The doctors moved in with their thermometers and stethoscopes. “Seems to be. Vitals are returning to normal.”

“All right, Johnson,” the general said grudgingly. “You have my thanks. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Loup was sorry to see him go. In the ring, he’d promised to help her if he could. She didn’t know if she trusted him. He could be trying to trick her like I’m-trying-to-be-your-friend Derek. He’d killed her brother and they both bore the marks of their epic battle. But in a place filled with strange men, he was the only one she felt close to.

They took pity on her and didn’t question her that day, only brought her back to her cell. That night—or whatever time it was—along with a bottle of water, there was another bowl of chicken soup, tepid and greasy. She drank it all.

The next day, the guards who came to fetch her informed her that they were taking her to the showers. They still cuffed her hands in front of her.

If it hadn’t been for that, Loup might have believed them. She’d been confined in that hot, stuffy cell for at least four or five days, wearing the same sweat-stained top and trunks in which she’d fought an eleven-round boxing match, and she was pretty sure she stank to heaven by now.

But there were the cuffs.

“Ladies’ shower room!” one of the guards said cheerfully, opening the door onto a barren cinder-block room with a drain in the cement floor. “All the modern luxuries.”

The other began unwinding a large hose from a wall-mounted fixture. “Stand right over there.”

She sighed.

It took both of them to handle the hose and the water pressure was so strong and relentless that even Loup couldn’t keep her feet. They laughed, blasting her full in the face until it felt like she would drown, unable to draw a breath. She got her back against the wall and raised her bound arms in front of her face, deflecting the worst of it until they finally turned off the water.

“Whaddya think, Joe?” one asked the other, tapping his fingers suggestively on his belt buckle. “Clean enough to fuck?”

Loup got up, soaked and dripping. Her eyes glittered.

“Ahh, let’s just get her to Room C,” the other said uneasily. “They’re expecting her.”

She relaxed. At least she was cleaner.

Room C was another stark, windowless room. No chairs, no nothing, just a ceramic tile floor. And it was cold, incredibly cold. There were vents on every wall blowing frigid air into the room.

They left her there.

No one came.

Her soaked clothing was plastered to her body, cold and clammy. Bit by bit, the cold seemed to creep into her bones. Loup shivered. By the end of an hour, she was colder than she’d ever been in her life.

She tried exercising to warm her blood, skipping in place. At first it helped, but then she began feeling weak and dizzy again. Three bowls of soup in four or five days wasn’t enough to sustain her for long. She gave up and sat on the cold ceramic tiles, feeling them leach more warmth from her body, wrapping her bound arms around her knees, sodden and shivering.

At last, men came.

There were two of them this time. They brought a folding metal chair. Hauled her to her feet, shoved her into the chair. They shouted questions at her faster than she could answer through chattering teeth. They threatened her, told her that her friends would be in trouble if she didn’t cooperate. That was the hardest one to resist.

Don’t trust, don’t believe. Remember that they’ll say anything.

Loup stuck to her story.

In the days that followed, little changed. A doctor came and removed her stitches without speaking to her. They gave her food at irregular intervals, enough to keep her from drifting into what Ron Johnson called hibernation. Never enough to make her feel wholly restored. At least it meant she seldom had to use the bucket.

On some days she got the hose, the frigid room, and the shouting interrogators.

Others, nothing.

It felt like days, anyway. Loup spent them sitting motionless on the steel shelf, her knees drawn up, Pilar’s robe draped over her shoulders. The feel of it comforted her despite the heat. If she closed her eyes, she could block out the glare of the harsh overhead lights and pretend that the redness behind her eyelids was due to afternoon sunlight streaming into a cozy room with a sewing table and a daybed, the satin robe spread over its cushions.

It helped.

Other than that, life sucked.

FIFTY-TWO

By Loup’s best guess, it was another two or three weeks before they tried a new, improved gambit.

They treated her nicely.

A pair of guards escorted her to a room that looked like she imagined a nice hotel room did, the kind of thing you saw in the old-fashioned magazines that Katya and Pilar liked to page through. Three rooms, really; there was a sitting room with a couch and a table for two, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The temperature was perfectly comfortable. The lighting was soft and low, and all the linens looked pristine. The gleaming bathroom counter held an array of toiletries and a fluffy white bathrobe hung from a hook on the door.

