It's my fault, thought Jason. The words stabbed through his mind; he couldn't stop thinking them, even if he'd wanted to. I got us into this. I shouldn't have acted rashly—I shouldn't have leaped in there and helped that man, no matter how much I wanted to. It probably only made it worse for him anyway.
He leaned back against the cold cement wall. Beside him, James breathed evenly. He must have lapsed into unconsciousness.
Jason wished for the same; he wanted to shut out these thoughts that tormented him. Why had they left him alone, relatively unscathed?
He shouldn't have let on that he would rather they attack him instead of Tasha. But what else could he do? Show that nothing they did to her or him would faze him? Thanks to Elena, they already knew he was not that type of agent. She saw right through him and knew that he was weak, not capable of being a competent agent, much less a good one.
There has to be a way to draw them away from her. If it's the only time I can find that kind of strength within myself, this is the time that it counts. If it means saving her—I need that kind of strength. Please, God, please, give me the strength to bear it when the time comes. For Tasha's sake.
He curled up on the floor and tried to get some sleep, some sort of escape from the voice that haunted his mind.
Pain sliced through Tasha's arm as the knife burrowed into the bullet wound in her shoulder. She shut her eyes, concentrating on her breathing, keeping from making a sound. I can't give them the satisfaction, she thought. I can't let them see that any of this is affecting me. If I show any weakness, then they'll attack even more, and I'll have lost. It will be the first step toward giving in. I've got to hold out as long as—as long as—
An involuntary cry escaped her lips as the soldier stabbed the knife into the soft flesh to the right of her shoulder.
"Tell me who helped you," said Zahl, his form silhouetted against the light, wavering in the haze that enveloped Tasha's pain-wracked mind. "Who was the soldier who gave you the uniform? How did you get inside Zohr?"
She shook her head, though the movement made her stomach lurch. She was not going to betray Jensen and his family, no matter what they did to her.
"We will find out eventually; it's only a matter of time before our investigation reveals the traitor. But if you speak, you will make it easier on him."
He's lying, she thought. It's just a ploy to get me to tell; they'd be just as hard on him as they are on me. At least I know they haven't found him out yet.
Holding the bloody knife, the soldier stepped back to make way for Zahl. "Well then. This is just the...prelude, shall we say. We've not even scratched the surface of what we are capable of. You know you will give in eventually. Why not just tell us, and avoid needless pain? You are a pretty girl. It would be a shame to damage your beauty permanently, mangle your features until you are unrecognizable." He brushed her face with his gloved hand, the leather scraping the cut across her cheek. "You will already have a scar there, I think." He took the knife from the soldier, and slid its cold edge along her other cheek, down her chin, along her neck. The blade pricked into the skin along her collarbone, then sliced through the collar of her shirt. "You do not even want to know the ways we could damage you," he said.
Fear shivered through her, but at the same time, she wanted to spit into Zahl's face, like she had with Von Warberg. She wanted them to know that she would remain defiant. Nothing they could do would break her. I have to be strong, she thought. For the sake of my country.
"But all in good time," said Zahl, withdrawing the knife. "Take her to the cell."
They unlocked her manacles from the wall, and two soldiers carried her out of the interrogation room, down the hallway to another room. They opened the door, and threw her into darkness.
"Tasha!" said Jason. Warmth flooded her when she realized she was not alone. His hand found hers; he helped her to a sitting position against the wall.
"Are you all right?" said Jason.
"More or less," she said. Pain throbbed through her shoulder, along her arm, down her back where the cane had hit, her stomach, her cheek; but she would rather he didn't know, as long as they were in the dark at least.
"What happened?" he said.
"They just asked me some questions."
"Just?"
"Jason, I'm fine."
"What Von Warberg did to you—I'm sorry—"
"It's not your fault."
"I should have been the one to take it for you."
"Your chivalry is touching, Jason, but it's not necessary. Besides, I can take it just as well as you, if not better."
"You probably are stronger. It's just that I can't—"
"Can't what?"
"Can't stand seeing them…hurt you."
"It would be the same way if our positions were reversed. But we can't let it get to us. We've got to keep in mind that the mission is everything. Do you understand me, Jason? No matter what they do to either of us, we have to stay strong. I would rather die than know that you had betrayed the mission for my sake. Our country is counting on us. It doesn't matter what happens to me, or to you, in the grand scheme of things. We have to think this way, or we won't survive. You can be strong, for me, can't you?"
"I can," he said.
"Good. Then let's get some sleep." She curled up on the floor, pain shooting through her back and her arm as she did so. But she tried to ignore it—think of something, anything—so she could immerse in oblivion, at least for a little while.
She thought of her parents' beach house in Virginia, the waves lapping on the shore…it didn't work. She tried in vain to get in a comfortable position; everything hurt too much.
