Damage Control

Book 4: Jonathan Grave Thriller

by John Gilstrap

Genres: Action & Adventure; Political Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

"One of the finest thriller writers on the planet." –Tess Gerritsen "Gilstrap pushes every thriller button." – San Francisco Chronicle The hostages are young: a bus full of teenagers on a church mission. The ransom demands are explicit: deliver three million dollars--with zero involvement from law enforcement--or all captives will be executed. But rescue specialist Jonathan Grave doesn't believe in ultimatums. For him and his elite team at Security Solutions, it's all about protecting the innocent. Now Grave must face the chilling possibility that someone within the U.S. government has a deadly secret to protect--one that could jeopardize national security like never before. . . Praise for John Gilstrap's Thrillers "SURPRISING AND SATISFYING." -- The Denver Post "A GREAT HERO, A PULSE-POUNDING STORY." --Joseph Finder "JONATHAN GRAVE IS A HERO FOR OUR TIME. . .AND FOR ALL TIME." –Jeffery Deaver

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 468

Sample

Pacing her huge office high atop the Crystal Palace Cathedral in Scottsdale, Arizona, Reverend Jackie Mitchell checked her watch for the fifth time in half as many minutes. Three-oh-five. The unpleasantness was supposed to have ended an hour ago. Mr. Abrams had promised that she would know that her parishioners were safe within moments of the rescue’s final outcome.

As soon as we have anything to report. That’s how he’d put it. As soon as we have anything to report.

She tried not to worry—Abrams had assured her that everything would go well, that it had to go well—but given the stakes, it was hard not to harbor doubt.

Certainly, the children would be traumatized emotionally, and perhaps the adults as well, but that was to be expected under the circumstances. They’d been taken hostage. Of course there’d be trauma.

Jackie refused to dwell on the events that had brought her to this point. That was the past, and the end was finally in sight.

Abrams had sworn that this would be a seamless operation. Without that assurance, she’d never have gone along.

In the end, Jackie knew that the Lord would forgive her. The Crystal Palace was a testament to Him, after all. He had to understand. Why else would He have led her here? This ... opportunity had come at too fortuitous a time for it to be anything but guidance by His hand. Abrams’s call had been a sign, a clear message that the Crystal Palace was destined to survive despite all the tests and the scandals. God knew Jackie’s heart.

We are all sinners. It’s God’s greatest desire to forgive us.

And forgive her He would.

When the phone rang, Jackie let out a yelp. She turned from the window and its panoramic view of Arizona’s rolling hills and walked across the plush baby-blue carpeting to her six-by-eight-foot glass-topped desk to lift the receiver from its cradle.

“God bless you,” she said. It was her standard greeting for any caller who got past her assistant.

“Would’ve been nice if he did,” Abrams said. With his thick New England accent, there was no need for him to introduce himself. “Unfortunately, it’s as bad as it can get.”

Jonathan Grave ignored the drop of sweat that tracked down his forehead and over the bridge of his nose. It made no sense to wipe it away when there’d just be another to follow. What was it about jungles, he wondered, that made them so attractive to bad guys? Perhaps it was a kind of insect-borne mass psychosis.

The same variety of sickness that kept bringing him back to the stifling heat time after time. He’d long ago stopped telling himself that he’d get used to it after a while. He concentrated instead on getting past it, and he did that by focusing on the misery of the people whose rescue was his responsibility.

The bud in Jonathan’s left ear popped to life. “Scorpion, Mother Hen,” said the voice that had guided him through way too many difficult moments. “The satellite picture just refreshed. You have what appears to be a squad of five soldiers approaching your location from the west. I’ve only got heat signatures because of the canopy.”

Jonathan pressed the transmit button in the center of his ballistic vest. “Range?”

“Close. Quit talking.”

They moved cautiously, but still made too much noise. His mind raced to make some sense out of it. They could not be reinforcements because no one outside his very small circle knew he was here. That made them bad guys until proven otherwise, and their presence made this operation vastly more complicated.

“I see movement but no faces.” Jonathan heard Boxers’ unmistakable growl through the same earpiece. Closer to seven feet tall than six, with a girth that made him look bulletproof, Boxers had been born as Brian Van de Meulebroeke, and had been Jonathan’s right-hand man from back in their days in the Unit when they’d toiled under the supervision of Uncle Sam and his surrogates. His position on the opposite hill gave him a good view of Jonathan’s location. “Looks like they might be here for the same reason we are. They’re taking positions next to you.”

