“For Christ’s sake, what now?” I asked.

  “Assume the position,” she said. No sense in arguing. I peeled down the waistband of my shorts. She jabbed me in the right upper glute.

  “Just a little extra vitamin B,” she said. “We’ve got a training run tonight.”

  Training run? That was the last thing I wanted to hear. I pulled my shorts back up and slumped against the weight rack. My head sagged. Since my kidnapping, I estimated that I’d run over a thousand miles—going absolutely nowhere.

  “I’m so sick of that goddamn treadmill,” I muttered.

  “Not on the treadmill,” said Meed. She nodded toward the window. “Outside.”

  My heart started fluttering like I’d just gotten a puppy for Christmas.

  “Outside??” I asked. “You’re serious?”

  “Why not?” said Meed. “Let’s get some fresh Chicago air into those lungs.”

  I looked out the window. Rain was sheeting against the glass. I wouldn’t have cared if it was hot lava. I realized that this was my chance. Outside, I might be able to flag down a cop or jump into a cab. Or lose Meed in a crowd. Or maybe just shove her down an open manhole and run for help. Anything to get away and get my life back again.

  Meed picked up the shock wand and waved it back and forth. Sometimes it felt like she could actually read my mind.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said.

  CHAPTER 23

  Eastern Russia

  15 Years Ago

  OF ALL THE weapons on the firing range, Meed found the .50 BMG machine gun the hardest to handle. It could vaporize a watermelon at a hundred yards, but the recoil was enough to bruise her collarbone. Her scores on long guns overall were solid, but she preferred pistols. After firing five brain-shaking rounds, she set the big gun back in the rack and picked up a Glock 9mm. Much better.

  Irina was standing on the next platform with a Beretta .22, punching hole after hole into the center of a target downrange. Meed slid a clip into the Glock and started firing at the next target over. Compared to the heavy .50, the Glock felt like a popgun.

  Meed was matching Irina shot for shot. Within twenty seconds, both target centers were shredded.

  All the way down the firing line came the cracks and bangs of every kind of firearm, from MIL-SPEC models to expertly hacked hybrids. Only the instructors wore ear protection. For the students, the noise was an important part of the lesson—how to think with your head pounding and your ears ringing.

  In the middle of it all, one student was even more solid and unflappable than the others. His name was Rishi. He was slightly built, with a caramel complexion and thick black hair. He was also younger than everybody else on the range by a couple of years. He’d recently been moved up from a lower class, where he had no real competition.

  Between clips, Meed glanced his way. Rishi was lying flat on his belly, cradling a Barrett M82, his sniper rifle of choice. His target was a small circle on a brick wall 150 yards away. Meed could see Rishi’s ribs through his T-shirt as he sent another round. There was a small kick of brick dust from the center of the circle. Another direct hit.

  Meed glanced at Irina. Neither of them liked being shown up, especially by a runt like Rishi. Irina squinted down the barrel of her pistol and kept firing. But Meed was annoyed enough to take action. She flicked the safety on the Glock and set it down on the shooting stand. Then she walked over to the weapon vault anchored in cement behind the firing line. The vault was the size of a coffin. The heavy steel lid was open. Meed ran her hands over the assortment of armaments inside and found just what she was looking for.

  Rishi loaded another round into his rifle. He set the crosshairs on the target again. His finger moved slowly from the trigger guard to the trigger. Suddenly there was a huge blast downrange. Rishi jerked his head up from his scope. The target was gone. Not just the circle on the bricks. The entire brick wall.

  All sound on the firing line stopped. Students and instructors were frozen in place by the violence of the blast. All that was left in the distance was a cloud of dust. Meed lowered the RPG launcher from her shoulder and wiped a streak of soot off her cheek. She leaned down and patted Rishi on the head.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’ll give you something new to shoot at.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Chicago

  IT WAS 10 p.m. when we stepped into the elevator for our run. Meed pressed the Down button. I heard the chains rattle and felt the car lurch into motion. I thought back to my ride up in that same elevator four months back. The day my life had disappeared.

