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Jack places his hands on the armrest and leans forward as if to rise. His body is tense, snake-coiled, his face flushed, and his eyes darker than Evan has ever seen them. “Knock it off!”
It’s the first time Evan has seen Jack lose his cool. He is the most judgmental man Evan has ever met in all the right ways. And the least judgmental in all the right ways. So if he’s angry now, he’s angry about something worth being angry about. Evan is scared and secretly thrilled, as if he’s burrowed down to something precious.
“You have worth. You do.You.” Jack jabs an oft-broken forefinger at him, the joint swollen. “Not whatever shit you learn or what you accomplish or who you think you are to the outside world—and least of all from whatever fucked-up situations I’m gonna put you in. If you don’t have worth,no onedoes.”
There it was. The first of Jack’s Unofficial Rules.
“Do you understand me?” Jack asks, still mad.
Evan is taken aback, his throat dry.
“Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Evan says. “Yes, sir.”
Jack’s contained eruption has knocked the book of military strategy onto the floor. He picks it up now, assesses the cover for damage. Then heslides it into its precise slot on the shelf, uses the backs of his knuckles to ease it into line.
Jack sits once more, his features still wearing the aftermath of his anger. “Don’t youdarebe so arrogant as to forget that.”
“I won’t, sir.”
Evan feels raw and wounded and deeply respected at the same time. He wonders how all these things can be true at once.
For a long time, they breathe the scent of the fire, pine and beech, and listen to the soothing crackle of sap.
There seems nothing else worth saying.
7
High-Value Target
As Evan broke the surface tension of consciousness, the first thing he noticed was the diaper. He was wearing a diaper. The crinkly lining was thankfully dry. It took a moment for him to determine that he was seated. Hard padding beneath him, metal at his back. A bench? An interrogation-room chair?
Wait. Thrumming beneath his legs. Movement. A helo? No—vehicle transport. No bathroom breaks permitted.
His eyes felt crusty and swollen. He opened them, but it made no difference.
Pitch-black.
Okay. A spit hood, then. No, something opaque, like a general-issue sandbag.
Disks clamped over his ears, the world muted. Earmuffs. He brought his attention to his ear canals, sensing the faintest pressure within. Earplugs beneath the earmuffs. It seemed like overkill.
Overkill was a language he spoke fluently.
An acrid chemical taste coated the back of his throat. His tonguewas mashed to the floor of his mouth by … plastic? A mouth guard. He could feel the strap chafing his neck. His airway was open, but there would be no talking.
Oxygen seemed sparse, but he knew that was only an illusion. They wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to let him suffocate.
His first priority was not to hyperventilate.
Steady slow inhalation. Steady slow exhalation.
Again.
Again.
He kept his respiration subtle enough that no observers would notice. There was no advantage in anyone’s knowing he was awake just yet.