Jason lay down beside her. The warmth of his hand met hers, comforting her. Soon sleep locked her in its dark embrace.
The light flicked on, waking her. Her whole body burned with a deep, throbbing ache. She didn't want to move; she knew that that would make it hurt even more.
A hand unlaced gently from hers; she realized that it had been Jason, still lying beside her.
"James," said Jason in a low, alarmed voice. "Are you awake?"
Someone stirred close to the wall. "I am."
"It's Tasha. They—"
James cleared his throat. "She needs medical attention." There was a ripping sound. "But this is the best we can do."
Tasha felt someone lifting her arm; a cloth wrapped around her shoulder. She gasped as it pressed against her wound.
She struggled to sit up; Jason assisted her, and she sat back against the wall. "I'm sorry," said Jason.
"That's all right. I should have done it myself, but—"
"You should have told me. I had no idea—"
"It's not your fault. Thank you. And you too, James." She noticed that the bottom of his shirt was torn off.
He shrugged. "This shirt was too far gone anyway." James had a black eye and the whole left half of his face looked swollen, the skin broken over his cheekbone.
"Are you all right?" she said. "You probably need as much medical attention as I do."
"I—well, there is no use pretending I'm fine. My head feels like it's going to explode, and my side feels like there's glass embedded in it—"
"Maybe there is. Let me see." She crawled over to him, lifted his shirt where a bloody slash ripped through it. "This might hurt, James."
"I'm used to that by now." He gave a small smile.
She pressed her fingers gently into the cut, feeling around for any debris. He gasped, but held still, breathing hard.
She withdrew her bloody fingers. "Nothing that I could find. But you've lost a lot of blood. We should bind it up so it won't get infected. Jason—"
"What?"
"Your shirt's in better shape than his."
"Oh. Of course." Jason ripped through a tear along its edge, and handed the ragged cloth to Tasha, who proceeded to wrap it around James' ribs.
"Thank you," he said. "I doubt it will matter much longer, though."
"What do you mean?" said Tasha, though she had an idea.
"The execution."
"Listen, James. Don't give up hope yet. You never know what will happen until…it happens."
James' brow furrowed. Tasha looked at Jason, who looked at her quizzically. "Do you think we can get out?" he said.
"I don't know. It doesn't look very good for us. But what good will it do to just give up? If we do, they'll have won. If there's even the smallest chance we can escape, we have to take it. Especially with what's at stake." She looked at James.
"Please—don't risk your lives for me."
"We're going to risk our lives anyway. It might as well be for you. From what I've seen, you're worth fighting for."
He laughed. "I'm not sure that I see what you see in me. But perhaps I will trust your judgment."
"It's not just for you, either, you know. It's for your country."
James nodded, a spark of hope in his eyes.
"How are we going to do it?" said Jason, leaning forward.
Just then, the door swung open. Soldiers grabbed Tasha, not taking particular care with her injured arm.
They dragged Tasha, Jason and James down the hallway to the main courtyard, where about fifty chairs were set up. People sat in them—thin, with ragged clothing. Prisoners. Around them stood soldiers at attention, pistols in their hands as if ready to shoot them at a moment's notice. They took Tasha and Jason to the front row, where Von Warberg sat surrounded by ten of his special guard, and shoved Tasha next to them. They pushed Jason into a chair on the other side of Elena, at the very end of the row. They shoved James up against the wall, and locked the handcuffs on the wall around his wrists.
Zahl stood in the space between the wall and the chairs, flanked by four soldiers. "We have brought you here today to witness the preview of the attraction that will occur in the center square tonight. But since you are unable to attend, I have arranged for you to have a special showing." He smirked. "You may or may not have been aware of recent events. Some of you have harbored the hope that the heir to the throne will be found. Well, you were right! He is here in our midst. And he is every inch the majestic and powerful savior you have imagined." He gestured to James. James was tall, powerfully built, but at the moment, shackled to the wall, he didn't look very powerful. And with his bruised, beaten face, he looked anything but triumphant.
Tasha's stomach twisted at the cruel mockery, knowing only that it was a taste of what was to come.
If only we could have discussed a plan, she thought. If only we'd had a little more time—
A soldier withdrew a knife from his belt. He sliced through the center of James' shirt, then ripped its remains off of him and threw it to the ground, revealing the cuts and bruises already scattered across his torso. Then the soldier cut off the makeshift bandage Tasha had bound there just minutes earlier. That didn't last long, she thought. It might not have helped much physically, but I only hope that what I did will help him through what's to come, show him that at least some of us stand by him, even to the end.
Tasha tried to catch his eyes, but they were fixed on the ground, as if in shame.