Jonathan acknowledged by tapping his transmit button once to break squelch. They might be in the same place, Jonathan thought, but he doubted that they were here for the same reason. Jonathan’s plan was to let a group of kidnappers take a bag loaded with three million dollars in return for leaving behind their hostages. Now it seemed that there’d be competition for the money.

“One is very damn close to you, Boss,” Boxers went on. “I give it twenty feet of separation, and he’s settling in. There’s enough brush between the two of you that as long as you don’t sneeze, you’ll be invisible.” After about ten seconds, Boxers finished with, “I’ve got his range dialed in. If he makes an ugly face, I’ll take him out.”

In Boxers’ world, there were no problems so great that they couldn’t be solved with the appropriate application of firepower. In this case, the firepower in play would be Hechler and Koch’s HK417, a lightweight cannon chambered in 7.62 millimeter that could send ten rounds per second downrange with needle-threading accuracy. As far as Jonathan was concerned, it was the best marksman’s rifle since the M14, and he had every confidence that as long as Boxers was within a thousand yards (he was actually within a quarter of a thousand yards), his closest visitor posed no physical threat.

But why had he been joined by soldiers, and where had they come from?

His earbud popped again. “Look sharp, guys,” Mother Hen said. “I’ve got vehicles approaching from the south. Looks like a school bus followed by an SUV. School bus, maybe, but definitely not a late model. Estimate a half mile from the drop.”

Moving carefully, Jonathan flexed his shoulders and prepared himself. With his back braced against a leafy, foul-smelling tree and his elbows braced against his raised knees, he pressed his M27 carbine into his shoulder and scanned the area through his scope.

The backpack with the ransom remained at the base of the tree where he’d placed it twenty minutes ago, at the edge of the rutted path that looked more like a hiking trail than the road that it was supposed to be. The same canopy of leaves that trapped the humidity to the ground also filtered out much of the sunlight, casting this part of the world in a kind of perpetual twilight during the day. He’d done his best to make the backpack stand out in a shaft of light.

The instructions for this op were as simple as they were objectionable. Jonathan was to be a bagman. He and Boxers were to allow the bad guys to collect their millions and get away. In return, the bad guys would release their hostages, four adults and six children aged fifteen to seventeen. Jonathan knew little about their condition, but after a week in captivity, mobility was not going to be their long suit.

If Jonathan had been allowed to write the script, this drop-off would have been made in the wide-open desert regions of northern Mexico, where everything and everyone would be in the open, but the bad guys had insisted on a jungle transfer in the south. That was a mistake that played to Jonathan’s strengths. While the wide vistas of the north played to their paranoia of not being able to get away quickly, this kind of thick foliage screamed ambush opportunity.

Accordingly, he and Boxers had poised themselves for a classic ambush, to be sprung if the kidnappers decided to break the rules. As long as they drove into the clearing and off-loaded the hostages to be counted, they would be allowed to pick up their ransom and drive away in the follow car, leaving the bus behind. Just about any other scenario would result in a very, very bad day for the kidnappers.

Then these new guys showed up. If they started shooting, the kidnappers would panic, and then there’d be a bloodbath.

“I’ve got eyes on the precious cargo,” Boxers said into his radio. He was in position to see the approaching vehicles before Jonathan could. “I can’t count heads through the windows, but it looks like a full load.”

Jonathan acknowledged with a tap on his transmit button.

Ten seconds later the flat nose of an ancient bus turned the sweeping corner into the kill zone, its engine wheezing like an old man. To his right, he heard the interlopers reacting with movement. “It’s here,” the close one said in Spanish, perhaps into a radio, or perhaps just to himself. From this range—call it fifty yards—Jonathan could see the silhouette of the driver, even though he couldn’t make out his features.

“Looks like the follow car is hanging back,” Boxers advised. “It is an SUV, and it appears to have only a driver inside.”

The newcomers had fallen silent. As Jonathan settled behind his rifle scope to track the action in and around the bus, he tried to ignore the tingle in his spine that told him trouble was coming.

“They’re going to kill us, aren’t they?” Allison asked.

