David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“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.

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.”