Page 27 of Gamma

“So Rasmussen is making his way to Tunis, then,” I surmise. “So we’re going there?”

Duke and Alexei exchange glances, and then Duke nods. “Makes sense to me.” He eyes Alexei. “You have transportation contacts down here? I used my guy and already owe him. I can lean on him again, but I’d have to shell out a shitload of cash. It’d raise suspicions.”

Alexei just nods. “Da,of course. Is old plane but will fly just fine.” He jerks a thumb at Duke. “You still do the piloting,da? I got the plane, but not a pilot.”

“Yeah, I can fly it.” Duke exhales. “All right, well, let’s get a move on. To the airplane, then.”

We takeoff as the sun is setting.

The plane is, indeed, very old, like something out ofIndiana Jones, two propellers and cigar-shaped body, with a hundred, thousand dials and switches, which Duke grumbles about as he works his way through.

It’s a long, slow, boring flight, and I doze off, despite the cold in the fuselage and the droning noise of the propellers.

This is taking too long.

I can feel it in the sinking of my gut, the churn of emotions in my heart—I can simply feel it in my soul. It’s taking too long.

We have to find him, and soon.

7

You’ve Been Warned

Aday passes, maybe two. We are fed literally only bread and water. There’s no toilet, not even a bucket. When I ask a guard about it, he points at a filthy hole in the ground in one corner, near the rusting pile of ancient manacles.

Another day. Maybe. It’s impossible to keep track of time, here underground, without daylight. I attempt to keep Yelena occupied. I tell her stories, mostly nonsense cobbled together from my memory of Ancient Greek mythology.

A guard enters—we’re between feedings, so this is something else. At the sound of boots and the key in the lock, Yelena scurries back under the bench, behind me. The guard snaps at me in Arabic, gesturing with his rifle at the door. Come with him.

I rise and move for the door. “Stay there, Yelena,” I mutter. “I’ll be back.”

Only, the guard has other ideas; he gestures at the bench, snapping another order. Yelena doesn’t comply, and the guard takes an angry step toward the bench, gesturing with the rifle and repeating the order.

“You have to come with me, Yelena,” I say, keeping my voice low and calm.

She grunts a negative, shakes her head, shutting her eyes tightly, as if refusing to look can change what’s happening.

“You have to, little one. They will hurt you or me if you don’t.”

She edges out from under the bench and stands up, but refuses to move an inch closer to me if it means going past the guard. I walk to her, reach for her hand. She takes it, fitting her tiny palm into mine. My heart surges with protective adrenaline.

Past the guard, and he sticks the barrel of the rifle into my back, prodding me forward. We’re in a long hallway with doors on either side, the ceiling barely an inch above my head. It’s damp, and cool. Something drips, echoing—I remember the sound from my arrival.

Some of the dungeon doors are open to show empty cells, and others are closed—I picture others like me, locked away and forgotten until Spaulding decides to kill them. Or maybe that’s where he keeps his sex slaves until he’s ready to sell them.

We come to a doorway, and a narrow stone staircase going up. At the end of the stairs, a hallway continuing forward, an intersection heading left; we head left, and here the hallway has a higher ceiling and fewer doors. We come to one, alike to the others, and unmarked. The guard moves around me, unlocks the door and yanks it open, gestures curtly with the rifle barrel for us to go in.

We do. Within, a white flat sheet hangs over the back wall to create a backdrop. Opposite the sheet, expensive professional videography equipment—lighting, microphones, camera. I’m prodded to stand with my back to the sheet, facing the camera.

Yelena tries to stand with me, to cling to my hand, but the guard yanks her away by the arm—she howls in fear and protest, thrashing.

The guard’s face takes on a murderous expression, and he looks at me, then Yelena, his fist raised to strike, his other hand bunched in her hair.

“Yelena!” I call, not daring to move toward her. “It’s okay, Yelena. Look at me. Look at me.”

She quiets, but continues to writhe in his grip.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “Stand up, stand still. You’re all right. I’m all right. They’re just going to make a video, okay? You can still see me. Look at me. It’s okay.” I hold her gaze, soothing her as best I know how, hoping I’m not telling her a lie, that I’m not about to be executed in front of her.