Читать книгу Exit Strategy - Kate Donovan - Страница 11

O rtega had chosen a perfect location for his self-imposed exile. A twisty mountain road provided the only access to the parcel, which was surrounded by jagged outcroppings and steep terrain that would discourage even the most adventurous hikers. According to the file, Ortega had installed some sort of monitoring system to alert him when a vehicle approached, which Miranda guessed didn’t happen very often, and never by mistake. It was simply too inhospitable a drive for anyone to undertake without a very, very good reason.

By the time she was within a thousand yards of the place, she knew he knew she was coming. He would be prepared. And luckily, so was she, mostly because of the eight-month stint she had served on the Farm—the CIA’s training facility that doubled as an ongoing societal experiment. During Miranda’s stay, she had been inserted into a hostile society with disorienting customs. Surrounded by people she couldn’t trust, in an atmosphere of duplicity and challenge, she had honed the skills needed to thrive in such an environment.

She had done well. Now she was headed for another such experience, and she had no doubt she’d survive again. The prospect of seeing Ortega, while distasteful, was overshadowed by the excitement she felt over the anti-Brigade operation. She knew that if she focused on the goal, and didn’t get distracted by the alibi disaster and its accompanying humiliation, she’d do fine. And if he tried to manipulate her in any way, well, he’d be surprised. Because thanks to him, she had had a full year of developing her own manipulative skills!

Not that she really thought he’d try anything. A close reading of the file suggested he really did want to be alone, which meant that the worst he’d do would be order her off his property, as he’d done to every other person who had tried to visit him.

If that happened, Miranda could go back to SPIN and report that she had done her best. She had no doubt that McGregor would keep his word. And thanks to a late night phone call she had gotten from Kristie Hennessy, she knew the spinner would accept the truth and move on, too. In fact, Kristie had almost tried to talk Miranda out of going to Ortega after all, belatedly noting what all the rest of them had been trying to tell her: that she “might have” miscalculated, and “maybe Ray won’t be as receptive to this visit” as she had hoped.

As the cabin came into view, Miranda was able to confirm the spinner’s prediction firsthand. Ortega was standing in the gravel driveway, his hands on his hips, his expression murderous. And despite all of her preparation, she felt a twinge of intimidation, not only from his stance, but from the fact that he looked bigger than she remembered. Bigger and more dangerous.

He was wearing a black cotton outfit resembling a martial arts uniform, but tied at the waist with a simple length of rope. His skin was darker than it had been a year earlier, and his wavy black hair was shaggier than before. Everything about him confirmed the fact that he had radically altered his lifestyle and his relationship with the world.

Stopping her rented Subaru Outback while still twenty feet from him, she took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Okay, Miranda,” she told herself firmly. “Like he used to say, it’s showtime. Just remember why you’re here and you’ll do fine.”

Pushing the car door open, she second-guessed her attire and quickly grabbed a black hooded sweatshirt along with her knapsack, then pulled the sweatshirt over her bare arms as she exited the vehicle. It was a hot day, and the white sleeveless top she was wearing with her jeans was appropriate and not overly sexy, but still, she didn’t want there to be any hint that she was trying to appear attractive. It was bad enough her hair was highlighted to bring out more red. She must have been crazy to let her hairdresser talk her into that when she went in for a simple trim!

Standing straight, she pulled off her sunglasses and returned Ortega’s stare without saying a word.

Then to her surprise, a broad grin spread across his face. “Miranda?” Striding forward, he added warmly, “You’re the last person I expected to see out here. Or anywhere for that matter.”

“Hey, Ortega,” she murmured, intimidated again, this time because she thought he might be about to do something monumentally offensive, like hug her.

But he stopped a few feet away, insisting quietly, “This is a surprise. But I’m glad you’re here.”

“It’s not a social call. SPIN sent me.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I should have known. I actually thought you were Kristie herself when I saw that the driver was a female. I can’t believe she’s using you to get to me.”

