Exit Strategy

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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—”