As he watched, Bella stood, and so did Benson. They moved around the table, closer to each other. Benson bent over.

Tyrone wanted to scream, to pound himself on the sides of the head.

The worst thing he could imagine happened. Benson kissed her.

No, there was something even worse than that-she kissed Benson back. Tyrone saw their mouths working and knew it was a tongue kiss. Benson put one hand behind her, put it right on her b.u.t.t. Pulled her closer.

Bella let his hand stay there.

It lasted forever. A million years.

Finally, they finished. Benson turned and went one way, Bella the other.

Tyrone stood frozen, a worn-out statue of old bronze, unable to even blink. It was like the time on the parachute ride in Florida, that big free-fall drop. His belly fluttered, came all the way up to his throat. He was paralyzed on the outside, even though his guts roiled like a nest of beheaded snakes.

What should he do? Should he go out and confront her? Tell her he was just pa.s.sing by? See what she said? Would she lie to him again?

Did he want to know that?

Oh, man, oh, man! He wanted to die. Right here, right now. Just go up in a blast of fire and smoke and be dead and gone and not have to know this, not have to think about it, not have to deal deal with it. with it.

Bella had betrayed him. That was it, that was it, there was no way around it. She could have explained being in the mall, maybe even explained meeting Benson by accident and having lunch, but no way could she explain the last part. The kiss. The hand on her a.s.s.

Right now, he hated Jefferson Benson so much that he would have killed him if he could have figured out a way to do it and get away with it. Maybe even if he couldn't get away with it. But Benson wasn't the real problem. Tyrone knew that. Bella was the problem. What really hurt was that Bella had let him kiss her. That Bella had wanted him to kiss her. That she had enjoyed enjoyed it. it.

She wanted somebody else. Instead of Tyrone.

That was the thing that made Tyrone sickest.

What was he going to do?

How could he live with this?

At that moment, he couldn't see any way. No way at all.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Monday, January 3rd, 12:10 p.m. Quantico, Virginia Julio Fernandez stood in the cold at the start of the obstacle course, next to the chinning station. The morning trainees had come and gone, and the afternoon group didn't come on until after lunch. Some civilian feebs ran the course at noon now and then, along with senior troops trying to stay in shape, but right at the moment he was the only one at the chin racks.

He spent five minutes warming up, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. If he didn't do that he would probably strain his traps, and walking around with a sore neck for the next week didn't appeal to him, especially given his already gimpy status.

There were four sets of three bars there-hardwood dowels, each two and a half feet long, an inch and a half in diameter, mounted in six-by-six pressure-treated lumber posts. Each of the crosspieces was set at a different height. The lowest was about six and a half feet off the sawdust, the middle one was a foot higher, the highest a foot above the middle one. Usually he could easily jump up and catch the highest of the bars, but his leg bothered him a little more than he'd let on. Until the muscle got a little less sore, he wasn't going to be dunking any basketb.a.l.l.s. Or springing up to catch the top chin bar. But he could grab the middle one easily enough. He did so, palms forward, using a full grip about eight inches wider than his shoulders. It didn't really matter how tall the bar was because when he did chins he pulled his legs up into an L-sit to work his belly muscles anyway. Kind of like a gymnast, although he wouldn't get many points for form. He didn't point his toes enough.

He curled his hips up, pointed his legs-he could even feel that that in his wounded leg-then chinned himself, going up at a medium speed, coming back down at the same speed, to a full hang. Anything else didn't work the lats enough. in his wounded leg-then chinned himself, going up at a medium speed, coming back down at the same speed, to a full hang. Anything else didn't work the lats enough.

One.

He repeated the move, then did it again, getting into the rhythm.

... two... three... four...

Doing it in an L-sit made it harder, but that was the point. He wasn't trying to see how many he could do, cheating to a half-hang and then pumping it back up. The idea was to make the muscles work.

... five... six... seven... eight...

Some guys used a false grip, with their thumbs hooked over the bar for more lift, instead of under and around the fingers. And some guys used wrist straps, on the theory that their forearm muscles and hands would get tired before they wore their lats out, and chinning was primarily a lat exercise... nine... ten... eleven...