“Yeah, what kind of a monster would use a person for their own selfish purposes?” Miranda drawled.

He winced, then laughed it off. “I’m just glad for the chance to apologize to you in person. I’ve never forgiven myself for the way I hurt you.”

“The hurt lasted about five minutes. It’s the burn that had staying power,” she assured him, adding with a confident smile, “If you really want to make it up to me, go pack a bag. There’s a flight leaving at 2:30. We can make it if we hurry.”

“Where are we going?”

“SPIN headquarters.”

Now he did step closer, so that she could almost feel the heat of the sun stored in his bronzed flesh. “Why would I want to go there?”

She forced herself not to step back, even though his nearness intimidated her. He had been in good shape the last time they met, but now he seemed even leaner, more muscled, and definitely more physically powerful. “They want you to talk to Jonathan Kell,” she explained carefully. “To see if he knows anything that can help Kristie figure out the Brigadier’s identity.”

Ortega shook his head, visibly frustrated. “She could crack that case right now if she wanted to. She’s got plenty of information, and she’s a whiz. She’s just using it as a ploy to get me back in the game.”

“Come to SPIN with me and tell her that to her face.”

“I’ve already told her….” He shook his head again, then gestured toward his cabin. “Come on. We can argue inside. Want something to drink?”

“No. I’m fine, thanks.”

“You’re not afraid to come inside with me, are you?”

She laughed dryly. “Actually, I’m dying to see the place. The story is you’re trying to get in touch with nature, but I count five antennae and a satellite dish. Kinda high-tech for a nature boy, don’t you think?” Without waiting for him to respond she walked past him and up to the front door, which was already wide open.

He caught up to her in a few strides. “For the record, I came here to get in touch with myself, not Mother Nature. But you’re right, I’ve got a lot going on, equipment-wise. I wanted to keep my options open in terms of getting information from the rest of the world. And I have a couple of security systems. Old habits run deep.”

Stepping through the open doorway, she scanned the living room, noting the profusion of monitors and computers, as well as shelves lined with books, videotapes and DVDs. An overstuffed recliner in front of a rustic fireplace occupied one corner of the room. The only other furniture, aside from the desks, was a small wooden table and four chairs between the living room and a kitchen. A ladder led to a loft, which she assumed was Ortega’s bedroom.

“Come and sit.” He crossed to the table and held out a chair for her. “I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“About Kell?”

“No. About Kristie. And about that mess with Jane Smith. I owe you an explanation as well as an apology.”

Miranda almost growled from frustration. “I don’t care about any of that, Ortega. I just want your help uncovering the Brigadier’s identity. You think you owe me something? Great. Come back to SPIN with me and we’ll call it even.”

“That part of my life was a nightmare. I’ve left it behind forever.”

“Yeah? Well I’m still living that nightmare, thanks to you.” She caught her temper, not wanting him to see how fresh the pain still was.

But it was too late.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. How bad has it been?” When she just shook her head, he asked, “What about the language immersion project? Didn’t that work out? It sounded so promising.”

“They yanked me off that two seconds after you signed your confession. The only immersion I’ve had for the last year has been with men. I might as well be running my own escort service.”

The bronze flecks in Ortega’s eyes lit up with emotion. “Those bastards. They promised me you wouldn’t pay for my mistake. Then they dared pimp you out?”

“Don’t worry. They never actually let me have sex with the subjects for fear I’ll fall in love with all of them.” She paused to allow the sarcasm in her tone to fully penetrate. “I just flirt with potential assets in bars. Set ’em up for blackmail. Nothing demanding, ergo nothing that I could screw up.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She held his gaze in her own. “That’s why I need this, Ortega. My first real chance to redeem myself. I’m not asking you to do it for me. Do it for your country. But in the process, it would really help me out. And like I said, we’d be square.”

Ortega exhaled slowly, then settled into a chair, motioning again for her to do the same. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

“Fine. Fill me in on the way to the airport.”