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” One snipped her plastic cuffs. “Make yourself at home. Derek will be with you in about an hour.”

They locked the door behind her, sliding a bolt in place.

Trick or no trick, Loup didn’t much care. She made a beeline for the bathroom.

It took ages to unpick the remnants of Miguel’s French braid, tangled and matted. She combed her hair out with her fingers, reluctant to dirty the actual utensil. Stripped off the filthy clothes that had been soaked and dried on her skin too many times.

Turned on the shower.

It steamed.

Barring the revelation of sex, that shower was one of the most sensuous, luxuriant experiences of her life. Loup shivered with pleasure at the touch of warm water against her skin, the slippery delight of soap lathering beneath her hands. She washed her hair three times, herself twice. Turned off the water and climbed out of the shower with reluctance, wrapping herself in the thick terry-cloth robe.

Brushed her teeth three times.

Combed her wet hair.

Waited for Derek.

It felt strange, like she was some mistress waiting for her lover. Loup supposed she ought to put her clothes back on, but the terry-cloth was clean against her clean skin. She damn well wasn’t putting her dirty, stinking clothes back on until she had to.

The door opened.

A soldier in desert fatigues wheeled in a tray filled with covered dishes that smelled very, very good, followed by I’m-trying-to-be-your-friend Derek in some kind of officer’s uniform.

He smiled at her. “Good evening, Loup.”

She shrugged.

“Thanks, Ted,” he said to the soldier, who saluted and left. The bolt clicked shut behind him. Derek turned back to Loup, his gaze filled with sympathy. “You’ve had a rough time of it, huh?”

“No shit.”

He lifted one hand. “Look, I feel bad about it. I do. Between you and me, I think General Argyle’s overreacting, okay? And I think you’re a smart girl. I’m here to make you an offer. Are you going to like all the terms of it? No. Should you listen to it?” He nodded. “Yes. Because you don’t have a lot of options. Because after the way our first meeting went, I had to fight like hell for this opportunity and I don’t think it’s going to happen again.” He lifted one of the dish domes, revealing a plate of steak, mashed potatoes, peas, and carrots. “Can we at least be civil?”

Loup eyed the food. “Sure.”

She was braced for the trick, ready for him to take it away, but he didn’t. He uncovered a second plate and served them both. Setting the table for two, opening a bottle of wine and pouring two glasses.

“To your health.” Derek clinked his glass to hers. “You could be very, very valuable to us, Loup.”

She waited for the trick.

He smiled at her and began to cut his steak.

The food was good. Loup ate quickly and precisely, clearing her plate. Feeling the warm glow of it in her belly, nutrition coursing through her veins, revitalizing her. Derek smiled at her again and scraped his leftover mashed potatoes onto her plate. She ate those, too.

“So,” he said, refilling her wineglass.

“So,” Loup echoed.

Derek leaned over the table, his glasses reflecting the light. “I can offer you a future. A very good one.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Yeah, I’ve noticed so many women in the army.”

“There used to be before the policy was changed.” He shook his head. “But I’m not talking about the army. Have you ever heard of the Secret Service?”

“No.”

“They’re men and women who provide security for the president and other important political figures.”

“Bodyguards.”

“That and more.” Derek nodded. “Usually, a visible presence. But on some occasions, something less obvious is required. The world is changing, decades of isolationism ending. We’re sending diplomats into delicate situations where they cannot afford to offend their hosts. A highly skilled bodyguard who doesn’t look like a bodyguard would be most useful. One who could pass for a pretty aide or personal assistant.” He smiled. “Do you see where I’m going?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d travel the world.” He waved one hand in an expansive gesture. “Stay in hotels ten times nicer than this, eat meals that put this to shame.”

Loup smiled wryly. “Yeah, sure. Just like that.”

“No, of course not. You’d still have to go through extensive training. Two years, at least. But I think you’d like it.” He leaned forward again, eyes earnest behind his glasses. “It’s a fledgling program. We’re working with the Feds. There would be others like you in it, Loup.”

She gave him a sharp look.

“You’d learn more about yourself, about what you are.” Derek took the opening and pressed. “Biofeedback techniques to moderate your metabolism, ways to prolong your longevity. How does that sound?”