Patrick Lee: The Breach

Her tears spilled out sideways. His remained pooled in his eyes.

Then the rat-faced man moved out of view behind her, and got ready to work on her, the same way he'd done it each time. She could never see for herself what he was doing, but her father's expression reflected what it must look like better than any mirror could have.

She could picture it, of course. It couldn't have been more obvious what was happening to her. The very first time-something like three days ago now, just after the rat-faced man had strapped her down-he'd opened her upper arm with a scalpel and parted her triceps wide with a wedge clamp. He'd avoided damaging the artery, of course; it wouldn't do to let death rescue her that easily. His prize had been the radial nerve, thick as a pencil once he'd freed it from its lubricated sheath beside the bone. After that, he'd been able to access it immediately each time.

He was about to do that now, making a big show of his preparations. She was sure it was part of the torture, the psychological aspect of it, all the cues to whet her anticipation of the pain: the zipper of his tool bag opening slowly, the clucking sound of his tongue, like he was sad to have to be doing this, and then the sigh.

Now her father's eyes moved, because the rat-faced man was looking at him before beginning.

"What kind of daddy you being, then?" the rat-faced man said, his English broken, lyrical. "How you expect you look yourself in the mirror after this? How you let your little girl get hurt this long?"

Then the high-pitched laugh, rapid-fire, like a squirrel chittering.

Her father's eyes hardened and looked away from the man, meeting hers again, his tears overrunning now.

This was supposed to be part of the torture too, obviously: making them lock eyes while he hurt her. Maybe it worked on some people, but they'd miscalculated sorely in this case. Her father's eyes were all that made this bearable for her.

Of course, the point of the eye contact wasn't its effect on her. The eye contact was for him. He was the one they were trying to break.

Was it working? Was it breaking him?

No, not a chance of that. Why had she gone through all of this, if he was only going to submit in the end?

More to the point, he was just stronger than that. Of that much Paige was certain. Her father knew the stakes, which were bigger than this clearing and anything that might be done to them in it. Telling these people how to switch on the Whisper was simply not on the list of options. End of debate.

Blinking through her tears, she tried to look strong, tried to send him assurance. It was all okay. Really, it was okay, even now when she was shaking like this, and so fucking scared, even as she could hear the rat-faced man rummaging in his bag and bringing out the tool, her tears intensifying because any second it was coming, even now, she had to send him the will to bear watching this, because giving them what they wanted was so much worse The tool snapped to life with its grating hum, and a second later its teeth closed around the exposed nerve, and the image of her father shattered like a reflection on broken water as she screamed. Travis lay very still on the rock shelf and tried to recall the mind-set of a killer. It was far back along the corridor of years, where he'd meant to leave it forever.

Until now.

Through his binoculars he watched the little guy with the string mustache move the instrument back and forth inside the young woman's arm. Even through the muffling attachment she had across her mouth, Travis could hear her screams. His perch was perhaps a hundred fifty yards from the encampment, and seventy feet above.

Seven hostiles. Two captives.

The surreal fabric of the situation still enveloped Travis, as it had since the moment he'd found Mrs. Garner. Who the hell were these people? What was all of this about?

Even when he focused past the disconnect, and forced himself to take stock of the circumstances he was up against, questions remained. Why had the hostiles chosen to remain here? How could they consider themselves safe less than three miles from the wreck of a 747 that had carried the First Lady of the United States? Not to mention whatever had been in the steel container. Why stay near the crash for even a single hour, much less three days? Mrs. Garner had said in her note that there was a reason for that, but hadn't expanded upon it.

Well, the plane hadn't been found by any of the authorities who must be looking for it, including, presumably, the president. Somehow these guys had pulled that off-their confidence in their safety must stem from that. They hadn't even posted a lookout. For now, it was enough to know that Mrs. Garner had been right: these guys were not expecting trouble.

He could get them all from here. Easily. Skill was simply not a variable from this range and elevation, and with these weapons-he'd brought five M16s, their selectors set to full-auto. Anyone who could douse a flower bed with a garden hose could kill all nine people in that encampment from this spot, probably before firing the first two rifles dry. Certainly by the fifth.

Yes, he could do that. He could do that right now and have it done with.

But he wasn't going to.

In truth, he hadn't squared with that part of Ellen Garner's message, whatever the unmentioned stakes might be, but if even a scrap of the idea had lingered in his mind, it had vanished the moment he'd trained his binoculars upon the young woman on the torture table.

He wasn't going to kill her. He'd accrued enough of that brand of guilt for one lifetime.

But he was going to kill.

He continued watching String Mustache enjoy his work, while the young woman's body spasmed in the binds, and he found the killer's mind-set coming back to him easily.

He could do this.

He just needed to get closer.

His footsteps are the only sound in the night, and they don't carry far.

For this time of year in Minneapolis, the day has been warm and wet, but in the past hour-the hour before midnight-a chill has moved in on the city, stirring wraiths of fog into the graveyard quiet of Cedar Street.

This deep in the neighborhood, there are no streetlights. Some of those who carve out their lives here prefer it that way. Tonight, so does Travis Chase. It is dark enough that he presents neither shadow nor silhouette, and his shoes make only faint ticks on the broken pavement. The only things in the night sharp enough to sense his presence are those things wilder than himself-even as he thinks this, a dog chain rattles softly on a porch, somewhere in the fog to his left-but his business on Cedar Street at this hour doesn't concern such things. His approach will not be detected by anyone that matters.

The.32 is in his pocket, loaded with hollowpoints.

Ahead of him the fog thins, and he sees the house. Emily Price's house. The only light comes from the big living-room window, casting its shape out into the mist. He can picture the two of them inside, maybe sitting on the couch, holding each other close and saying little or nothing. When he thinks of that, Travis's shame burns.

He has no idea what will happen when he knocks on the door.

Travis saw within minutes what it would take. A lot could go wrong, but he thought the advantage was his, even against these numbers.

On the far side of the encampment, fifty feet beyond, the pines were dense. More than heavy enough to conceal him. He could reach that spot undetected if he traveled far enough along the valley on this side, low among the rocks, before crossing over and coming back.

Fifty feet was close, and with surprise on his side he might do well to just start shooting. The first shot would be a free kill, maybe even the second. Then it'd be him against five, and confusion on their part might give him the edge for another kill or two, if he was fast enough.