Fernandez figured that there wasn't much point to his back being so strong that his hands couldn't keep up. It wouldn't do you much good to have lats like Superman if you didn't have the grip strength to use them... twelve...

He let himself down, lowered his legs, released the bar. He was warmed up pretty good now. He shook his hands and arms out, flexed and extended his fingers, rolled his shoulders a couple of times, then turned his hands around so the palms faced him, and caught the bar in an underhand pull-up grip, this time s.p.a.ced about shoulder-width. That was the only difference between chins and pull-ups, whether your palms faced away or toward you.

One... two... three... four...

The biceps started to burn first, but the forearms were right there too.

... five... six... seven... eight...

It was getting tough now. He blew out a hard breath, sucked in a deep lungful of air, gutted it out.

... nine...

Come on, Julio, you can make it!

... ten...

He dropped, hung on to the bar for a second, then let go.

"I didn't think you were going to make that last one," a woman said from behind him.

He turned. Joanna Winthrop.

He grinned. "Me neither. Course, if I'd known you were watching, I'd have managed a couple more. I wouldn't want you to think I was a wimp."

She wore running shoes and sweats, dark blue pants, and a matching hooded shirt with the Net Force logo on the front. "I doubt I would think that. Twelve chins and ten pull-ups? On a good day, I might do six of either. Not both."

"Well, I don't want you to feel bad, so how about I just skip the one-handed sets?"

She laughed. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"So, what brings you out here?"

"Too much time at the desk. Every so often, I have to get away and clear my head."

"I hear that."

"How's the leg?"

"You want the macho answer? Or the truth?"

"Oh, both, please."

"Well, the macho answer is, 'Ah, no problem. Little old bullet wound like that can't slow a real real man down. h.e.l.l, I hurt myself worse putting on my socks. I was just about to go run the course. After which I'm probably gonna jog around the compound a couple times, then go find a pickup rugby game somewhere.' " man down. h.e.l.l, I hurt myself worse putting on my socks. I was just about to go run the course. After which I'm probably gonna jog around the compound a couple times, then go find a pickup rugby game somewhere.' "

"I see. And the truth?"

"That sucker is sore, stiff, and if I tried to run the course, I'd get maybe halfway to the first hurdle, cursing like a sailor, before I collapsed and fell down hollering in pain."

She laughed again. He liked that, making her laugh. She relaxed when she did it; she lost some of that tightness in her face that made her look just a little too cool to approach.

She said, "You're going to give macho men a bad name, Julio, admitting something like that."

"I'm trusting you to keep it a secret," he said, his face held as grave as he could manage. "If they found out, I'd be labeled a sissy, and drummed right out of the Manly Men Society."

"My lips are sealed."

They smiled at each other. "So, you gonna do the course?"

"That was the idea."

"How about I hobble along and watch?"

"I can live with that."

She started a series of leg stretches, and he moved over to lean against the chin supports. He watched.

Monday, January 3rd, 12:15 p.m. Quantico, Virginia Alex was running a little late, and Toni was already dressed and warmed up, practicing sempok sempok and and depok depok postures, dropping to sit, then springing back to her feet, when he made it to the gym. postures, dropping to sit, then springing back to her feet, when he made it to the gym.

"Sorry," he called, headed for the dressing room. "I got hung up on a call."

"It's all right."

He was back out in a minute, dressed in a black T-shirt, black cotton drawstring pants, and a white headband. He also wore wrestling shoes. They didn't like you to work out on the mats with shoes that might leave marks.

She bowed him in and set him to practicing his djuru djuru. He only knew the first one, but it was obvious he had been practicing away from cla.s.s. Another month or two and he'd be ready to start the second djuru djuru. Pretty quick. She'd been four months before Guru had given her Djuru Djuru Two. Two.

After about fifteen minutes, she called a stop. He'd worked up a pretty good sweat, his shirt was damp and the headband was soaked. She walked to where her jacket was folded next to the wall, bent, and pulled the kris kris in its sheath from under the cloth. in its sheath from under the cloth.

She walked back to Alex and showed him the weapon. "Look at this."

He raised his eyebrows. "Is this Indonesian?"

