Chapter 9

''Hi, Russ.'' Mark Conrad greeted his patient quietly as Russ - in spite of several shots of sedation - still pulled violently at the straps that bound his wrists to the bed frame. (His attendants had been forced to secure him when it was obvious that he was growing increasingly angry and violent.)

''Go to hell!'' Russ snapped. Aside from his facial features, he no longer resembled Oscar's capable young right-hand man...and even those features were contorted now with rage.

''I'm guessing you're already there,'' Conrad noted. He pulled a chair up next to the bed, hoping it would facilitate at least some sense of closeness for his frightened, angry patient. ''I'd like to talk with you about it, if that's alright.''

''NO!'' Russ shouted emphatically.

''That's okay. I'll talk then; you can just listen. But I'll have to warn you - it can be mighty tiresome listening to me jabber on. Or so I've been told. So...what do I think about all this, since you won't tell me what you think? You're confused. You're scared - and you have every right to be. And you're probably at a total loss to explain what's happened to you.''

''Wanna know what I think, Doctor? I think any Candy Striper on her very first day could've come up with those platitudes! Nice try.''

''Alright. Then why don't you tell me about the first time you realized something was wrong? Not what someone told you...but when you knew it for yourself.''

Spurred into spitting it out himself by a highly skilled psychiatrist, Russ began to talk...and it seemed to calm him, to give him something to focus on, other than his current predicament. ''When Rudy was taking me out of that conference room, I wasn't sure why...but I knew something bad was happening, if they were having me removed right in the middle of a crisis. The Doc filled me in on some of the rest of it - the forgetfulness, the repetition of questions I'd already asked...''

''And even when he told you, it didn't spark anything in your memory?''

''No,'' Russ admitted. ''Doctor, what's happening to me?''

''I think we've talked a little already about PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - and since nothing has shown up on any of your medical tests, we need to examine that possibility more closely.''

''You think I'm crazy,'' Russ stated miserably.

''Far from it. PTSD can be your body's defense mechanism - a way of handling something that's just too much to bear - because however much you've tried to deny it, what those terrorists did to you was more than anyone could cope with. Whether it was explicitly spoken or not, the threat of death was there- and brought home with every punch and kick they inflicted on you. Flashbacks, memory problems, avoidance of talking - or even thinking - about the event...trouble concentrating and even extreme anger. They all apply to you...don't they?''

''I...guess so.''

Now they were getting somewhere!

Jaime gave up on trying to break the chains. She'd expended every ounce of her strength and determination with no results. Now her eyes couldn't help drifting over to the sad stuffed toys on the wall. At one time (how long ago had it been?), this room had been filled with laughter and the pleas of children begging their parents for 'just one' of those dolls. Now the dolls hung in an awful tableau, waiting in vain for children who would never come, never plead for them ever again.

Jaime wondered if the room would soon be filled with a different sort of plea...her own. But she determined in her own mind that she would not allow that to happen! What she lacked in so-called 'Resistance Training', she would make up for in sheer stubbornness! In spite of his best efforts - whatever Kingsley might throw at her - she would not allow him the satisfaction he so obviously sought!

''We have to find her, Oscar! There's been no ransom call...so what if this is Cobra, taking revenge for the death of Kingsley? Or even someone else Jaime helped lock up, somewhere down the line?''

''Pal, there's another possibility we have to consider,'' Oscar pointed out (with the greatest of reluctance).

''Don't say it; I know what you're thinking,'' Steve told him. Jaime could've been kidnapped by someone else entirely, solely because of her bionics and with the intention of selling her to the highest bidder - in which case she might simply be gone. Forever. ''We have to go on the assumption that she's still alive!'' he insisted. ''And she's waiting for us to find her...before it's too late!''

''Or someone else is waiting...for you to come looking.''

''Which is precisely why I have to do that!''

''Forget it, Pal!'' Oscar ordered. ''You can't exactly fight in the condition you're in.'' As much as the decision pained him, he knew that sending Steve out to look for - or even to rescue - Jaime could very likely end with both of them being lost.

''I can do my damnedest!''

''You also can't run away - not effectively - without that other arm to help keep your balance,'' Oscar pointed out.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Steve was on it before the second ring. ''Yes - hello!''

''Turn it off of 'speaker','' a voice snarled. ''I'm assuming your boss is there with you - and this conversation is going to be private, if you want your girlfriend to live.''

''There's no speaker here,'' Steve informed the disembodied voice. ''What do you want?''

''It's what you want that's important. You want your girlfriend - or is she your wife - to stay in one piece, right? Well, I'm not with her yet, so I just want you to think about that...for now. I'll call back when I get there...so you can hear her scream.''

With that, the line went dead. Steve's eyes were wide with alarm as he turned to Oscar. ''My God...it can't be...'' he whispered.

''Steve...what is it?''

Steve had recognized the voice (as improbable as it seemed that this man could be the source). He'd only heard him speak before for a very short time, but the situation involved made it a voice he'd not soon forget. ''Oscar, that was Kingsley. He's alive...and he's got Jaime!''