If they don’t, I might, Tristan didn’t say. He’d been handcuffed to her for nearly five days now. What was that, a hundred twenty-five hours? That’s how many hours she’d been whining. Honest to God, it didn’t matter if he was trying to sleep or if he was in the middle of a conversation with someone else, Allison Bradley never shut up.

This ordeal had offered up too many cruel twists to even keep up with anymore, but none had been crueler than the kidnappers’ decision to handcuff him to Miss Bubbly Cheerleader-Turned-Doomsayer. For five long days, they’d done everything together—including the humiliation of biological chores—and at every turn, Allison had featured herself at death’s door. They were all scared, for God’s sake.

“Seriously,” she repeated, “I think they’re going to kill us.”

From behind: “Allison, shut up!”

For an instant, Tristan thought that he’d inadvertently spoken his thoughts aloud. Instead, the words had erupted from Ray Greaser, who, back in the world, had been Ken to Allison’s Barbie, the clichéd quarterback-cheerleader Homecoming royalty. The resulting photo in the yearbook exuded the kind of perfection that every high school student dreamed of, yet Tristan would never achieve. He told his friends that the photo looked like an Aryan recruitment poster.

“Don’t tell me to shut up!” Allison snapped. “In fact, don’t even speak to me.”

“Cállate,” snapped the nameless man up front with the machine gun. Shut up.

Great, Tristan thought. Now I’m channeling a terrorist.

Like all of the gunmen on the bus, the one up front wore military fatigues, but of a style that Tristan didn’t see in the States anymore. The green and black camouflage appeared more as smears of color than the precise digital patterns of modern warriors. The clothes didn’t matter as much as the rifles, though. Or the pistols. Or the hand grenades.

Tristan sensed that this was the beginning of the end. After all the days and nights of anger and agitation among these murderers, the past twelve hours had brought a lighter mood. Whatever the endgame was, it had apparently been achieved because the guys with the guns had been a lot more cheerful.

Assholes. Every time he thought about what they’d done to Mr. Hall and Mrs. Charlton, he wanted to kill them. He wanted somebody to kill them. Especially for Mrs. Charlton.

The bus slowed by half—if that was even possible, given the snail’s pace they’d been traveling for the last three hours—and as it did, the terrorists became more agitated.

“We’re almost there,” one of them said in Spanish. “It should be just around this curve.”

“What are they saying?” Allison asked. Why she’d decided to come on a trip to rural Mexico without knowing a word of the language was beyond Tristan.

He ignored her. A better option than punching her.

The bus took the curve at slower than a walking pace, its engine screaming and transmission rattling as if someone had thrown rocks in the gearbox. Finally, they stopped, and the men with the guns started moving and chattering quickly.

“They’re saying we’re here,” Tristan translated, hoping to get ahead of the inevitable question. “ ‘Positions, everyone.’ ”

“What does that mean?” Allison whined.

“How the hell do I know? They’re not talking to us.”

“I see it,” said the driver, pointing through the windshield to a spot ahead of them.

The other five terrorists abandoned their spots among the hostages and surged forward to get a look. In Tristan’s mind, the gunmen were essentially one person. He’d made an effort to avoid eye contact, or even to look at their faces. He knew that if he ever came out of the other end of this thing alive, he didn’t want their malignant eyes haunting his dreams. He prayed that there’d be some kind of hypnosis he could undergo that would erase this nightmare forever.

“Get ready to take your positions,” said the gunman who’d staked out the front of the bus as his own territory. Tristan figured that guy to be the one in charge because he was the one who gave the most orders. “Keep watch for any sign of soldiers or police. Are you ready?”

The answer came more as an enthusiastic roar than a verbal response.

The bus rocked as four soldiers streamed out of the fanfold front door and formed a circle around the vehicle. They kept their rifles at their shoulders, pointed out toward the jungle. Seated where he was on the right-hand side of the bus, Tristan couldn’t see any details of what they were doing, but he noted that everyone in the bus had stopped talking.

If it hadn’t been so quiet, he probably would not have heard the tick of the windshield breaking and the wet thwop of the driver’s head exploding as two distinct sounds.

Jonathan tightened his grip on his weapon as the bus’s folding door opened and four armed men rushed out. All of them wore ancient M81 woodland cammies, and were armed with MP5 submachine guns, no doubt courtesy of a happy gun store owner in Texas. They moved with choreographed precision that demonstrated they’d been trained, albeit to a level that didn’t concern him much. The four took up defensive positions on each corner of the bus, and waited while a fifth guy—the driver of the van—hurried forward to join them. The bus driver remained in place behind the wheel.

