The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (314 page)

George let his forehead rest on the muzzle of the gun and kept his mouth shut. He did not want to flinch, to grimace, to shudder. He merely clenched his teeth in anticipation of the shot that would deliver him to heaven.

“We were with the group that had the leaders,” Costas Pappas explained. “The pastor and his wife. The Mikloses. Old man Kronos. His cousin is still with us. You know who all these people are?”

“We know everything,” Chloe said. “But how can you know so much and still survive?”

“Marcel told us the plan the night it happened,” Mrs. Pappas said. “The girl was supposed to have been seen by people in the underground who knew her, but it was just a rumor. Everything seemed to add up. Help from the Tribulation Force, a military man, an operative from America, on his way back from the operation in Israel.”

“But how did you learn what had happened? What did you do when Mr. Miklos and Mr. Kronos did not check back in?”

“We went looking,” Costas said, his lips quivering. Chloe had thought him a bumbling lookout, then an angry young man. But he had to be brave, she decided, to live as he did. This softness touched her. “We knew the plan. We never found the stones at the side of the road. They had either been run over or brushed away. But those animals left that car right where it stopped, not far from there, in plain sight.”

“But surely they were watching it,” Hannah said, “lying in wait for you.”

“We were sure of that,” the boy said. “We drove past quickly, trying to appear as if we were not even looking. But we know K’s car. It was just a few meters off the road—the lights gone dim, the engine off, a door open. We were desperate to search it, to find out what happened, but we didn’t want to be stupid.”

“And so . . . ?”

“We waited. We had to. There was no way to know when they would tire of waiting for someone to come, but after a few days, we could not stand not knowing anymore. Kronos’s cousin lent us a four-wheel-drive truck, and from topography maps we plotted a way to get to the car from the fields rather than the road. We did it after midnight, slowly making our way from tiny trails through thick woods to the open, rocky plain. Cousin Kronos drove, and two others and I walked ahead in dark clothes to be sure no one saw or heard. It had to be three in the morning before we had brought the truck as close as we dared. We could not see Kronos’s car yet, but we knew where it was. When we crawled over a rise where we thought it would come into view, we saw nothing.

“There is no longer money for streetlights, and the battery in the car had long since died. There was no moon and we didn’t dare use our flashlights, so nothing illuminated the car. If the GC were waiting to ambush us, they would not have thought of our coming the hard way, especially that far. We were almost upon the car when we finally saw it in the darkness. We listened and watched and even fanned out to see if we could hear any GC. Then we felt in the car and found the bodies. Maybe we were foolish, but we dared shine our lights, just seconds at a time, our bodies hiding most of the light.”

Costas quivered at the memory and broke down. He struggled to be understood. “All three of them,” he managed. “Shot. Marcel in the face. Back of his head gone. We had to work to pull him from under the dashboard. K took one in the neck from behind. Probably cut his spinal cord. Laslos in the forehead.”

“No sign of the American?”

Costas shook his head. “We dragged the bodies, one by one, all the way back to the truck. They stank and were stiff. It was awful. My friend, who was studying criminology before all of this, determined that whoever shot them was probably in the car with them. We also found Marcel’s bag, one we had given him. It was under Laslos’s body, covered with his blood. It still had a change of clothes and food in it. We do not know what happened to the American.”

Chloe told him and his mother what Steve Plank had reported, that the GC boasted the successful thwart of an escape attempt. “There was an impostor for the girl and for our man. Something went wrong and all this resulted.”

“The American is alive?” Mrs. P. said.

Chloe nodded. “Being held somewhere. They’re probably trying to break him for information, but he’s well trained. We’re more worried he will get himself killed for not cooperating.”

“You must think the GC is stupid,” Costas said.

“Sorry?” Chloe said.

“You come here disguised as GC and you think they will just take you to him.”

“It’s risky, we know.”

“It’s suicide,” Costas said.

“What would you do, son?” Chloe said, realizing that if Costas was younger than she, it wasn’t by much.

He shrugged. “The same, I suppose, but I can’t imagine it working.”

“We have a man inside the palace in New Babylon, or we wouldn’t dream of trying this,” Chloe said. She began to outline the preparations and Mac’s plans.

“Ah, excuse me,” Hannah said. “A minute, please?”

Chloe glanced at her, then followed Hannah to a corner.

“Chloe, do they need to know this?”

“We can trust them! They’re Co-op.”

“But what if they are caught and forced to talk? Don’t burden them with all this.”

“Think of what they’ve been through, Hannah. They’ll never cave.”

“Well, if they do, it’s more than just your funeral, you know.”

They returned to Mrs. Pappas and her son.

“This works?” Costas said. “The GC falls for this?”

“Not for long,” Chloe admitted, sneaking a peek at Hannah. “But with the right setup on the main database in New Babylon, we have bluffed ourselves into some remarkable places.”

“We just met you,” Mrs. Pappas said. “And we will bury you soon.”

“We are people of faith,” Hannah said, dropping her accent. “And we know you are too. We must also be people of action. We know the odds and we accept them. We don’t know what else to do. Would you leave a comrade to a certain death?”

Costas was still emotional. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t see that you have a choice, but you have a better chance going in with artillery than with disguises. I just can’t see it working.”

“But we don’t know where our man is!” Chloe said. “How do we find that out without infiltrating?”

“What about your man in Colorado? He seems to know so much.”

“He can tell us only what he overhears. If he asks for more details than seem appropriate, he’ll soon be found out too.”

“How does he get along in the GC without the mark?”

Chloe explained Steve’s new identity and facial reconstruction, aware of Hannah’s loud sigh and slight shaking of her head. “His forehead is plastic. The mark of loyalty would have to be applied under that, and no one can stand looking at him with his skull exposed.”

