting them, but there you have it.'
Hort had no way of knowing what had happened between Sarah and Ben-the way their distrust had alchemized to passion, maybe to even more. He was fishing on that one.
'Do they need protection?' Ben asked, his voice low, his tone casual.
There was a pause. Hort said, 'No.'
Ben nodded, not exactly reassured. Alex and Sarah still knew a lot about Obsidian and about the failed op to disappear it. It wasn't impossible someone on the National Security Council or wherever might get sufficiently uncomfortable about their knowledge to decide to revisit the issue. But at least Hort wasn't threatening him with it. On the other hand, he'd learned from the Obsidian op that Hort could be a master bullshitter, at least when bullshitting was required by the mission. Maybe he just knew Ben well enough to know overt threats would be counterproductive. That didn't mean the threat wasn't there. It wasn't in Hort's character or his experience to display a weapon until he was ready to use it.
'All right,' Ben said. 'So you've pulled all these strings, you're running interference with the Australians and who knows who else, just because you care. I'm touched, Hort. Really.'
'You know you're on YouTube now, right? Camera phones in the bar.'
Ben looked at him, his shame so enormous he couldn't speak.
'Relax,' Hort said. 'You got lucky. The spotlighting in the bar was pointed at the cameras. You can barely make out the action, let alone your face.'
Ben managed to nod, the whipsaw from horror to relief intensifying how sick he felt from what he did to the Aussie marine. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to get a grip on emotions that were slipping past his control.