With everyone in position, they held for a few seconds, and then the fifth guy moved forward, his weapon pressed to his shoulder, his eyes scanning for threats. He clearly had spotted the backpack.

He’d walked maybe a half dozen steps when a high-caliber rifle shattered the silence of the afternoon and brains spattered the interior of the bus’s windshield. The shot came from the guy on Jonathan’s right, and half a second later, he heard the whip crack of Boxer’s incoming round as it sheared the shooter’s head from his shoulders.

Then the world erupted in gunfire.

In the space of a heartbeat, the five kidnappers opened up on the jungle, firing randomly at targets they couldn’t see. Farther away on Jonathan’s right, the rest of the newly arriving shooters returned fire, proving that whatever their skills might be, marksmanship did not rank among them.

Jonathan fired a three-round burst and dropped the terrorist at the right front bumper. Two seconds later, he was under fire from his right, his position being raked by the late arrivers. He slapped his transmit button. “I’m under fire,” he said.

He’d barely released the transmit button when Boxers started stitching the area with .30-caliber rounds. Whoever they were, they didn’t have the stomach for a protracted gun battle. As loud as they had been coming in, they made a hell of a lot more noise as they ran away.

In a perfect world, Jonathan would have caught them in a cross fire to keep them from escaping; but today those people were just a distraction. His real targets were down there on the ground below.

Jonathan’s worst nightmare would come true if the soldiers on the ground turned their attention to the bus. In the twisted logic that was hostage negotiation, they had every right to do so. They no doubt felt both betrayed and doomed. It only made sense to take the hostages with them.

As if on cue, two of them turned their weapons on the bus and opened fire. Boxers was already a beat ahead. Jonathan couldn’t hear the Big Guy’s rifle, but he recognized the marksmanship. On the far side of the bus, a spray of blood marked the demise of one gunman, and before his buddy could even react, he, too, dropped dead.

Jonathan went to work, too. He killed the bagman first, with a double tap to the chest, and then he moved to the two on his side of the bus, killing them with two shots apiece.

Then it was done. All the bad guys were dead, and the whole gun battle had lasted less than ten seconds.

Half a tick later, Boxers nearly shouted over the radio, “What the hell’s going on, Boss?”

Jonathan pressed the transmit button to respond, but froze when he heard more gunshots. These seemed muffled compared to the others, and they were followed immediately with the sound of screaming.

“Shit!” he spat on the air. “There’s a shooter on the bus.”

Tristan had never seen so much blood. The spray of bone and brains went everywhere, misting the windows pink. An instant later, the world outside erupted in gunfire. He looked out the side window and saw the soldiers or the kidnappers or whatever the hell they were shooting long blasts of machine gun fire into the jungle.

“They’re going to kill us!” Allison screamed.

And then the guys outside spouted blood and fell to the ground.

Paul McDaniel, another jock, shouted, “Get down!” and then the loudest bang Tristan had ever heard startled everyone into silence. And there was more blood in the air. Tristan could taste it.

People started screaming. Danielle Taylor was next. Tristan had never gotten to know her very well, but she smiled a lot. He’d wished several times that he could have been handcuffed to her instead of to Allison. The soldier at the front of the bus knew none of this, of course, as he pressed his rifle against the side of her head.

“Please don’t,” Danielle begged. “I—”

The kidnapper pulled the trigger.

At least she died fast.

What surprised Tristan the most was the clarity of it all. It was as if time had slowed to a heartbeat every five seconds. As the gunman strolled casually down the center aisle, Tristan’s brain recorded every detail. The muzzle flashes. The way people just went limp when their souls were blasted out of their heads. Always a head shot, always a dead body.

With Danielle gone, the soldier pivoted and leveled his rifle at Ray Greaser. Tristan had never liked Ray, but right now, he felt like a brother. He started to cry when the rifle turned to him. “Please don’t,” he said.

Good guys never pleaded for their lives in movies, Tristan thought, yet everybody pleads when their time comes. Even as his heart hammered in his chest hard enough to break a rib, Tristan wondered what he would do when his time came.

This was so unfair. They were all handcuffed together, and the soldier with the rifle could move as fast or as slowly as he wanted. Every advantage lay with the murderer. That just wasn’t right.