“Please,” Hannah said under her breath.

“I want to come with you when you go for your man,” Costas said.

“Can’t allow it,” Chloe said. “We have our papers, our uniforms, and we’re covered, for now, on the computer. It would take days to do the same for you.”

“I could get a GC uniform, and you could cover for me. I—”

“No,” Chloe said. “We appreciate it, but it’s not going to happen. We have a plan, and we will follow it, succeed or fail.”

“You need more firepower?”

“We do. It would have looked suspicious, bringing in heavy weapons that are not GC issue. Mr. McCullum is trying to get something, either from our man’s plane or his car.”

“Where is the car?”

“According to Plank, Sebastian’s captors also have his car, which he talked his way into at the airport.”

“And they wouldn’t have searched it for weapons?”

“We don’t know and we haven’t heard.”

Costas motioned the women to follow him to a corner where a large wood trunk was buried under piles of blankets. It was full of Uzis. “Don’t ask,” he said. His mother provided a large laundry bag into which Costas placed three cloth-wrapped weapons and several clips of ammunition. “Now, you’d better go.”

George Sebastian had been told that you never hear the shot that kills you, but how could that ever be proved? He fought to remain composed, not wanting to give his captors the satisfaction of even tensing before the death blast. He held his breath way past what he believed were his final ten seconds, and then could not contain a shiver as he exhaled.

“All right,” the leader said, “get him presentable, and fast. Food and water first, then the shower. And do something about this lip. Think of a story for that. We didn’t do it.”

George opened his eyes and blinked.

“You’re still in trouble, California, but none of us is getting fried because of you. I’m taking the cuffs off, but you’ve got two weapons aimed at you, and all we need is a reason.”

When his hands were free, George rubbed them together, making Plato flinch. George was tempted to scare him with a feigned swing or even a shout.

“Do something about his wrists,” the leader told Elena. “Let’s go, we’ve got to move.”

They shoved George up the stairs and gave him two sandwiches stuffed with what tasted like summer sausage. The bread slices were nearly two inches thick and dry. He had to press them hard together over the meat to fit them into his mouth. His split lip stretched and bled as he chewed. He sucked eagerly from a bottle of warm, stale water.

George wanted to sit back and take a few deep breaths, but this was clearly not supposed to be a leisurely lunch. He gagged and coughed, but he made sure to force down all the food. His best chance to escape or do some damage would be when he was unbound and they were moving him. He didn’t want to invest the mental energy guessing what it was all about, but he felt relieved to be alive and to have accomplished his one objective so far—silence.

When he finished, George quickly scooped bread crumbs from the table and pushed them into his mouth. He chased them with the last few drops of water, tipping the bottle all the way up. Elena snatched it from him and pointed toward a tiny room where he would just barely fit into a shower.

“Clothes there,” she said, pointing to the floor. “You probably can’t fit through the window anyway, but someone will be outside and armed.”

She left and shut the door, and though he knew she and probably the others could hear what he was doing, he looked under a cot and found only dust. He yanked open three drawers of a spindly wooden dresser. Empty. There was nothing else in the room except a window he guessed faced west. He pulled back a paperlike shade, and Socrates leveled his weapon at him.

“Get going!” Elena called from outside the door.

He shed his clothes and edged into the shower. He turned on the left faucet first and was blasted with icy water. He stepped back out and reached in, trying the other. Also cold. He turned both on and let them run a minute. He tried angling the showerhead away from him, but it was rusted into place.

“The tap water is not drinkable!” he heard from outside. He wanted to ask if there was soap or a towel, but he would not speak. Gritting his teeth, George forced himself under the spray. His body jerked and shook, but he let the frigid water flood him from his short hair to his whole body. He vigorously rubbed everywhere for as long as he could stand it, and just as he was turning off the water, he heard the room door shut. He peeked out. Where his clothes had been lay a pile of clean stuff, clearly belonging to Plato, his supposed look-alike.
Great. He doesn’t appear nearly as tall.

A single hand towel lay on the bed. George made it work and threw on the clothes. A nondescript undershirt protected him from a prickly brown sweater. Military-issue underwear was tight. Gray wool socks started to warm him, and khaki pants with a canvas belt were tight around the middle and rode three inches above his ankles. The GC-issue boots were snug but okay.

George pushed the door open, and Elena motioned that he should follow her back to the table where he had eaten. Plato stood watching, weapon in hand, but George wondered how valued the girl was. He could have had her in a headlock before the others noticed, and he could have killed her before they fired.

She awkwardly dabbed at his lip with ointment and massaged his hands and wrists. He studied her face for any sign of weakness. The blood he had seen on her when he thought she was his underground contact was obviously not her own. She was a killer.

Elena pressed a bulge over his eyebrow that smarted, but George would not recoil. If he couldn’t stand a little pain, how would he fight his way out of this? It seemed incongruous that she could find ice in that place, but she wrapped some in a cloth and held it against his swollen forehead. She did the same to a knot on the back of his head. Why couldn’t she have spared a cube or two for his drinking water?

The food, whatever it was, lay heavy and troubling in his stomach, but he also felt a surge of energy from it. Part of him wanted to do some damage, to show these yokels what an American captive was capable of. Oh, he could do more than clam up. He had already broken one guard’s knee, if he had to guess. And all during her administering to his wounds, George had sat close enough to Elena to have blinded her with a two-fingered shot to the eyes, broken her jaw with a punch to the chin, or crushed her to death by flipping the table onto her and dropping his whole body atop it.

Little would have been gained, of course, as he would have been shot. He fantasized about ignoring her and charging Plato, disarming him, butting him with the weapon, shooting Elena, and taking his chances with the two camped outside. That had better odds, but still not good ones.