  My new red running suit was a little tight in the crotch, but otherwise it felt pretty sleek. Meed was wearing the female version. In black, of course. We both had our nylon hoodies up, ready for the rain.

  The elevator door opened onto a narrow basement corridor with cinderblock walls. Meed led the way up a set of cement stairs with a narrow metal railing. We took a turn on a narrow landing and then up a few more steps to a heavy swinging metal door, the kind you’d find on a loading dock. Meed shouldered her way through, and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. My first taste of freedom. But not really. I was out in the world, but I was still a prisoner. I figured Meed had waited for weather like this so we’d be the only two people on the street. The rain was coming down so hard it sounded like white noise. She looked both ways then headed west, starting off at a quick jog.

  In spite of the chilly March rain, I was already starting to sweat inside my tracksuit. I rolled back my hood and let the water roll down my neck. It felt good. For most of the way, I ran behind Meed, just far enough to avoid getting her shoe splatter in my face. I came up next to her while she marked time at a stoplight. My lungs hurt already.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  “Wrong question,” said Meed. She wasn’t even breathing hard.

  We turned south. After about forty-five minutes, the surroundings started to get sketchy. Most of the streetlights were out and there was a lot of chain-link fencing. I could tell from street signs that we were near Fuller Park. It was a neighborhood I wouldn’t even drive through during the day, let alone run through in the dark. On the plus side, the rain had let up. Now it was just a light mist.

  Here and there along the street, a few beat-up cars sat at the curb, but this wasn’t a place you’d ever want to park overnight. Not if you planned to see your vehicle in the morning.

  On the right, a low wooden fence blocked off a site with a half-demolished building. The store next door looked like it was next for the wrecking ball. Meed took a right and turned down the alley just past the store. It took me a few seconds to catch up. When I rounded the corner, I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. The alley was narrow and the far end disappeared into darkness. Meed was nowhere in sight.

  I heard a rustle. I picked up my pace. Suddenly, somebody grabbed me hard from behind, lifting my feet off the ground and pinning my hands against my sides. I felt the bristle of stubble against my neck. A raspy voice mumbled into my ear.

  “Slow down there, Usain Bolt.”

  CHAPTER 25

  I BENT FORWARD hard and twisted my shoulders, but it was no use. The guy was a brute. With one hand, he grabbed me by the chin and pulled my head back up again. That’s when the other guy stepped out of the shadows.

  I could see his pale shaved dome glistening in the light of a streetlight near the alley entrance. He had a ripped T-shirt under a greasy denim vest. A cobra tattoo twisted up his neck. He had a jerky, dangerous energy, jacked up and ready for trouble. My heart was already thumping from the run, but now I could feel my pulse pound even harder in my head. I got a bitter taste in my mouth. I suddenly went cold and clammy all over.

  I looked down the alley past the thug in front of me. Where the hell was Meed??

  She would have missed me by now. Was she knocked out somewhere back in the dark—or dead? Was I next? I started to shake.

  “Whaddaya got for me tonight?” said Cobra Neck. The guy behind me tightened his grip, his forearms locked around my rib cage.

  “We know you got somethin’,” he said, shaking me from side to side.

  “I don’t!” I said. “I don’t have anything!” That was the truth. Meed had my wallet and phone locked up somewhere in the loft. I hadn’t touched cash in four months. Cobra Neck flicked the collar of my tracksuit.

  “Definitely not bargain bin,” he said, leaning in. “C’mon. I know you got somethin’ for me.”

  I felt an arm slide up to my throat. That was the trigger, the second when something kicked in. I rolled hard to the right and reached my leg back. I shoved the guy’s elbow up and slipped my head out of his grip. I got my first look at his face—pale, bristled, dead-eyed. I twisted his arm behind his back and kicked him hard behind his knees. He dropped to the wet pavement. I spun back around with my hands up—and froze. There was a gun two inches from my forehead. Cobra Neck waved the barrel. He was pissed off and out of patience. I could hear the guy behind me groaning and cursing under his breath.