The soldier was about to kill Ray when someone yelled, “Hey, asshole!” It was in English, and when the gunman pivoted and pointed his gun at the shouter, Tristan was shocked to realize that the words were his own.

But they were, and he was already in for a dime. Now it was time to be in for a dollar. “You don’t have to do this,” he said in Spanish. As the words left his mouth, he caught movement off to his right, outside the bus.

“Yes, I do,” the soldier said. He murdered Ray, and then his gaze followed Tristan’s. First his eyes, then his head, and finally his rifle. Someone was storming the bus.

The gunman flipped a switch on the side of his rifle. Tristan knew he was going to die now. He hooked his free hand around Allison’s neck and he pulled her to the floor.

The shooting became insane.

“Give me covering fire on the hill,” Jonathan said into his radio as he sprinted toward the vehicle full of precious cargo. Whoever took the shot at the driver had screwed up everything, and the penalty was death.

An instant later, Boxers opened up, raking the trees above and behind Jonathan with bullets. If the shooter was still there and they didn’t kill him, they would make him go to ground, which accomplished more or less the same goal.

The sound of the gunfire must have startled the killer on the bus, too, because he stopped firing at the hostages and looked out the far side window toward Boxers’ location.

The distraction lasted for only a second or two, and then the shooter returned to his executions. Jonathan knew from sound alone that he was firing big ammunition—probably 7.62 millimeter—and he knew from experience how much damage they could do to the human anatomy. God only knew how many PCs the shooter had already killed, but Jonathan aimed to stop him.

As he closed the distance, he let the carbine fall against its sling and he drew his Colt 1911 .45 from the holster on his thigh. At this range, any bullet he fired from the carbine would pass completely through the man he intended to shoot and then go on to endanger the people behind him. Besides, the Colt was the best weapon ever made.

He was still ten yards out when he identified his target, but he didn’t have a clean shot. Too many heads bobbing in and out of the sight picture. Even from out here, he could see the blood on the windows and the walls of the bus. He could also see the holes through the sheet metal that marked the paths of the bullets that had exited their victims. The gunman was walking down the aisle, front to back, casually taking aim at hostages’ heads and blowing them away. For Jonathan, the worst of it all was the lack of screaming inside the vehicle.

People screamed only when they thought they had a chance to live.

The movement must have caught the gunman’s attention, because when Jonathan was still thirty yards out, the guy opened up on full auto inside the bus. It was a slaughter.

The gunman turned as Jonathan leaped through the open door and dove on his belly. The shooter followed him with his own weapon, a stockless AK with a banana clip. Jonathan saw in a blink that the bad guy’s aim was off by half a foot, and that would be his last mistake.

The AK launched its massive bullets at two thousand three hundred feet per second. At this range, the boom was beyond deafening. The sound pressure hit with a force all its own.

Jonathan’s mind recorded all of the sights and the noises as a matter of instinct, dismissing everything so far as inconsequential. He had lives to protect, and to do it he had to kill this asshole or die trying. As he hit the floor on his right side, he slid across the blood-slick grooved rubber matting and came to rest with his head nearly touching the foot of the dead driver.

Before the AK could cycle for a second burst, Jonathan’s hand flexed and his pistol barked. The angles were all wrong for a reliable one-shot kill, so he took out the shooter’s knee with the first shot to get him falling. A quarter second later, the collapsing terrorist spread his arms just wide enough to expose his chest, and Jonathan drilled his heart. Just for good measure—in case the bad guy was wearing body armor Jonathan couldn’t see—he launched a final round through the bridge of the shooter’s nose. Three shots in just over one second, and the world had one fewer terrorist to worry about.

Then there was silence. Even as Boxers hammered away at whatever targets he could find outside, nothing moved in the interior of the vehicle. This was where there should have been unbridled panic, punctuated with screams of terror and cries for help. Instead, he heard only the pounding of his own heart.

He stood cautiously, his weapon at the ready. The metal floorboards were slick with blood. Windows and seats had been shredded by bullets, their occupants contorted into postures that were only possible in death. At first glance, Jonathan counted seven bodies, five teens and two terrorists. He neither knew nor cared what the numbers outside tallied up to.

Jonathan pressed the transmit button in the center of his vest. “Big Guy, I need you in here now.” They usually tried to keep emotion out of their voices on the radio, but he heard the leaden dread in his own.