He chuckled. “My country doesn’t need me to break the Brigade. Kristie just wants me to come back to civilization because she’s worried about me. She and I have a history.”

“I know. She told me what good friends you were. Are.”

“Did she tell you I once told her I loved her?”

Miranda grimaced, then sat down across from him. “No. That’s a new one.”

“She didn’t take it seriously. She had this idea that I was just infatuated with her alter ego, Melissa Daniels.”

“Pardon?”

His eyes twinkled. “Like I said, there’s a lot you don’t know. When I first met Kristie, she was dressed up in a red wig. That’s why I thought you were her—or rather, Melissa Daniels—when your car pulled up today.”

“Why would a spinner need an alter ego? She doesn’t go into the field, does she?”

“Melissa goes wherever she wants,” he explained with a laugh. “Anyway, it was Kristie who figured out I had a thing for pretty redheads. She told Jane Smith about it and that’s how you got recruited when I needed an alibi. Jane and I figured the president might ask Kris to help with the investigation, and when she saw what you looked like, she’d be convinced the relationship was legitimate.”

“Wow.” Miranda bit her lip, then said, “She’s got something going with Director McGregor now. Did you know that?”

“Yeah. I think it’s great. And I think she was right. I never really was in love with her, although I had a heck of a crush on Melissa.” He leaned forward. “She’s a great friend. A loyal one. She’s worried about me, so she’s using this Brigade situation to bring me back. But I won’t go. I can’t. I’m doing something important out here. Something I need for my own sanity.”

“You can’t take a little break to visit a friend?” Miranda asked, trying for a light tone.

Ortega leaned back in his chair as though tired of having to explain himself. Then he told her, “I don’t expect you to understand. You went through rigorous training, but I went through a completely different program. The kind that teaches a person to suppress his normal reactions. His normal, decent, human reactions. I was an assassin. I did it for my country, and I know it was the right thing to do. But the coldness of it, along with the power, turned out to be something I couldn’t handle.”

Impressed that he was blaming himself rather than the program or his country, she nodded for him to continue.

“The first time I screwed up was when I was sent to assassinate a CIA mole. The one who sold me out to Benito Carerra. Do you know about that?” When she nodded again, he said, “The mole retired out of the blue. In South America. That’s how the agency figured out it was him. They knew he was hanging out with a bunch of drug thugs, so they sent me to take care of it. My assignment was to systematically shoot them all, and I did.”

Miranda bit her lip. “You were just doing your job. Any of us would have done the same.”

“Except I enjoyed it a little too much. I felt like a goddammed superman. Then sirens began to wail, and an ambulance screeched up to the door. This little nurse got out and ran inside the building, and she was staring at the bodies, and then at me. Like I was a monster. And she was right.”

He stared at the table for a moment, then added, “Out of the blue, we heard someone groaning. One man was still alive. And that little nurse ran to where he was and began trying to save his life. And the contrast…the contrast between her and me…” He glanced up, his eyes clouded. “I took a leave of absence, bought this place, and hung out here for about a year. I exercised my body and my mind. Tried to cleanse the demons away. It worked, or so I thought. And while I was here, I got an idea for a new agency where profilers could work behind the scenes, assisting undercover agents in the field. It would be positive work. Saving lives, not killing them. I went to President Standish and he bought the idea.”

“SPIN.”

“Yeah, SPIN. It was supposed to be my redemption. But as the agency earned more prestige, I got more power. And it all began to happen again. I fought it, but when Standish told me he was going to appoint me as Director of the FBI, I lost all perspective. Getting that position was all that mattered to me. I told myself it was because of the good I could do, but it was just the power.”

She mentally cringed. “I don’t need to hear this, Ortega.”

