After a twelve-hour shift of breaking rocks and loading the rubble onto the endlessly moving conveyor belt, Patrick Devlin felt as if he’d been beaten with a club, run over by a truck, and forced to breathe in smoke all day.
He was surprised by the grace of a hot shower, even if it was a communal one. The water at his feet was dark sludge from the dust covering his body. A hearty dinner of seal meat and some kind of wild bird surprised him further, but then those things were in abundance on the island, and starving workers slowed down the production line.
After dinner, he was led to a room carved out of the rock. Bunks four high were spaced along two of the walls. Most of them were empty.
As the door was locked behind him, he spotted Masinga and the South American, playing cards.
“Which bunk?” he asked.
“Pick any of them,” Masinga said. “There’s plenty of space.”
He threw his stuff on one of the bunks and then sat down by the other men. “Why is it so hot down here?”
Masinga played a card. “Because we’re in a volcano,” he said. “Where do you think the hot water comes from?”
“Geothermal?”
They nodded in unison.
Devlin looked around. There was no shaft leading to the surface here, only a thin grate above the door for ventilation.
“How far down are we?”
Neither man answered. The South American played a card. Masinga looked at it briefly and then reached for it. Devlin slammed his hand down on Masinga’s. “I said how far down are we?”
Masinga threw the table over and grabbed Devlin by the shirt, hauling him up and slamming him into a locker.
“You think you’re the first one here with plans to get out?” Masinga shouted. “The men who run this place aren’t fools. They know that a death sentence awaits them for the things they’ve done. To think of escape is a crime, to talk of escape will land you in the torture chamber. And to actually try . . . The rule here is simple: one man fights back, three men die.”
Devlin shook loose of Masinga’s grasp. “So you just put up with it until they work you to death?”
Masinga glared at him. “My father spent twelve years in a South African jail for his political activities. He survived by putting up with it until salvation came from the outside. That’s the only way any of us are going to see home again, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you get us killed with your rabid tongue before that happens.”
Devlin stared at his two roommates. “Maybe that’s how you’re going to play it, but I’m going to get out of here or die trying.”
The South American spoke next. “There are informers everywhere,” he warned, “even among the men. Maybe even Masinga or me. So if I was you, I’d watch what I say. And who I say it to.”
Devlin took a deep breath and came to a decision. “They brought me here on a ship. I’m going to find my way back to it at some point. If either of you are going to rat on me, then do it quick and put me out of my misery.”
They stared at him with sullen eyes. Finally, Masinga reached over and righted the table. “And what do you know about sailing a ship, my friend?”
Devlin sat down and grinned at his fellow prisoners. “Just about everything,” he said.
Kurt woke up from the flash-draw as disoriented as Joe had been in the desert. He thought he’d fallen asleep on his couch at home after a long day. But he couldn’t ever remember it being so cold in his town house, even in the dead of winter.
As he moved about, the icy sensation on his face cleared the cobwebs a bit. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but white. Realizing it was snow, he brushed it away and dug himself out.
Once he’d burrowed clear of the snowbank, Kurt got to his feet and looked out over the escarpment. The flat light of the snowfield and the gray sky was broken only by a few jagged sections of black rock.
He quickly remembered where he was, how he’d gotten there, and who was with him.
He looked around, saw no trouble or any sign of movement. “Hayley!” he shouted. “Hayley!”
He heard nothing but the wind.
Forcing himself to stand and ignoring the aches and pains in his body, Kurt began to trudge forward to where the snowmobile lay on its side. Even if she was unconscious, Hayley should have been nearby, but she was nowhere to be seen.
He considered the wreck and where he’d ended up. He searched the snowbank and the surrounding ledge. Not finding any hump in the snow that might have been her, he returned to the snowmobile. He found a fragment of her coat caught on the handlebar and a trail of depressions almost covered in the falling snow that led back toward the glacier. It was hard to tell, as they had almost been filled in, but the depressions looked like they had once been footprints stamped deep into the soft snow.
He began to think Hayley had been captured. It made him wonder about the others, particularly his best friend. If either Joe or the Russians were around, they were keeping out of sight.
He climbed to a high point and scanned the distance. In the fading light, he saw no sign of the other snowmobiles. Considering how they’d scattered, that didn’t surprise him, but it left him with a tough choice. He certainly couldn’t wander around the glacier-covered island on foot, looking for help. Time was too precious now. Besides, he’d begun to think his own escape from capture was a fluke of some kind. Considering the effect of the flash-draw and how determined Thero’s men seemed, he doubted they’d have just disappeared if they didn’t think they’d rounded up the infiltrators.
He had to assume the worst: that Joe, Hayley, and the others had been captured.
Stepping back to the snowmobile, Kurt grabbed the handlebars and forced the machine back up onto its tracks. The damage seemed mostly cosmetic, but a flick of the starter did nothing. Not even the lights would come on.
“This flash-draw is really starting to annoy me,” he muttered.
He flipped open a small cargo box on the back of the snowmobile and searched for anything useful. He found a flashlight, but it too was drained.
“Great,” he muttered.
