Andrew Klavan - The Final Hour

“I understand,” Waylon answered. I could hear him controlling his anger, afraid to challenge Prince. “But the risk is too great. Charlie West is the most valuable asset we’ve ever acquired…”

At that, Mr. Sherman broke in, giving a short laugh. “There you go. I told you, Prince. I told you he was…”

“Quiet,” said Prince curtly.

That shut Sherman up. It was the only good thing Prince ever did. Made me wish I could have brought him to history class.

“No one ever doubted West was a fighter,” Prince went on quietly. “It was his trustworthiness that was at issue. That is at issue still. Go on,” he finished-talking to Waylon, I guessed.

And Waylon did go on. “I’m not a hundred percent sure yet that we can trust West,” he said. I could imagine him staring pointedly at Sherman there. “But I am a hundred percent sure of this: The boy is a natural fighter. He’s fearless. And more than that, I have the sense you could put a hundred bullets in him and he would still get up, still try to bring you down. Assuming he can be trusted, that makes him one of our most important assets. It isn’t worth risking him on a mission that hasn’t been fully prepared.”

There was a pause. Once again, I took a quick glance at the guard behind me. He had reached the end of the compound now. He had paused by the far buildings under the watchtower. He stood there, scanning the darkness. He would turn and start back my way any minute.

I looked in the other direction. I still couldn’t find that second guard.

“It’s prepared enough,” I heard Prince say then. “We knew this was a possibility. Both West and Orton have been taught about that area just in case this contingency arose. They both know the bridge well.”

“As a training exercise. They don’t…”

“And another thing: Once West pulls off the assassination, we’ll know we can trust him. Once he’s killed for us, he’s ours for good.”

“But he isn’t fully-”

“No.” Prince cut Waylon off with finality. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all expendable anyway. All of them. That’s why we use them first. Because it doesn’t matter if they die. If we use them properly, without fear, we can show our enemies that we can do anything, get in anywhere, hit them in any way we want while they can’t even begin to find our center. West will assassinate Yarrow, and if he’s killed, he’s killed. I appreciate your maternal concern for your trainees,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “But they’ll all die eventually, Waylon. That’s what they’re for.”

Man! I thought. I guess this is why they call him Prince. He’s such a prince of a guy!

Then Prince said: “In the end, their purpose is simply to prepare the way for the Great Death.”

I heard a footstep behind me. I turned to see that the guard had started walking back across the compound, back my way. It would only be a few seconds before he would be close enough to see me pressed there against the wall, my figure outlined by the glow from the light inside.

But I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t leave. The Great Death. I had to find out what it was. It didn’t sound good, that’s for sure.

I pressed against the building again, listening.

“West and Orton-they’re part of that plan, too, though,” Waylon answered. “That’s their ultimate purpose.”

“Yes,” said Prince. “But even if we lose them, even if we lose all of them, even if I have to do it on my own, the Great Death will not be stopped. The basic elements are already in place. Come what may, it will ring in the devil’s New Year. I will make sure of it personally if I have to.”

I glanced over my shoulder. The guard kept coming toward me.

“What do you mean, everything is in place?” Sherman asked.

“It will be.”

“What about the C.O. device?”

“It’s being acquired from the Russians. The arrangements are progressing.”

“When? When will we have it?”

“Soon.”

“How much?”

“Six canisters.”

“Six…”

“It’s more than enough. Six canisters can be carried by a single man. So nothing will stop it, even if it comes down to me alone.”

I heard Waylon let out what must have been a curse in a foreign language.

I wanted to hear more-needed to hear more. But I was out of time. I had to get back to my barracks. Even now, the guard might see me sprinting across the open space.

I turned to move away from the building.

But before I could, a hand grabbed me by the shoulder.

I opened my eyes and it was all gone: the compound, the buildings, the guards, all of it. No, wait. There was still that hand. It was still gripping my shoulder.

I turned my head, confused. Yes, there it was-that hand-powerful fingers digging painfully into my flesh.

I lifted my eyes and found myself looking up into the sadistic face of Chuck Dunbar, the Yard King.

“Wake up, garbage,” he snarled.

Fear shot through my confusion, bringing me fully alert. Where was I? What was happening? I tried to think. I remembered…

The cafeteria. Dinner. The swastika boys. Their plan to escape.. .

I’d had another memory attack. I’d collapsed onto the floor in pain. That meant now I must be…

I looked around. Yes, I was in the infirmary. It was a narrow cinder-block rectangle of a room, the walls painted hospital green. There was a row of narrow cots lined up against one wall. There was a prisoner in each of two of the other cots. The rest were empty. There was an observation window on the far wall at the end of the room. The window was empty too: There was no one in the observation booth. The other sick prisoners had purposely turned their heads so they weren’t looking at me.

No one was looking at me. No one was watching. Which was exactly how Dunbar liked it.

The Yard King stood over my bed, gripping me hard by the shoulder. He sneered down at me, his eyes bright with malice.

“What do you want?” I asked. My voice was thick and muddy.

With his free hand, Dunbar reached down and grabbed the front of my shirt. He yanked me up off the mattress. He stuck his face in close to mine. I could smell his dinner on his breath. Dinner and beer.

“Why are you here?” he said in that raking-gravel voice of his. “Why are you in the infirmary?”

“What do you mean? What…?”

He shook me hard. I stopped talking. “Have you got some kind of problem? Did you get hurt somewhere?”

“No, I…”

“I wouldn’t like to think you got hurt in my yard, West,” Dunbar rasped. “I wouldn’t like to think you were telling people you got hurt in my Outbuilding.”

Now I understood. He was afraid I’d come here to talk, to inform on him, to tell someone how he’d roughed me up.

“Get your hands off me,” I said, grabbing at his wrist.

“Or you’ll do what?” asked Dunbar-but all the same, he threw me roughly back down onto the cot.

I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to get my bearings, trying to defog my mind. My thoughts still seemed to be drifting in some weird netherworld between the present and the past.

“Come on,” Dunbar said. “What did you tell them?”

“Listen…,” I began.

He hit me in the side of the head with his open hand.

“Don’t waste my time, West. Let’s go! What did you tell them?”

I looked up at that nasty, knuckly face. I didn’t like getting hit. I didn’t like that he could just whack me like that and get away with it. He was a bully, that’s all. A bully who knew he had all the power as long as we were here, as long as we were stuck together in the hell of Abingdon.

I couldn’t keep the scorn out of my voice. “I didn’t come here to turn you in, Dunbar.” Slowly, painfully, I sat up on the bed. “You don’t have to be such a coward…”