“I think you do.” His eyes blazed. “That night in L.A., when the president’s advisor told me he was going to recommend against my appointment, we had a huge argument. He took a swing at me, I fought back, and he hit his head. It was self-defense, Miranda, but I still knew it would kill my chances for the appointment. So I called Jane. It was the worst mistake of my life, mostly because of the way it hurt you and Kristie. And McGregor’s sister.”

“Ortega?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t care.” She stared straight into his eyes. “I don’t care if it was self-defense. I don’t care if you’re sorry. None of that matters to me. I just want you to go back to SPIN with me and help us ID the Brigadier so I can get my career back on track.”

And the amazing part was, she was telling the truth! After all these months of hating this guy, she had finally put him into perspective. She was ready to move on, and if he helped her with that, she would also be able to put him firmly in the past, forever, where he belonged.

As though to mark the moment, a clock began to strike twelve, its tone deep and resonant, and Miranda turned toward it, charmed.

Without warning, Ortega jumped up and grabbed her by the wrist. “Come with me.”

Startled, Miranda used his sideways motion against him by grabbing his forearm with her other hand and sending him flying back into his chair. As he crashed, and the clock continued to chime, she reached under her sweatshirt and drew her pistol from the back waistband of her jeans in one fluid motion. Pointing it at him, she insisted calmly, “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t like being manhandled.”

He rubbed the back of his head, then flashed a rueful grin. “Nice move. If I promise not to grab you again, can I get up?”

She nodded and watched as he sprung to his feet. It occurred to her he might have just pretended to let her throw him, just so she’d get it out of her system. Either way, it had felt pretty good.

“I was just trying to show you something,” he explained.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not interested.”

“It has to do with Jonathan Kell,” he told her, his tone mischievous. “Put your gun down and come with me. You’ll like it. I promise.”

As Ortega took her out the back door and into a clearing, he explained that he always exercised at noon, as well as at dawn and dusk. It was the heart of his cleansing ritual, a vital component of which was the relaxation technique Kell had taught him during their captivity.

Now he was offering to teach it to Miranda as he had promised during their alibi operation. She wasn’t sure she trusted his motives, but she wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to learn more about Jonathan Kell, especially because she had a feeling she wasn’t going to be able to convince Ortega to come back with her.

But at least she could bring Kristie this glimpse into Kell’s mind. Maybe that, combined with the rest of the information, would help the spinner plot a successful strategy.

The huge clearing behind the cabin was empty except for a stump and axe near the house, a bench with a hinged lid and, at the far end of the space, an archery target. In the distance but out of sight, Miranda could hear a stream gurgling. The pine-scented air was so fresh and clean, she could see why Ortega found strength here, with or without his relaxation technique.

“Okay, Ortega. Let’s see the miracle routine.”

“You’re skeptical?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Let’s try something.” He took down a bow and a quiver filled with arrows that had been hung on the side of the cabin. “You’re a good shot according to your files. I want you to shoot two arrows. See how you do. Then after the exercises, shoot two more. You’ll be surprised how much better you do.”

Amused by the challenge, Miranda accepted the equipment. Looping the quiver over her shoulder, she turned her full attention to the bow, testing it, learning its temperament. It had a great feel—not too tight, but ultraresponsive. And there was hardly a breeze to disturb the trajectory, further adding to her confidence.

When she was done getting acquainted with the bow, she pulled an arrow from the quiver, then smiled to see that it was tipped with a hand-hewn obsidian arrowhead. “Where did you get the tip?”

“I made it.”

It seemed unbelievable, and she reminded herself that Ortega was a professional liar. “Really? How long did it take you?”

“It took eight months—and a pile of shards and failures—just to make the first one. Now it goes pretty quickly.”

“All part of the therapy I presume?”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “All part of the therapy.”

“Interesting.” She took a deep breath, then turned toward the target, threaded the arrow on the string, arched the bow expertly, and released. The arrow flew straight, hitting the target cleanly, about half an inch from the center.

“Nice,” Ortega murmured.