"Let's pay homage to our long-lost king, shall we?" said Zahl. "I'm sure he would like us to show him the respect he deserves." He slammed his fist into James' stomach. James doubled over, though the handcuffs kept him halfway upright. "Or, perhaps there is someone in the room who deserves more respect than you, prince. Perhaps you should bow to him. He has, after all, been leading this country in your absence. He deserves a little consideration."
Von Warberg chuckled, low and amused. Disgust filled Tasha.
"So bow, my liege." He punched James in the stomach again. "I said, bow!" Zahl grabbed James by the hair, forced him to lean forward. His arms strained against the handcuffs; Zahl jabbed his elbow into the prince's back, then kneed him in the stomach. Blood trickled down one arm where the cuff must have cut into his wrist.
Tasha wished she could turn away—she hated watching anyone get tortured, and James did not deserve one bit of it. But to turn away was to avoid it—and that was something James could not do. She was going to face it with him, as much as she could. And somehow let him know she was with him, in spirit.
"Not good enough," said Zahl. He unlocked the handcuffs from the wall, and pushed James to the floor. James landed on his hands and knees, and tried to get up; Zahl kicked him in the side, and he fell onto his stomach. "Look at your king," said Zahl. "What an awe-inspiring figure he is." Zahl leaned down. Spoke close to James' ear. "I want you to show us that, before you die, you acknowledge Von Warberg as supreme leader—and that you are nothing. Nothing more than dust, as worthless as a parasite." He pressed his boot onto James neck; James gasped for breath.
Tasha rose to her feet. "Stop. You're killing him."
"That's the general idea," said Zahl. "But of course, you're right. It's not quite time yet." He released James, who rolled onto his back, coughing. "Sit down, Tasha. Your turn will come soon enough."
"I want my turn now," she said, still standing. "I want you do give me the treatment that you give him—you have done enough."
"All in good time." He waved his hand dismissively; a soldier came forward and shoved her down into her seat.
"Now, your majesty, I want you to kiss the boots of your master. The one who is superior to you in all respects."
James struggled back to his feet. "I have no master." He held his head high. Despite his battered face, he looked like the proud prince that he was, as if he had gone through a battle, and earned his victory.
Four soldiers grabbed him, forced him back to his knees. One kicked him where the deep cut was. He cried out.
They dragged him forward, tossed him at Von Warberg's feet. Von Warberg smiled smugly; all of this seemed to be his idea of entertainment.
"Kiss his boots," said Zahl, his voice hard, as if giving an order.
"Never."
"Then perhaps you need some more persuasion." The soldiers pulled James to his feet, two held him, while two others converged on him, their fists raised—
"Stop!" said Jason. He stood, slipping back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. He looked a lot like James at the moment, the same fierce determination on his face.
"You can do nothing to stop this. Lieutenant—"
A soldier stepped in front of Jason. Grabbed for his arm. Jason lashed out, catching the soldier across the jaw. He staggered back, then recovered, and slammed his fist toward Jason's face. Jason dodged it.
Two more soldiers came forward and grabbed Jason's arms while the other gave him a punch that threw him backwards onto the chair, so he half-landed in Elena's lap. Elena nodded to the soldiers as if to say, I can take it from here.
"All right, let's—" Zahl stopped. Something creaked behind Tasha; she looked where Zahl was looking, and saw two of the prisoners standing. More joined them. Silently they rose, some of them having to hold onto the backs of chairs for support, some of them leaning on others. Men, women, teenagers—all different, but one thing in common: the quiet defiance in their eyes.
They looked like a tide, about to surge forward.
The soldiers surrounding the chairs raised their pistols, aiming them at the prisoners.
Jason sat up. Elena slipped her arm around his possessively; he shoved her away and stood again.
Tasha stood, and stepped over to Jason's side.
A soldier aimed his gun at them.
Tasha whispered into Jason's ear. "Go to Munroe."
He looked at her questioningly.
"Trust me," she said.
Jason nodded.
Just then, a prisoner leaped toward a soldier. A gunshot went off. Tasha used that diversion to leap toward the soldier in front of them. She grabbed his pistol, tried to wrest it from him; Jason added his strength and yanked it away from him.
Tasha pushed the gun into Jason's hand as the room erupted into chaos. More prisoners charged the guards; gunshots went off, prisoners collapsed to the floor.
"Go!" said Tasha.
Jason hesitated for a split second, sadness in his eyes, then he ran toward the door.
A soldier aimed his gun at Jason; Tasha hit him, and the shot hit the ceiling instead. Tasha made a mad grab for his gun, but the soldier was too fast for her. He slammed his pistol into the side of her head; the last thing she saw before unconsciousness took her was Jason silhouetted against the light of the doorway. Then he was gone.