“I’ll be in touch when it’s done,” I said.

He nodded. “I know.”

I turned and walked away. He could damn well pay for the spring rolls himself.

DOX SAT ON the cot in the cramped, windowless boat cabin, the lights off, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. He’d long since told himself every joke he’d ever known, three times over, four or five for his favorites. He’d recollected the layout of his childhood house, and imagined himself building it, starting with the foundation, then brick by brick, all the way to the roof and the detail work. Now he was trying to remember the name of every girl he’d ever slept with, but it just wasn’t possible because, well, there had been quite a few. The first ten were easy to come up with, even though it had been a long time ago, but once he got up into the double digits, things got tricky. He tried a different tack, focusing only on the ones who’d been lucky enough to surrender him their virginity, but the truth was, that was a reasonably lengthy list, too. He knew he’d never remember them all, and that was sad, but still it was fun to try, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to occupy his mind here.

He was shackled like a federal prisoner: leg irons, wrist manacles, and a chain connecting the two. They weren’t being overly generous about the length of chain involved, either. He couldn’t so much walk as shuffle along, bent over like an old man. If he got an itch on his nose, the only way to scratch it was to push his face against the wall and rub. The room had its own head, and he supposed he ought to be grateful for that, but wiping his ass chained as he was wasn’t exactly the high point of his day. He was half-tempted to beat the bishop, more than half-tempted, if the truth be told, especially with all these thoughts of girls he’d deflowered, and with his hands stuck right in front of his crotch, he could have, too. But the possibility of his captors sniggering at the sounds of his chains clanking in the dark would be an unbearable indignity. Besides, how the hell would he clean up the mess.

The one thing he wanted to do more than anything when he got out of this, well, besides standing up straight and stretching, that was the main thing, but besides that, the thing he wanted most was just to brush his teeth. The last time he’d had a chance had been the morning they’d grabbed him, and at this point it felt like he had a moss forest growing in his mouth.

He’d considered every variety of possible escape, but he couldn’t see a way out. The door was always locked. He’d tested it with his shoulder and knew it was heavy and solid. Unshackled, he might have been able to bust it open, although it opened inward so maybe not, but in these chains he could develop all the momentum of a pregnant penguin, and he certainly couldn’t kick. The door had a small window, too, and they were careful always to look in on him before entering. But hell, they could come in blindfolded and what could he do, shuffle over and head-butt them in the shoulders like the friggin’ Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Call them dirty names?

He might have tried bellowing like a madman when he sensed they were in port, but he doubted anyone would hear. He didn’t know how big the boat was-they’d kept him blindfolded while they were moving him about-but they’d taken him down some steps and then across a short corridor to put him in this room, so he knew he was on a lower level and almost certainly in an interior room. No, the chances of any good coming from shouting were awfully remote, while the chances of someone coming in and smacking him in the guts with a truncheon and duct-taping his mouth shut and hooding him after for good measure were fairly high. It just wasn’t a percentage move.

He hadn’t been much mistreated, he had to admit, if he was willing to discount that initial waterboarding and some electric shock they’d applied to his feet after to get him to scream over the phone for Rain’s benefit. Jesus Christ almighty, the waterboarding was flat-out awful. The hell of it was how short-lived the effects were. One second you’re pissing-your-pants-panicked, and then a minute later you’re rational again, swearing you won’t break this time. Except you do. It was unnerving to be swept away by blind fear that way-it was like losing control of your bowels or something, but a hundred times worse. Hilger was right, going through it at SERE was one thing, having the bad guys do it to you with real intent was something else entirely. That vice president who’d called it “a dunking” ought to have his head pulled out of his ass.

They’d left him in his cold, wet, soiled clothes for about a day and hadn’t fed him at first, either. That meant they were still checking on the information he’d given them, wanting to keep him uncomfortable and mindful of his recent ordeal so they could break him again more easily if it turned out he’d been bullshitting them. When they hosed him off, changed him into a clean, dry track suit, and left him food and water, he knew something had been worked out. And whatever it was, his life was part of the bargain.

They’d pretty much left him alone after that, except when they’d put him on the phone with Rain. That conversation had been hard. Rain was his buddy, and he knew the man wouldn’t quit until he’d gotten him free or died himself in the process. He was ashamed his carelessness had put his partner in this position, and it was awful knowing Rain was out there doing God knows what, while he was here, chained up and helpless to change the odds even a little.

They were even feeding him well enough, he supposed, with two hot meals a day in styrofoam containers that he ate hunched over with a plastic spoon. Sometimes the food was Chinese, sometimes Malay, sometimes Indian. Which didn’t mean much, because you could get all three at pretty much any food stall in Southeast Asia, and it all froze and microwaved just fine. They could be anywhere. There was no porthole in his room, and his only sense of place was the rise and fall of the swells beneath them and the sound of the engine when they were moving. He didn’t even know what time of day it was, or night, for that matter.

His worst immediate problem, aside from shame, boredom, and the feeling that his tongue was cultivating lichens, was the Mexican, whom Dox thought of as Uncle Fester for both his bald head and his crazy eyes. The man had a touch of the sadist in him-more than a touch, in fact. Every now and then he liked to pop into the cabin and get in a cheap shot. The first time it had been in the gut, but Dox had seen it coming and even though the fuckwit knew how to punch, the damage hadn’t been too bad. But there were other places to hit. He’d kneed Dox in the coccyx once and the spot still hurt like hell and made sitting in his chains even less pleasant than it otherwise would have been. The man was picking his targets, Dox realized early on, so as not to leave marks. He figured Hilger, who while clearly being a four-alarm psycho in his own special way also seemed to be guided by some sort of professional ethos, would have taken a dim view of gratuitous treatment of a prisoner, and the bald guy was being careful because of it.

The last two days had been particularly bad. The only people he saw were the bald guy and the boyish-looking one, who Dox knew goddamn well at this point was anything but boyish, and he figured Hilger and the blond dude had gone somewhere. With fewer people around, Uncle Fester seemed to be emboldened.

The punishment hadn’t stopped him from provoking the dude with insults, though. On the contrary, more than ever his dignity required that he prove he was unbowed. There wasn’t much he could be proud of at the moment, but standing up to that piece of shit, insulting him grievously enough to make him an enemy, that was something. His body was paying for it, but it was helping keep his spirit alive.