She gave him a confident smile, pulled a second arrow from the quiver, and after recalibrating to account for her error, she shot again, this time hitting the target dead center.

“So?” she asked smoothly. “You’re saying I’ll do better than that after you teach me your technique?”

“Smart-ass. You’re pretty damned good.” He took back the equipment, returned it to its hooks, then eyed her outfit. “Do you have any looser clothes in the car? I’d lend you a gi, but you’d swim in it.”

“I’m fine like this.”

“I agree. But you won’t have the full range of motion.”

She took off her sweatshirt and laid it on a nearby bench. “I’ll muddle through. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Okay.” He opened the bench and took out a metronome, wound it, then set the speed so that the ticking resembled a slow heartbeat. “I haven’t had to use this in years, but it’ll help you keep count. Take this seriously though, okay? You’ll be glad you did.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned to face east, bowed slightly, and took in a long, slow breath. Then he exhaled and told Miranda, “From the stomach. Shoulders loose, eyes front. As evenly as you can. Try to match the metronome, but don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about a thing. Just breathe and follow my movements. Clear your mind of anything else.”

“Got it.”

She could see from his grimace that he didn’t think she was giving due respect to his ritual, but she didn’t care. While she appreciated the obvious physical advantage to any form of exercise, she didn’t put much stock in the supposed psychological ones. No meditation for her, or finding her chi, or any of that nonsense. If she wanted to tone her mind, she’d read a book.

“Inhale for eight beats. Exhale for eight beats. Repeat that pattern two more times. For the fourth full breath, inhale for sixteen beats—”

“Sixteen?”

“Right. Three sets of eight, one of sixteen. Then start again.”

She wanted to object—to remind him she wasn’t a pearl diver or mermaid, and couldn’t possibly inhale for sixteen beats of that stupid metronome—but he was already beginning to move and breathe, so she joined him reluctantly. It was tough to match even the eight-count beat, especially when paired with the movements. They were typical of any good martial arts form, but done so slowly and meticulously, impatience soon flared in her arm muscles as she tried to follow him. Meanwhile, she had to gulp for air every time she tried to make it through a sixteen-count breath. She probably would have just quit, but Ortega was handling it so effortlessly, her pride wouldn’t allow her to give up, so she persevered.

In the distance, a bird was chattering like crazy, and even though she tried to ignore it, her brain was cataloguing the sound, trying to identify the type. Not a crow. A hawk maybe?

Concentrate, Miranda. He said make your mind a blank. Forget about the stupid bird!

Her muscles were aching as they reached a part of the routine where he barely seemed to be moving at all. Their right arms were outstretched fully to the side, their left arms straight out in front of them at chest level. Their left legs were lifted off the ground, bent at the knees, with their right legs offering the only support. Then Ortega rocked forward, so that all of his weight was on the ball of his foot, and she decided he was right about one thing. These exercises were good for balance!

Would you clear your freaking mind for just one stupid minute! she chastised herself. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the metronome, ignoring Ortega completely. She continued to move, as slowly as possible, but switched to the form from her tae kwon do class. It was a little easier now, and now the eight-count breathing felt almost normal. In fact, in a strange way it felt better than normal.

She wasn’t quite sure when the ache left her arms, or the sounds left her ears, or her mind started to relax. She only knew that when it all came together, it was perfection. A moment outside of time, outside of space, outside of herself, yet intimate, at the very core of her being.

Then she lost it, and almost lost her balance in the process. Gulping for air, she opened her eyes and realized that Ortega was standing right in front of her, his face inches from hers, staring at her with open curiosity.

She knew her cheeks were reddening as she backed away from him. Then she admitted, “That was interesting.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d get there the first time.”

“I almost didn’t. Then I closed my eyes, and it all came together.”

“Closing your eyes is key,” he confirmed.

“Then why didn’t you tell me to do it?”

“I knew you’d figure it out on your own. That’s part of what makes it key,” he added with a wink.