  “Let’s try again, asshole,” said Cobra Neck. “Empty your goddamn…”

  The shock wand caught him right under the chin. The gun dropped and clattered on the pavement. I saw the flash of Meed’s hand as she chopped the guy hard across his carotid artery. He spasmed and crumpled, out cold. I heard feet scrambling behind me and turned around. The other guy was already rounding the corner onto the street. Gone. When I turned back, Meed was in my face, glaring at me.

  “I thought I told you to keep up,” she said.

  The adrenaline was flooding through me, making me dizzy. I’d never felt anything close to this in my life. I bent forward at the waist, trying to catch my breath. I replayed the last minute like a movie in my head. It didn’t seem real.

  “I broke a choke hold,” I said. “I dropped that jerk.” I could hear myself trying to sound tough.

  “I noticed,” said Meed. “Just before you almost got your head shot off. You were too slow on the second target.”

  She noticed? “You were watching??” I asked.

  “I was,” she said. “Until I saw you failing.”

  I thought I might get some compliments on my martial arts skills. Instead, I had to eat crow. Nothing new in this relationship. I felt my shoulders slump as I looked up at her. She was tucking the shock wand back into her sleeve.

  “Sorry,” I said. I couldn’t explain it, but letting her down felt even worse than almost dying.

  “I won’t always be there,” she said. “You have only yourself.”

  CHAPTER 26

  THE NEXT MORNING was brutal. Whatever mission Meed was preparing me for, I clearly wasn’t ready, and she let me know it. Again and again, she made me come at her, full out. Front. Back. Side. And every time, she put me on the floor. Over and over, she drilled me on the right way to knock away a gun and leave the guy with a shattered wrist. She showed me the death points on the back of the neck, the belly, the chest.

  I learned that the clavicle is an easy bone to break and that it takes about 130 pounds of force to crack somebody’s jaw.

  What was strange was how normal it was all starting to feel. I’d spent my whole life studying people—their cultures, traditions, religions. Now I was learning how to maim them. And I was okay with it. Meed had done something to change my head, not just my body. I didn’t know who I was anymore, or what I was turning into.

  After an hour, Meed let me stop to catch my breath. I was aching all over and dripping with sweat. I saw her reach into a plastic bin and pull out a large brown paper sack. It was leaking a watery red fluid. When the bag dropped away, I rocked back. She was holding up a huge severed pig’s head, with a long pink snout and its mouth set in a sickly grin. She jammed the head down on top of a metal stand so the pig was looking right at me. Meed shoved me into position in front of the gross, dripping head.

  “Set your hands for a punch,” she said, “then rip out the left eye.”

  What the hell?? This was a whole new level of insanity. The smell of the pig head was bad enough—sharp and rancid. The thought of touching it made my stomach turn.

  Meed pointed to the outside corner of the pig’s eye, which looked disturbingly human. “Right here,” she said. “Jam your thumb in hard and hook it.”

  “You’ve done this?” I asked, raising my hands to the ready position.

  “Wrong question,” she replied. “Do it. Hard and fast.”

  I took a few quick breaths to psych myself up. I re-ran my mental movie of the night before, with a gun barrel pointed at my head. I let out a loud shout. Then I did it. I stabbed my right thumb into the outside edge of the pig’s left eye and drove it behind the rear curve of the eyeball. I crooked my thumb and jerked it forward. The eyeball jutted out of its socket like a soft marble, still attached by nerves and small muscles, but now staring wildly to the side.

  I gagged and turned away, shaking sticky pink goo off my fingers. I wanted to wash my hands. I wanted to take a shower. I wanted to vomit. I waited for Meed to say something. Like “good job.” Or “poke out the other one.” But when I looked over, her back was turned. She was suddenly more interested in something on the TV screen overhead.