"Yes. It's called a kris kris. K-r-i-s. Sometimes spelled with an E after the K, sometimes with a double S. My Guru presented it to me when I went home for Christmas. It belonged to her great-grandfather. It's been in her family for more than two hundred years." She handed it to him.

He pulled it from the wooden sheath and looked at the blade. "Wow. How'd they get that color and texture?"

"The shape is called dapor dapor. This one is a kris luk kris luk, the wavy-blade pattern. The waves are always an odd number. There are also straight kris kris. The blade is made by welding and hammering various kinds of iron or steel together, then forging them into one piece. It's etched, they use lemon or lime juice and a.r.s.enic on the blade to darken and bring out the patterns in the steel. The surface pattern is called pamor pamor. There is a lot of meaning attached to what kind of dapor dapor and and pamor pamor a blade has, and who crafted it and how." a blade has, and who crafted it and how."

"Security didn't say anything when you brought this in?"

"I told them it was a paperweight. Feel the edge."

"Not very sharp," he said, testing it with his thumb.

"That's because it is primarily a thrusting weapon. One doesn't use a kris kris for household ch.o.r.es, only against an enemy or a wild animal. It's pretty much a ceremonial weapon, although it can certainly be used to kill in the hands of somebody who knows what he or she is doing. It was the traditional execution weapon for a long time." for household ch.o.r.es, only against an enemy or a wild animal. It's pretty much a ceremonial weapon, although it can certainly be used to kill in the hands of somebody who knows what he or she is doing. It was the traditional execution weapon for a long time."

He hefted the weapon. "Interesting. Is it valuable?"

"Moneywise, probably worth several thousand dollars. But the real value is in the thing itself.

"The kris kris are considered little temples by many Indonesians. The makers are called are considered little temples by many Indonesians. The makers are called Empu Empu, and depending on how one produces the kris kris and the wishes of the client, certain... magics are included in the forging. Many of the traditional and the wishes of the client, certain... magics are included in the forging. Many of the traditional kris kris are designed to be lucky, in war, or love, or business." are designed to be lucky, in war, or love, or business."

"Which is this one?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. The magic apparently changes a little with each new owner." Lucky in love Lucky in love, she hoped.

"You aren't going to stick me with it, are you?"

She smiled. "And p.i.s.s off Security? No, I thought we'd start with the wooden knife for practice. But I wanted you to see it."

He put the dagger back into its sheath and handed it to her. "Thank you for showing it to me."

She took the kris kris, went back to her jacket, and rewrapped the weapon.

Back in front of Alex, she said, "Okay, let's work a little on applications from the djuru djuru. Throw a punch, right here." She touched the tip of her nose.

He stepped in and shot a weak straight right at her nose. She double-blocked it without any effort. "That's not a punch! And let me see the other hand bracing the right. It's not that much slower, and remember, this hand"-she raised her right fist-"never goes into battle without this one." She put her left hand on her right forearm. "Just like the djuru djuru."

"Can I ask a question?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

"Because silat silat is based on structural principles and not raw power. You have to have base, angle, and leverage, but you must use proper technique to get them. See, you are bigger and stronger than I am, and if you punch really hard, I might not be able to deflect it using pure muscle. But if I brace my block thus, and my hips are corked properly, I have a mechanical advantage. Remember, this stuff was created with the idea that if you needed it, your attacker was going to be bigger, stronger, faster, probably armed, and there might be four of five of him. They might also be as skilled as you. You might be able to muscle a guy your size or smaller, but you can't outmuscle three or four who are bigger and stronger." is based on structural principles and not raw power. You have to have base, angle, and leverage, but you must use proper technique to get them. See, you are bigger and stronger than I am, and if you punch really hard, I might not be able to deflect it using pure muscle. But if I brace my block thus, and my hips are corked properly, I have a mechanical advantage. Remember, this stuff was created with the idea that if you needed it, your attacker was going to be bigger, stronger, faster, probably armed, and there might be four of five of him. They might also be as skilled as you. You might be able to muscle a guy your size or smaller, but you can't outmuscle three or four who are bigger and stronger."

"And faster," he said. His voice was dry. "And as skilled."

She laughed. "Yes. But speed and power and even skill are not nearly as important as timing. Ask me what the most important thing is about comedy."