Beirut, Lebanon — 1999


This is taking too long.

He clenches his right hand; the knuckles are split and swollen. “I need those names.”

Khalil Fayed shakes his bowed head, and blood drips onto his sweat-stained T-shirt.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

Christ, he’s only twenty.

But he pushes the thought from his brain and leans low and close, his mouth next to the torn flesh of Fayed’s right ear. “You can make this a lot easier on yourself.”

Fayed swallows thickly and lifts his bloodshot eyes, focusing on a chip in the gray cinder block on the opposite wall. “No,” he rasps through puffy lips.

Jack straightens and cocks his head.

“Okay,” he says finally.

Then his fist connects, breaking skin and splintering cheekbone. Fayed’s head snaps back and he slumps in his chair, unconscious.

Dammit.

Jack shakes the sting from his fingers and frowns, disgusted with himself for allowing frustration to edge his judgment. He watches the rise and fall of Fayed’s chest before striding out of the room.

“Sergeant,” he barks at the baby-faced Marine stationed outside the door, “wake him up and don’t let him rest. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”


* * * * *


“Agent Bauer, I wanted you to run point on this because I knew you’d get results.”

Jack grips the black plastic receiver harder. “And I appreciate that, sir — ”

“Then get it done. The sooner you’re finished, the sooner you can get back stateside.”

He stifles a sigh. “Yes, sir.”

He hangs up and opts for a shower — his fresh appearance will further distort Fayed’s sense of time and help Jack forget just how long he’s been awake. As he pulls a clean button-down from his duffel, he checks his watch and tries not to do the math, tries not to think about Kim’s latest swim meet he’s missing.


* * * * *


The folding chair is gone and Fayed, clad only in his boxers now, is standing in the middle of the small holding room when Jack returns.

“We’re gonna talk.”

“No,” Fayed says hoarsely, his accent heavy with fatigue, “we’re not.”

Jack smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He yanks the door open and a man in fatigues enters, pushing a gurney with a small silver suitcase on its stainless-steel surface. “This is Captain Pearson. When he’s done with you, we’ll have a nice chat.”


* * * * *


Jack wades through rubble and charred, broken bodies. Teri’s voice, urgent and staticky, comes through the comm unit in his ear, begging him to find Kim’s favorite teddy bear for the funeral.

“Funeral?” he chokes, smoke and dust thick on his tongue. He looks down to see a child’s pair of pink swim goggles splattered with gore.

No —

When he wakes, the razor wire-thin cot is sweat-soaked and his chest is tight.

Jesus. He checks his watch — he’s been out for two hours.

He needs another shower.


* * * * * *


Arms cuffed behind his back, Fayed is swaying on his feet when Jack walks in.

The sharp smell of rubbing alcohol tempered with stale sweat burns his nostrils as Jack drags the chair he’s brought to the middle of the small room.

“Sit.”

Fayed eases into the seat with a grimace, favoring the still-bleeding nerve cluster near his shoulder, just below his collarbone.

“You bombed the U.S. Embassy,” Jack says, the words clipped and detached. He circles the chair slowly, deliberately, noting the bloodstained gauze covering Fayed’s left hand. Pearson would’ve started with his little finger, then the ring finger. “Thirty-four Americans are dead.”

Fayed blinks away sweat.

Jack crouches, studying Fayed’s good eye. The other is obscured by his cheek, which is so distended that even the protruding sliver of bone is hardly visible now.

“We know you weren’t working alone.”

Gooseflesh rises along Fayed’s neck, but he doesn’t answer.

“This is bigger than you are — tell me who you were working for.”

Fayed licks his cracked lips. “I can’t,” he whispers.

“We can protect you, Khalil.” He delivers the empty promise with smooth conviction. “We’ll make sure those people can’t touch you.”

Moisture sheens over Fayed’s blown pupil. “I don’t believe you.”

Jack brings a hand up to cradle Fayed’s ruined cheek, and Fayed flinches. Jack strokes the ragged skin with his thumb. His expression darkens.

“You’re gonna tell me what I want to know.” He presses his thumb into the wound. Hard.

Fayed shudders and grits his teeth.

Harder.

Fayed screams until he can’t.


* * * * *


Jack’s eyes are gritty and he’s so tired his teeth ache. “Give me the names,” he orders, standing just behind Fayed’s chair. “You can end this right now.”

Fayed remains silent.

Goddammit.

Jack motions to Captain Pearson. “Again.”

Pearson opens the silver case.

Fayed tenses. “No — ”

“Yes,” Jack grinds out, clapping a hand onto Fayed’s clammy shoulder. “Unless you’ve got a confession.”

“I — ”

Jack’s stomach jumps. Just give up those names.

“ … I don’t.”

Pearson steps closer.

Ignoring his broken ribs, Fayed thrashes against the restraints circling his wrists, stomach, and ankles, grunting with effort.

Still standing behind him, Jack slings his left arm down and across Fayed’s shoulder and sweat-slick chest, gripping his armpit before he can topple the chair. Jack pulls his switchblade from his pocket with his free hand. The blade slides into place with a familiar click.

He forces the knife against Fayed’s throat. “Stop moving.”

The chair rocks once more and Fayed stills, every harsh breath hitching against his ribs.

Jack fists the fingers of his left hand in Fayed’s dark hair and yanks, exposing his throat, and braces the back of Fayed’s head against his sternum. Jack feels sweat and blood from the puncture wound between Fayed’s shoulder blades seep into the white cotton of his shirt; the knife doesn’t waver in his grip.

He nods to Pearson and watches the wire cutters move closer to Fayed’s shaking fingertips with clinical interest.

Then Fayed jerks forward in Jack’s grasp, sawing his throat across the length of the blade against his neck.

“Fuck!” Jack releases the weapon and kicks it to one corner. His hand instinctively closes around the gash, blood blossoming between his fingers and seeping around his palm.

Fayed struggles to suck in air, and the sick, wet sound replaces the waterfall in Jack’s ears.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Pearson freezes. “Agent Bauer — ”

“Help me out here,” Jack snaps, but Fayed is already seizing. More blood pools in Jack’s palm and flows over the back of his hand.

He loosens his hold and his shoulders slump.

Jesus Christ, the kid was a patriot.

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