  The TV was tuned to a local Chicago station. A young female reporter with bobbed hair was doing a remote from a downtown street. At the bottom of the screen was a crawl that read, “AFRICAN PEACEMAKER WILL SPEAK IN CHICAGO TODAY.” Behind the reporter was a temporary speaking platform with some of the scaffolding still showing. She was already talking when Meed turned up the volume.

  … and if there is any hope of bringing peace to the warring factions in the splinter nation of Gudugwi, it lies with former Ghanaian minister Abrafo Asare. If he succeeds in his mission, a number of African warlords and arms dealers are expected to be brought before the International Court of Justice in The Hague. Which, in some dark quarters, makes Abrafo Asare a very unpopular man. Asare will speak to human rights activists and supporters here in Chicago this afternoon before heading to the United Nations in New York. City Hall will be closed, and expect street closures in that area, because security will be tight. This is Sinola Byne, Channel 7, Eyewitness News, Chicago.

  Without a word, Meed turned and headed for her room behind the kitchen. Apparently, the lesson in eye-gouging was over. It wasn’t unusual for Meed to disappear into her private space with no explanation—in the middle of a meal, in the middle of a workout, in the middle of a sentence. I was used to it by now. When she closed the door behind her, I looked back up at the TV. I was staring at a commercial for Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage.

  Just me and the dead stinking pig.

  CHAPTER 27

  BY THE TIME the commercial break was over, Meed was out of her room and moving with purpose through the kitchen. She had quick-changed out of her workout gear into street clothes—skinny jeans, a sweater, and a burgundy leather jacket. Her hair was tucked under a floppy beret. She looked like she was heading for a brunch date.

  “I’ll be out for a while,” she said.

  Out? This was a first. She had never left me alone in the open part of the loft.

  Was it possible she trusted me enough to let me roam the whole space on my own?

  “Come here,” she said. She led me to the weight bench and sat me down. I thought maybe she was about to explain where she was going or what kind of workout she expected me to do while she was gone. Instead, she pulled a length of heavy chain from the floor and wrapped it around my chest in three tight loops, trapping my arms above the elbows. She wrapped the other end around the base of the weight machine. So much for trust.

  “What are you doing??” I asked. “If you think I’m a flight risk, just stick me back in my cell!”

  “Too easy,” she said. “I need to expand your horizons.”

  She reached into the tool drawer and pulled out a padlock with a long shackle. She hooked it through a few links of the chain across my chest and clicked it shut. I was now bound to the Precor trainer, which was loaded with about 400 pounds of weights. My arms were bound tight, with my forearms wriggling out underneath. But she wasn’t done yet.

  She reached into the drawer again and pulled out a small beige rectangle. Five months ago, I would have thought it was modeling clay. Now I knew better. It was C-4 explosive.

  “Jesus!” I said, struggling against the chains.

  “Praying won’t help,” Meed replied.

  She jammed a fuse into one side of the rectangle and then dropped it down the back of my gym shorts. I could feel the cool brick against my lower spine. I squirmed and shouted, “Why are you doing this??” She pretended not to hear me. The rest of the fuse was in a thick coil. Meed unwound it quickly as she backed across the living room area to the far wall of the loft.

  “What the hell are you thinking??” I yelled. She pulled a lighter out of her pocket and touched off the fuse. It lit up like a sparkler as she dropped it onto the hardwood floor. I bounced up and down on the bench, trying to jar the chains loose, but it wasn’t working.

  “Is this a joke?” I asked. She was heading for the elevator.

  “Figure it out,” she said, staring at my shorts. “Or there will be consequences.”

  She pressed the Down button. The door opened.

  “Are you insane??” I shouted. I really thought she might be. Or maybe she’d seen some kind of secret code in the TV report? Something that set her off. A reason to get rid of me for good. Maybe I’d washed out as a trainee. Maybe I knew too much. At this point, anything was possible. Including getting blown to pieces, ass first.

  As the elevator door slid shut, Meed gave me a little wave.

  “Bye-bye, Doctor.”