“Listen up!” he yelled. “I am an American and I am here to take you home. Can anybody hear me?”

He moved methodically down the center aisle, weapon ready but his finger out of the trigger guard. He moved seat by seat, scanning the carnage, observing the way the terrorists had bound them together. In the very back, two of the hostages—both boys—sat bolt upright in their seats, one with part of his brain exposed, and the other with two holes in his chest.

The entire bus shifted as Boxers mounted the steps. “Holy shit.”

Jonathan turned to the man he’d served with for so many years. It was time to say something, to give an order. But he felt frozen. He’d had ops go bad in the past, but nothing like this. “What the hell happened? Who opened fire?”

“Are they all dead?” Boxers asked.

“I’ve only done a primary,” Jonathan replied. In a primary assessment, you look for the obvious—weapons and people who are wounded. The secondary assessment looks for more detailed signs of life. Here, today, that seemed like a waste of time. “How secure is our perimeter?”

“I saw them running,” Boxers said. He grabbed the dead driver by his collar, pulled him onto the floor, and slipped into his seat. “We’re getting out of this clearing,” he said. “We’re too good a target.” He restarted the engine, threw the transmission into gear, and popped the clutch.

As they lurched forward, Jonathan sat heavily on the edge of a seat. “Where are you going?” he yelled. If they were getting away, he expected them to be going backward.

“The money,” Boxers said. “Ain’t no way I’m leaving that much cash for the bad guys.”

He raced forward for thirty yards and jammed the vehicle to a stop. For a guy of his size, he moved with impressive speed, slapping the transmission into neutral and then heaving himself out of the seat, down the steps, and out the door. By the time Jonathan could gain his balance to provide cover, the Big Guy was already back at the foot of the stairs, the green-and-blue backpack dangling from his hand. Within ten seconds, they were moving again.

He jammed the stick shift into reverse and popped the clutch. As they lurched backward, he yanked the wheel hard to get them turned around, and then he shifted into second gear and gunned it. They tore down the road that the bus had come in on, and after they turned the corner and disappeared from the established shooting lanes, Jonathan surveyed the carnage. Wherever he looked, all he saw were corpses. He’d let all of them down.

“You okay, Boss?”

Jonathan looked up to see Boxers’ eyes in the mirror.

No, he was not okay. Okay wasn’t even within the same emotional solar system as where he was. Someone somewhere had deliberately sabotaged this mission, and whoever it was, was going to pay dearly, so help—

Somebody moaned. At first, it was barely audible—so low that Jonathan thought maybe he’d imagined it. But Boxers clearly had heard it, too. Then it became louder, before it became a scream: “Get it off me!”

The bodies on the floor in the seat behind him moved.

“Box!” Jonathan yelled. “Stop the bus!”

Tristan couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he was trying to climb out of a hole in his mind, but something was holding him down. Someone was holding him down. Trying to crush his head, pressing it into something hard and lumpy.

And wet.

He tasted blood.

As consciousness returned, so did awareness. Memory of what had happened. The shooting. The brains and the blood.

Like the blood he could taste.

He opened his eyes, and there was Allison, staring at him. Unblinking. Dead.

He heard himself screaming before he knew that the voice was his. But once he did know, he wanted to make sure that it could be heard. Allison was dead and she was bleeding into his mouth.

Horror flooded his veins. He needed to get her off him. He tried to push, but his hands wouldn’t work. They couldn’t be separated anyway, he remembered because they were tied together with a steel chain. Screaming seemed to be the only thing he was capable of.

Then she moved. Dead Allison moved. Her eyes never blinked, but she somehow heard him, and she was levitating away, pulling him with her by his wrist.

An instant later, in a transition he never saw, a man’s face appeared where hers had been. It was a hard face, but the blue eyes looked friendly—serious, but friendly. Another man stood behind him, but Tristan wondered if he was hallucinating. The second man was huge.

The face up close was saying something to him. His hands were on Tristan’s shoulders and they were shaking him. “Easy now,” the man said. “You’re safe. It’s over. You’re going to be okay.”

He spoke English. Tristan felt as if he hadn’t heard English in months. As his eyes focused, he saw that the man wore a uniform and that he dripped weapons. Another jolt of panic shot thought him and he tried to pull away.

Damned handcuffs.

“Tristan,” the man said. “Tristan, listen to me. Come on, son, pull it together. You’re