“Whatever,” she drawled, intent on returning to their former nonrelationship. “Did Kell really teach it to you?”

“He taught me the breathing part. I added the movement. For me, that definitely enhances it. The more you practice, the sooner you’ll find the right combination that works for you. Learn to recognize the sensations—the flow—so you can get there without consciously trying. Then it’ll last as long as you want.”

Miranda bit her lip, wondering if he knew he was beginning to sound like every sex manual she had ever consulted.

“The trick is, don’t rush it,” he continued, his voice low and reassuring. “Sure, you want to get there, but the idea is to let it happen naturally. Relax. Enjoy the movement. The breathing. When it’s time for it, it’ll come. And it’ll definitely be worth waiting for.”

“Good to know,” she said, cutting him off before her cheeks got any hotter. “Now what about the Brigade? Are you going to help us or not?”

His chuckle acknowledged the abrupt change in mood. “I told you, SPIN can do it on their own. This is just Kristie’s scheme, and I’m not falling for it. You shouldn’t, either.” His smile warmed. “She’s a good friend and I care about her. But she needs to respect my wishes.”

Miranda wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but Ortega’s attitude actually did seem more centered. More balanced. Had the breathing routine really mellowed him that easily?

In any case, there was no doubt that she was feeling unusually calm. All of the anger and hurt that usually accompanied any thought of him had dissipated, and she was able to respect what he was trying to say. Trying to do. Yes he was flawed—more flawed than most, or at least, his flaws were more dangerous—but he was trying to minimize the danger, both to himself and to others.

“Maybe it would help if you gave Kristie a timeline for when you’ll be ready to talk to her again,” she suggested carefully. “She misses you, Ortega. She says you taught her everything she knows. You’re practically a hero to her.”

“Kristie doesn’t just want to talk. She wants to drag me back into the intelligence racket. But that environment is poison for me. I’ll never go back to it.”

“Which means there really isn’t any way I can convince you to come back with me and head up the anti-Brigade team?” Miranda squared her shoulders. “Can I ask a different favor then?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Can you at least talk to me about the time you spent with Kell?”

“I was thoroughly debriefed. Haven’t you seen the file?”

“I read every word, but I still have questions.”

Ortega seemed about to refuse, then he said, “I’ll get us a couple of bottles of water. Then you can ask me whatever you want. Then we’ll eat. Then we’ll go through the routine again.”

She tilted her head to the side, trying to fathom why he wanted her to stay for such a long time. Guilt? Loneliness?

More manipulation? No, that didn’t seem to be it.

Settling on loneliness as the most likely culprit, she murmured, “Do you really stay here alone all the time? You never go into Reno or one of the smaller towns?”

“I go down the hill about once a month. To stock up mostly. And to remind myself there are other people in the world. I’m trying to get centered, but not self-centered, so socializing with strangers fits right in. And I haven’t completely cut myself off from friends and family. We keep in touch by e-mail. The problem with Kristie is, she doesn’t just want to keep in touch. She wants me to return to my old life.”

Miranda smiled. “She thinks you’re lonely. If she knew you were socializing, especially with women, she might be less obsessed with rescuing you.” She grimaced then asked, “That’s what you meant by socializing, right? Women?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a laugh. “That’s what I meant. But you’re the first woman I’ve had here at the cabin. And the only woman I’d want here.”

Miranda eyed him coolly. “Did you say something about a bottle of water?”

“Yeah,” he said, dropping the flirtation without protest. “One bottle of water, coming right up.”

They sat under a pine tree, sipping water and munching on apple slices, while Ortega told her the story of his adventure in South America with Carerra and Kell. In some respects it tracked the information in the file almost word for word, but occasionally, she got a glimpse into the ordeal that no file could ever effectively convey.

