Page 183 of The Fourth Option
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Jean Lafitte Nature Preserve, Louisiana
CICADAS. AN ENDLESS,electric hum that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Then came the smell: brackish water mixed with humidity and the faint copper tang of blood.
Walker opened his eyes, confused, his vision blurry.
He tried to bring his arms to his head, but they wouldn’t move.
Then he became aware of the intense pressure in his shoulders and something cutting into his hands.
Late-afternoon light filtered through the windows.
He blinked his eyes and his bare feet came into focus, dangling just inches above the wooden floorboards. They were secured with twine. He lifted his head slowly and saw that his arms were secured to a chain that had been looped over the cabin’s central beam. He was suspended, lightly swaying. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and looked back down at his body, realizing that he was naked.
“You are heavier than you look.”
The voice was deep. The accent was one he recognized from another life.
A man stepped forward from the shadows. He was about Walker’s height and build. Features dark. His black hair was cut short and the stubble on his face was only a day or two old. He wore leather sandals, light beige pants, and a thin gray T-shirt.
“Salaam Alaikum, Mr. Walker.” Peace be upon you. “Sanga yaast?” How are you?
“Been better.”
“I see you remember our language.”
“I remember. Who are you?”
“That’s hardly important.”
“Seems relevant at the moment.”
“We don’t know each other if that’s what you are asking, though we once worked for the same intelligence service.”
“And now you are a gun for hire who kills kids like Connor Staub?”
The man grabbed Walker’s hair and yanked it back.
“And where would you have heard something like that?”
“A dead man told me.”
He let go of Walker’s hair and stepped back.
“I do a job just like you trained me.”
“I didn’t train you.”
“Your CIA did. Men just like you. The man who hired me will be here soon. He has some questions for you. While we wait, my job is to soften you up. You remember, don’t you, what we used to do to prisoners in the Salt Pit?”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“No, you didn’t. My boss calls me the Afghan. Not very original. I worked out of Kandahar with Zero Three. I understand you were farther north.”
“Why don’t you cut me down so we can reminisce about old times? Maybe let me put some pants on.”
“I always respected that about you Americans.”
