Assumed Identity

Raymond struck him again, knocking him farther backward. Blood flew. Dazed, Buchanan prepared for a third blow, shielding his face, ducking to the left, unable to see clearly.

“What is the name of your unit?” Drummond demanded.

Raymond struck again, smashing Buchanan’s lips.

Then suddenly Buchanan had nowhere to go. He was thrust against the wall of the court. Through blurred vision, he saw Raymond drawing back his arm to strike yet again.

“The name of your unit?” Drummond shouted.

“Yellow Fruit!” Holly blurted.

“Yellow. .?” Drummond sounded confused.

“You want the unit’s name! That’s it!” Holly’s voice was unsteady from terror. “Stop. My God, look at the blood. Can’t you see how hurt he is?”

“That’s the general idea.” Raymond struck Buchanan again.

Buchanan slumped to his knees.

Keep going, Holly. Buchanan strained to clear his vision. Damn it, keep on. Hook them.

Yellow Fruit! She hadn’t told Drummond about Scotch and Soda. Instead, she’d used the name for a unit that was no longer operative. She was following what Buchanan had taught her during their search. When you’re absolutely stuck, tell the truth, but only that portion of the truth that’s useful. Never expose your core identity.

“And what exactly is Yellow Fruit?” Drummond demanded.

“It’s a covert Army unit that supplies security and intelligence to Special Operations units.” Holly’s voice continued to shake.

“And how do you know this? A while ago, Buchanan assured me that your knowledge was limited.”

“Because of a story I’ve been working on. I’ve tracked down leads for a year. Buchanan’s one of them. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t tried to get close to him and hope he’d say more than he meant to.”

“Did he?”

“Not enough to satisfy you. Damn it, I’ve got nothing to do with this. I want out of this. Jesus, tell him what he wants, Buchanan. Maybe he’ll let us go.”

“Yes,” Drummond said, “take her advice and tell me everything I want.”

Buchanan was kneeling, his head bowed. Wiping blood from his mouth, he nodded. Abruptly he struck Raymond in his solar plexus, doubling Raymond over, striking again, this time with an uppercut that made Raymond’s eyes cross and sent him reeling back, collapsing on the court. Raymond’s feathered helmet rolled away.

Buchanan struggled to his feet. If he’d been allowed to use his Special Forces hand-to-hand-combat skills, he would not have had so much trouble dealing with Raymond. But winning in hand-to-hand combat wasn’t the point. Winning the game was. Otherwise, Drummond might become so outraged that he’d order Buchanan and Holly to be executed. And Buchanan doubted that the rules of pok-a-tok included karate.

As it was, the damage that he had inflicted on Raymond was sufficient to leave Raymond sprawled on the court. Wavering, Buchanan picked up the ball between his forearms. He studied the vertical hoop, tried to clear his blurred vision, and threw the ball underhanded. His stomach turned cold when the ball struck the edge of the ring and thunked back toward him.

Shit, he thought. He wiped sweat from his eyes, whirled to make certain that Raymond was still on his back, then glared up at Holly.

“You bitch!” he shouted. “You were just leading me on! All I meant to you was a story!”

“Damned right!” she shouted back. “Did you figure you were so wonderful I’d fall hopelessly in love with you? Get real, and look in the mirror! I don’t intend to get killed because of you! For God’s sake, tell him what he wants!”

Buchanan turned toward the ring, threw the ball underhanded again, and this time the ball went through.

“Tell him what he wants?” Buchanan glared harder. “I’ll tell him, bitch. Just enough to save my life. You’re the threat to him, not me. You’re the damned reporter! I’m a soldier! I can be trusted to keep my mouth shut!”

Buchanan threw the ball yet again. It arced through the ring. “And I’ll win this fucking game.”

“Just enough to save your life?” Holly turned paler than she already was. “Hey, we’re in this together!”

“Wrong.”

Buchanan threw the ball.

And cursed when it struck the edge of the ring.

“And you’re wrong as well,” Raymond said unexpectedly.

Buchanan turned to look behind him.

Raymond had stood. Blood streamed from his mouth, dripping onto his leather armor. “You’re not going to win, after all.”

Raymond scrambled toward the ball.

Buchanan lunged after him.

And slipped.

He’d been standing too long in one place. The blood from the opened stitches in his side had seeped from beneath his armor. It had trickled down his leg and formed a slippery pool where he stood.

Although he didn’t fall, the strenuous effort of regaining his balance lost him sufficient time that Raymond was able to throw the ball through the ring.

Without pause, Raymond darted toward it again. But as he scooped it up, Buchanan swept his right forearm beneath the ball, freeing it from Raymond’s grip. Using his other forearm, Buchanan thrust the ball against Raymond’s left shoulder. The ball’s impact made Raymond groan. It rebounded, and as Raymond staggered back, Buchanan caught the ball with upraised forearms. Hurling it, seeing it touch the ring, he felt elated.

Then his chest cramped. The ball did not go through. It bounced off the edge and fell back. Jesus. Running forward, Buchanan leapt. But he didn’t get there soon enough. He didn’t raise his arms quickly enough. In midair, he had to strike the ball with his padded left shoulder. It flew back toward the ring.

And bounced yet again. But this time, Buchanan was ready. As he completed his leap and landed on the court, he raised his forearms, caught the ball, threw, and scored a point.

“Bravo,” Drummond yelled. “Yes, that’s how the game is played! Shoulders! Angles! Rebounds!”

“Bitch, watch me win!” Buchanan yelled at Holly. “You’re the one who’s going to lose! You’re the one who’s going to die! You’ll wish you’d never met me! You’ll wish you’d never led me on!”

At once Buchanan felt his breath taken away as hands slammed his back, propelling him against the side of the court. In a daze, Buchanan raised his padded forearms to cushion the impact against the stone wall. He spun and was slammed again, this time by Raymond’s right padded shoulder, a full blow to the chest. Then Buchanan’s back struck the wall, and a sharp pain made him fear that one of his ribs had been broken.

“Argue with her later,” Raymond said. “How do you contact your unit?”

“Exactly,” Drummond said. He coughed again, violently. More smoke swirled over him. The construction equipment continued roaring. Increasing gunshots reverberated, closer.

“Not until we have a deal!” Buchanan winced from the pain in his chest. Another pool of blood formed at his feet. He felt light-headed and fought to concentrate. He had to keep Holly and himself alive. Play your role, Holly. Play your role.

“What kind of deal?” Drummond asked.

“I tell you what you need, and I get to walk away,” Buchanan said. “In exchange for calling off my unit, I stay alive. But this bitch gets what she deserves.”

“You’d believe any bargain I made with you?” Drummond asked.

“Hey, your problem hasn’t changed! If anything happens to me, my unit comes after you!” Buchanan held his chest, the sharp pain restricting his breath.

“And what about Juana Mendez? Do you expect me to believe you won’t stop looking for her? Or maybe she no longer matters to you, either.”

“No.” Buchanan sweated. “She’s the reason I’m in this. I’ll keep looking. I’ll convince her this is none of her business. I want her left alone. The same as me.”