He glanced up at the sky. The falling snow made it seem lighter than it really was, but the night was coming on fast. He had every intention of continuing on to Thero’s lair, but it would be almost impossible in the utter darkness that was about to envelop the island.
He knew basically where he was. All he had to do was make his way down the cliff and across the snowfield and he’d run smack into the Winston Glacier. From there, he’d turn left and follow it toward the lagoon. Somewhere farther down, he’d encounter the hot spots photographed by the Russian drones.
He began to pick his way down the steep face of the bluff, studying the route carefully and noticing the wreckage of the hovercraft not far from the foot of the cliff.
When he reached the mangled shell of the vehicle, he found it half buried in the falling snow. Only the engine cowling, which was still venting heat, remained visible.
Kurt brushed the snow away and found the hatch ajar. He forced it open and climbed inside.
He was looking for anything useful: food, maps, radios, anything he could get his hands on. He found a flashlight and turned it on. Thankfully, it worked. He located the radio. The panel lit up as he flipped a toggle switch, but even with the headset on, Kurt heard no static. He figured something had blown. It didn’t matter. It was a short-range unit anyway. He wasn’t going to be able to reach help with it.
A few more minutes of rummaging provided him with some extra supplies, including a Zippo lighter, a few greasy rags that might burn if he needed a marker, and, most important, a set of night vision goggles.
Without them, the approaching darkness would have been Kurt’s worst enemy. With the moon and stars blocked by thick clouds, and no source of artificial light on the island, the darkness would be like that of a cave, complete and all-encompassing.
To navigate through it without any type of aide would be impossible. To walk with the flashlight sw
itched on or to carry a makeshift torch of flame was just asking to be seen and shot. But with the night vision goggles, Kurt could hike through the darkness like a bat using sonar.
He checked his watch. It was just past eight p.m. local time. They had nine hours before Thero’s promised attack. He figured a three-hour hike awaited him.
“No time like the present.”
He pulled his coat tight once again, forced the hatch open, and climbed out into the blowing snow. He left behind the only shelter for miles and trekked to the west, heading toward a confrontation he stood little chance of winning.
• • •
WHILE KURT WAS HOPING to find a way in to Thero’s compound, Joe was wondering if he’d ever see the outside world again.
In the confines of the underground cavern, things were warmer but less hospitable. Joe was chained to a wall of black volcanic rock like a prisoner in a medieval dungeon. His hands were up high, stretched out to either side, and his feet were shackled and hooked to the floor. From the dried blood on the floor and the worn condition of the shackles, it was clear this wasn’t the first torture session this room had seen.
Hayley and Gregorovich were chained up in similar fashion on either side of Joe. As an additional form of intimidation, the battered and broken bodies of the dead Russian commandos were paraded in and thrown in a heap on the floor one by one.
From the looks of it, three had been shot, while the other two seemed to have died from impact injuries.
“Tell us what we want to know or you’ll end up like them.”
The question came from a bearded man who stood ramrod straight. His eyes were hard and his face a mask of determination. Joe had no way of knowing, but this was Janko, captain of Thero’s guard.
Joe studied the bodies, taking in their faces. Instead of fear, the sight gave Joe some hope. Kurt was not among them.
“Not willing to speak?” Janko asked. He nodded to a pair of muscle-bound henchmen and pointed to Gregorovich. “Start with him.”
The two bruisers moved in on Gregorovich and began to soften him up with body blows. Kidney punches and uppercuts to the gut landed one after another. Gregorovich grunted and winced, but he never said a word, nor did he look away. At each pause in the beating, he straightened and eyed his torturers.
“How did you get to this island?” Janko demanded.
Gregorovich glared back.
“Wipe that look off his face,” Janko said calmly.
The thugs cracked their knuckles and moved the target zone from the Russian’s torso to his head. They lined him up and connected with a series of haymakers that left his nose broken, his lips and mouth bleeding, and his right eye all but swollen shut.
They stepped back, surveying the damage. The Russian sagged in his chains, head down, blood dripping from his face. For several seconds, it seemed they might have killed him or knocked him out cold, but slowly and painfully Gregorovich straightened once again.
Joe had no love for the Russian, who’d basically kidnapped them, but he had to admit he was impressed.
Janko, on the other hand, was incensed. “Break his legs!” he shouted.
The stockier of the two henchmen rushed Gregorovich and slammed a knee into his thigh with a sickening thud.
“Again!” Janko yelled.
Another hammer shot landed, and then a third.
“Hey!” Joe yelled. “Save some of that for me!”
The group turned to him.
“You’ll get your share,” Janko said.
Gregorovich was struggling to get back up, his legs all but useless even if they weren’t broken. He pulled himself up on the chains, trying to straighten using only his arms.
“Come on,” Joe said. “What, are you tired or something?”
Joe wasn’t sure why he was trying to draw them off Gregorovich. Perhaps keeping the Russian from being beaten to death was a strategic move, perhaps it was pure emotion. All his life, Joe had been the guy to stand up for the underdog, though he’d never expected a Russian assassin to fall into that category.