“The most important thing to remember about Jonathan Kell is that life dealt him a bizarre hand. A brilliant scientist who wouldn’t hurt a fly and only wanted to do good. Yet so plagued with fear—fear of virtually everything—that it paralyzed him socially and professionally. That allowed the drug company to take enormous advantage of him. To use his brilliance, but when Kell needed them to pay the ransom, they just cut him loose. His greatest fear—abandonment—was confirmed that day. Abandoned by his employer and associates. And also abandoned by his country.”

“His country saved his life. You were CIA and you came through for him.”

“Kell knew I was there on a completely different mission. He was grateful to me personally, but not to the U.S. It infuriated him on my behalf that they didn’t send someone to rescue me. I tried to explain to him that they couldn’t do that, since my op didn’t exist officially. I also told him they figured if I was still alive, I’d find a way to escape on my own.”

“Small comfort when they’re torturing you daily.”

“I was trained for that. Kell wasn’t.”

“That’s one of my questions,” she admitted. “I get why they couldn’t break you. But why didn’t Kell—a civilian with phobias—just answer their questions?”

“He did. They thought he was holding out on them, but he wasn’t. He tried to tell them about his research, but they were interested in something else that his company was rumored to be developing. Believe me, if he’d known about it, he would have given them every detail. But he says the rumors were just that. Rumors. Or maybe it was another company doing it. There were dozens of little research groups in the rain forest in those days, looking for million-dollar cures.”

“Poor guy.”

“They’d bring him back to the cage convulsing with fear. It was chilling. They used electrodes on him, and whips, but it didn’t take them long to realize all they had to do was come near him and his brain exploded with images ten times worse than anything they could imagine doing to him.”

“Do you remember what the other project was? The one in the rumors?”

Ortega nodded. “They called it Night Arrow. Something that made arrows fly straighter, according to Carerra’s men. Not a product you’d ever need,” he added admiringly.

She smiled. “Not much call for that in modern warfare anyway, is there?”

“Right. Unless they could apply it to bullets or torpedoes or whatever. It always sounded like a pipe dream to me. And to Kell. Benito Carerra claimed there were legends of warriors who anointed their arrows with certain magical potions that made them superior or invincible, but aside from the numerous poisons available down there, most potions were just religious concoctions designed to give confidence to the warrior and create fear in the enemy.”

“So they kept torturing the poor guy.”

“It was brutal. Carerra was such an asshole. I mean, torturing me was one thing. I came after him. But anyone could see Kell was harmless.”

“You didn’t just come after him, you used his wife to do it.”

“So he was the victim?” Ortega laughed. “I guess that makes sense from your point of view. You probably wanted to torture me yourself after what I did to you.”

“Which was basically the same thing you did to Mrs. Carerra. What was her name? Angelina?”

“It was hardly the same,” Ortega protested.

“Really? You slept with her to advance an objective. Sound familiar? Anyway,” she said with a sigh, “back to Kell. Everyone assumes he’s useful to the Brigade because of his phobia research. Do you agree?”

Ortega nodded. “Our military has spent decades—and millions—trying to find ways to inhibit fear in a soldier. To promote fight-over-flight as a response. They’ve had success, but the results are always short-lived and the side-effects fairly extreme. Kell probably found something safer or more effective.”

“And he would rather sell it to the Brigade because he hates the United States?”

Ortega nodded again. “He’s a fairly gentle guy, but if they convinced him they found a way to take down the U.S. and big business—his two enemies—that would definitely motivate him. He used to rant about that kind of thing when we were imprisoned together. Revenge fantasies masquerading as political theory. Poor guy,” he added sadly. Then he asked Miranda, “Any other questions?”

“Just one.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “You’re the founder of SPIN. The original spinner who taught Kristie everything she knows.”

“What’s your point?”

“You said she has enough information already to figure out who the Brigadier is. So? Doesn’t that mean you could do it, too? Do you have any theories? Any leads you can give us?”

“I never said she had enough information to figure it out,” he corrected her. “Just enough to plan an op to infiltrate the group. Not through Kell—he’s too suspicious and way too bitter to trust anyone—”