Assumed Identity

“The best of ten. Whoever gets to ten first.”

“And then what?”

“It depends on the answers I receive from you and Ms. McCoy,” Drummond said.

Without warning, Buchanan dodged toward the ball, picked it up, and lunged toward the vertical hoop. As he aimed to throw, Raymond battered his padded shoulder against Buchanan’s arm, jolting him sideways, slamming him against the stone wall.

Buchanan groaned, spun, and struck Raymond’s chest with the ball. Continuing to grip the ball, Buchanan kept spinning as Raymond stumbled backward. Braced beneath the stone hoop, Buchanan hurled the ball and felt his heartbeat surge when he saw the ball arc through the vertical circle.

Raymond’s hands struck Buchanan’s back, knocking him forward and down, Buchanan’s chin again scraping on the court.

Jesus, Buchanan said. Not my head. I can’t let anything happen to my head. Another concussion would. .

He scrambled to his feet, wiped blood from his chin, and glared at Raymond.

“No, no, no,” Drummond repeated. “You’re not playing by the rules.”

“Tell that to Raymond!” Buchanan shouted. “I’m the one who got the ball through the hoop.”

“But you didn’t get the ball through legally!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not allowed to use your hands!”

“Not allowed to-?”

“We don’t know much about the game.” Drummond gestured forcefully. “But we do know this. Presumably except for picking up the ball, you were not allowed to use your hands. The ball was kept in motion by thrusting it with your forearms, your shoulders, your hips, your knees, and your head.”

The idea of hitting the ball with his head made Buchanan inwardly flinch. It would probably kill him.

“For breaking the rules, you have to be given a penalty. One point demerit. Now you have to score eleven, while Raymond needs only ten. Unless of course he breaks a rule.”

“Sure. But somehow I get the feeling he’ll make up the rules as he goes along and I’ll keep breaking rules that haven’t been invented yet.”

“Just play the game,” Raymond said.

Before Buchanan could react, Raymond scurried toward the ball, picked it up with his hands, threw it into the air, caught it with his forearms, and hurled it toward the hoop, the ball flying neatly through.

Thunking, the ball landed at Buchanan’s feet.

“Raymond, I get the feeling you’ve been practicing.”

“Good sport,” Drummond said. “I like a man who loses a point graciously.”

“But I’ll bet you like winners more,” Buchanan said.

“Then make me like you better,” Drummond said. “Win.”

Buchanan managed to grab the ball. At once he felt his legs kicked out from under him as Raymond leapt, hitting with his feet.

Buchanan fell backward, the weight of the ball against his chest. He struck the court hard, grateful for the leather armor on his shoulders. Even so, his impact sent a spasm through the shoulder that was still healing from where he’d been shot in Cancun. The weight of the ball took his breath away.

Raymond jerked the ball from his hands, threw it into the air again, caught it with his forearms again, and hurled it toward the vertical hoop, scoring another point.

“Yes, you’ve definitely been practicing.” As Buchanan came to his feet, he felt his body begin to stiffen.

“This isn’t amusing at all. You’re going to have to try harder,” Drummond said.

Sooner than anticipated, Buchanan scooped up the ball, grasped it with his forearms, pretended to lunge toward the hoop, but actually watched for Raymond to attack, and as Raymond darted to slam against him, Buchanan spun. Clutching the ball to his chest, avoiding Raymond, Buchanan jabbed with his elbow as Raymond went past, and Raymond lurched, doubling over, holding his side from the pain in his left kidney. Instantly Buchanan ran toward the hoop, stood with his back to it, cautiously watched Raymond, then risked a glance upward, judged his distance from the hoop, and threw the ball up behind him, exhaling with satisfaction when the ball hurtled through.

“Excellent coordination,” Drummond said. “You look like you’ve had experience with basketball. But this game has aspects of volleyball and soccer as well. How were you at those?”

Distracted, Buchanan felt the wind knocked out of him as Raymond attacked headfirst, plowing his skull into Buchanan’s stomach, knocking him over.

Buchanan writhed, struggling to breathe. Meanwhile Raymond scooped up the ball and scored another point.

“What’s the name of your Special Operations unit?” Drummond asked. “This mythical unit that’s supposed to come and rescue you or else punish me if I harm you.”

Buchanan wavered upright, wiped blood from his chin, and squinted toward Raymond.

“I asked you a question,” Drummond demanded. “What is the name of your unit?”

Buchanan pretended to dart toward the ball. Raymond lunged to intercept him. Buchanan zigzagged, coming toward Raymond from the opposite side, once more ramming his padded elbow into Raymond’s left kidney.

The repeated damage to the area made Raymond groan, faltering with his hands on the ball. Buchanan yanked it away, wedged it between his forearms, and started to throw. Pain blurred his vision as Raymond tackled him from behind at his midsection.

Falling, Buchanan was terribly conscious of the ball beneath him, of Raymond’s weight on top of him. When he hit the court, he felt as if the ball were a wedge against which the top and bottom of his body were being split in opposite directions. Raymond’s plummeting body shoved the ball against Buchanan’s stomach. For a terrifying moment, Buchanan couldn’t breathe. He felt smothered.

Then Raymond scrambled free, and Buchanan rolled off the ball, gasping, knowing that his abdomen had been bruised-worse, that the stitches in his knife wound had been torn open beneath the leather armor that girded his right side.

Raymond picked up the ball with his forearms and, without any visible strain, threw it, scoring another point.

The court echoed with the powerful thunk of the ball as it landed. Construction equipment kept roaring in the background. The fires kept crackling. A gunshot reverberated from the forest. Smoke, tinted crimson by the sunset, drifted over the court.

Drummond coughed.

He kept coughing. Phlegm rattled in his throat. He spat and finally managed to say, “You’ll have to try harder. What is the name of your Special Operations unit?”

Stiff, weary, in pain, Buchanan stood. If he and Holly were going to get out of this alive, he had to convince Drummond that the old man couldn’t afford the consequence of killing his hostages.

“Name, rank, and serial number,” Buchanan said. “But I’ll go to hell before I give you classified information.”

“You don’t know what hell can be,” Drummond said. “What is the name of your Special Operations unit?”

Buchanan grabbed for the ball. Although his movements were an excruciating effort, he had to keep trying. He had to ignore the sticky wetness beneath the leather pad on his right side. He had to overcome his pain.

Raymond sprinted to intercept him, stooping to grab the ball.

Buchanan increased speed, getting to Raymond much sooner than expected, kicking, his right shin striking the unprotected area between Raymond’s shoulders and his abdomen.

Bent over, Raymond took the kick so hard that he was lifted off the court. He tilted in midair, landed on his side, rolled onto his back, kept rolling, came to his feet, and whacked his forearm across Buchanan’s face so hard that Buchanan’s teeth snapped together.

For a moment, Buchanan was blind, jolted backward.