Janko seemed nonplussed. With his arms folded across his chest, he motioned nonchalantly toward Joe. “Give it to him.”
The first punch landed seconds later, and for the next few minutes Janko’s strongmen kicked or punched Joe repeatedly, allowing just enough time between shots to get in a question or two.
Joe never answered, and the beating continued.
Unlike Gregorovich, who’d been intent on taking each hit as if he were unbreakable, Joe used his boxing skills both to harden himself against the rain of impacts and to reduce the damage by twisting and bending, turning the punches into glancing blows. Even then, after the fifteenth or sixteenth punch, he felt certain a rib or two had been cracked.
Finally, Janko raised a hand like a Roman emperor calling a halt to the gladiator games. “All this is so unnecessary,” he said. “Just tell us who you are. How you got here. And if there are any more of your people out there.”
Joe kept silent and was rewarded with a punch to the face. He turned away as best he could, but it caught him in the jaw, splitting his lip.
Joe looked up. “I was just about to tell you,” he said, “but you’ve given me amnesia.”
Janko gave up on him and pointed to Hayley. She cowered against the wall, trying desperately to pull her hands free from the shackles. Seeing the two men beaten to a pulp first had probably filled her with fear by now. That would only make it easier.
“Giving up so quickly?” Joe shouted, trying to draw their attention back to him.
The muscle-bound torturer looked over.
“And I thought we were just starting to bond,” Joe shouted. “Really beginning to make a connection. I should have known you were too weak to finish the job.”
The guy fumed for a second, obviously aware it was a trick. He looked back toward Hayley, intent on intimidating her, only to have Joe spit a mix of blood and saliva at his face.
Furious, the thug stepped back over to Joe and slammed another fist into his stomach. Joe doubled over, only held up by the chains.
“How do you like that for a connection?” Janko asked sarcastically.
“Barely felt it,” Joe grunted, righting himself.
Janko nodded a green light to the thug, who stepped up and slammed Joe against the wall with his left hand, before connecting with a right cross and snapping Joe’s head to the side. A huge welt, split down the middle, formed instantly and began bleeding. Joe’s head hung for a moment.
Joe lifted his head. He made sure to look weary and woozy. “Is that . . . all you’ve got?”
This time, the thug reared back and fired an overhand right at Joe’s eye. Joe snapped his head to the side with surprising quickness. The torturer’s fist slammed into the wall of rock behind Joe, and a sickening crack rang out.
The big thug shrieked in pain and dropped to his knees, cradling his wrist.
Joe managed a smile. Gregorovich laughed out loud.
“Enough of this!” Janko shouted. He stepped toward Hayley and grabbed her by the hair. “Talk or I’ll take it out on her!”
Before he could do anything more, the steel door opened. Three men stood there in the shadows. Joe’s vision was a little fuzzy at this point, but he was fairly certain the man in the center was wearing some kind of mask.
They stepped into the room.
Janko snapped to attention.
“So these are our enemies,” the masked man said. His eyes lingered on Hayley until she returned his gaze. Next, he glanced at Joe, and finally Gregorovich.
“When they get done with you,” he said, “you’ll need a mask like mine.”
Gregorovich only stared.
“What did they bring?”
Janko pointed to the hard-shell-suitcase bomb.
“Has it been deactivated?”
“There was a timing device,” Janko said, “but we have disabled it.”
The masked man looked to his guards. “Bring it,” he sai
d, and they quickly lifted it and took it out into the hall.
As the guards vanished into the hallway, the masked leader turned his attention back to Hayley. “Get her cleaned up and bring her up to me,” he said. “I have something to show her.”
“She’s part of this,” Janko replied. “She’s been with the ASIO from the beginning. She knows what’s at stake here.”
“Yes,” the man replied in a sinister, raspy voice. “She knows more than you think.”
He turned around and left. Janko stood still, looking stunned.
Slowly, he began to act, doing as ordered, moving to unlock Hayley’s cuffs and disconnect her shackles from the wall. He left with her in tow. The two interrogators followed him out. One of them, no doubt, headed for the sick bay.
As the steel door slammed and locked tight, Joe and Gregorovich were left in the room with the dead commandos.
Joe glanced over at Gregorovich. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Gregorovich turned back to Joe, his face mostly bruises and blood. “I didn’t need your help.”
“Really?”
“But thank you anyway.”
Joe figured that was the best he would get out of Gregorovich. “You take a punch pretty well for a Russian.”
“Sure,” Gregorovich said. “And you handled your pain fairly well for a decadent American. You didn’t even need any whisky to make you strong.”
Joe accepted the backhanded compliment. “I’d take some,” he admitted, “if you happened to have a bottle on you.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, and finally Gregorovich began to laugh. Joe joined him. It hurt like crazy, but it was worth it.
“What happened to you out there?” Gregorovich asked. “I thought you were going to get the shot off.”
“Didn’t count on their wingman coming up behind me,” Joe replied. “What about you?”
“They sideswiped me and knocked me off the sled.”
“How’d they get so close?”
Gregorovich hesitated. “I may have doubled back to look for you. An obvious tactical mistake.”
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