Then the pain picked up where it left off. He held his head with his hands, trying to stop the throbbing. Nauseousness struck, and he vomited again. His legs started giving way. Even before his body hit the floor, his world went dark.

Off and on during the next two hours he'd become semi-consciousness. The vomiting had all but stopped, when bouts of dry heaves picked up where they left off. With each attempt to stand, his legs would give out. He was weak, dehydrated, but at least the dizziness wasn't as intense.

His conscious moments were brief, hardly long enough for him to figure out where he was. His brain captured distorted snapshots of pipes, ductwork, and wires hanging high above. Lights came and went, shining through an overhead window. Gradually, those lights no longer caused eye pain.

But he was still too disoriented to question, nor did he understand that everything he was going through was from the drugs wreaking havoc on his mind and body.

Bas.e.m.e.nt of House in D.C.

Sat.u.r.day - Day 6 0500 Hours Slowly, he started coming around. The dizziness and nauseousness had begun to subside. He took long, deep breaths, trying to clear his brain, but instead, he inhaled a sickening, acrid odor. Dried vomit on his sweatshirt, on the concrete. He immediately rolled on his back, but his arms were caught under him. Struggling was getting him nowhere. Then his brain finally registered. . . his wrists were tied.

"What the. . . ?!" His voice was hoa.r.s.e, his throat raw, both caused by the vomiting and dehydration. He laid still, running his tongue over dried, cracked lips. Swallowing was nearly impossible due to lack of saliva.

A noise off to his left. Then a small light came on, nearly blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut, when he heard a voice. "Well, finally awake, I see."

Squinting, he turned his head left then right, but he couldn't see anyone. A moment of dizziness, and he went still. Then, he tried sitting up, without success. A sound of footsteps coming closer, then something sc.r.a.ping against the floor.

"Need some help?"

Grant blinked, trying to clear his vision. When he looked to the side, who he saw left him dumbfounded. "Jack?!"

Without responding, Jack Henley reached under Grant's arm, helped him up, then held onto him until he sat unsteadily in the wooden chair. Immediately getting down on a knee, Henley picked up a piece of rope, then quickly lashed Grant's legs to the chair.

Henley came around to the front, staring down at Grant. "Yeah, it's me."

Dizziness overtook Grant, and his head rolled back. He opened his eyes wide, and he looked again at Henley, trying to understand. "What . . .?"

"Here. You look like you need a drink." Henley unhooked a canteen from his belt, then unscrewed the top, letting it hang from a small chain. He held the canteen to Grant's mouth.

Grant swallowed enough water, then coughed, but even plain water sent his stomach churning. His brain started functioning better, but it didn't clear his total confusion or answer the question: why the h.e.l.l didn't Henley untie him?

Henley screwed the top back on the canteen, then dropped it on the concrete. Grant flinched from the sound.

"Jack, what. . . what's goin' on?!" His voice sounded gravely, but he answered his own question when his eyes fell on a Beretta tucked in Henley's waistband. "Jesus Christ, Jack! You're. . .'Primex'?!" He nodded to himself, as he understood the code name: Primary explosive. EOD. Henley was in charge of the EOD team at St. Mawgan, England.

Henley drew the weapon from his waistband, then held it behind his back. "Finally pulled one over on the 'great' Grant Stevens."

Grant was beyond surprised, trying to understand Jack Henley. When they met in England, after all the years that had pa.s.sed since they graduated from the Naval Academy, Henley made some statements to Grant with a hint of jealousy attached. But this. . . this was beyond reason. There had to be more to it. "Why, Jack?!"

Henley started his story. After resigning his commission, he returned to the States from England. Even though he was angry, lonely, and discontented, he took a job with the Department of the Navy as a paper-pusher, but a job. He had access to top secret information and was responsible for signing off on paperwork for the development of new weapons.

After a few months on the job, someone in his office approached him, probably from hearing his disgruntled comments on procedures, the Navy, and government in general. The two met several times before his new "friend" made a proposal: help provide information to the Russians on the upcoming delivery of top secret rifles.

Grant found it difficult to take in what Henley was telling him, part from the drugs and part from total disbelief. Apparently, Henley hadn't even questioned the motives of the individual, nor did he even wonder if it could be a setup. The guy could've been FBI, CIA, Naval Intelligence. Instead, Henley jumped at the offer.

Then Henley added more to the unbelievable story. "Rumors started circulating about an 'off the books' team who made a daring rescue of two SEALs captured by the ChiComs. And you know what? Your name kept cropping up." He waited, expecting some kind of response or reaction from Grant. Nothing. "I've been waiting for this moment for a long time."

Grant tried focusing on Henley through squinted eyes. "You must've had a million chances. Why not sooner, Jack? Just me! Four. . . four good men died because of this f.u.c.kin' deal you made!" He coughed, and forced a swallow.

"You're so f.u.c.kin' right! And if it wasn't for my 'a.s.sociate,' I would've. Believe me. But he insisted I wait until the operation was completed."

"Who. . .who was the a.s.shole?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yeah. I would. What difference does it make? I have a feeling it won't matter."

Henley didn't answer immediately. Grant was correct in his a.s.sumption. It wouldn't matter, not for what he had planned. "Easton. Fred Easton."

Grant had a blurry picture of someone in his mind. A man. "The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d by the elevator?"

"Correct."

A moment of dizziness caught Grant by surprise. He squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back, waiting for it to stop, as nauseousness crept over him. "What the . . .?"

"Still not feeling so hot?"

Only then did Grant make the connection. Drugs. "Jesus! What the. . h.e.l.l. . did you. . . give me?"

"Couldn't p.r.o.nounce them if I tried."

The dizziness slowly subsided. He kept trying to untie the rope, but his fingers just wouldn't work. "How'd you manage to find me tonight? How'd you know where I'd be? You couldn't have posted surveill . . ." His eyes narrowed as he answered his own question. "A homing device."

Henley nodded. "Even that didn't make it easy. You kept 'disappearing,' sometimes for days at a time. Your precious Vette would stay parked in the garage. Of course, with my full-time job, I couldn't always track you. I'm a.s.suming that's when you got most of your 'work' done."

Grant still couldn't imagine why the h.e.l.l Jack Henley had become a traitor, and why he wanted him dead. "Why, Jack? A big f.u.c.king why'd you do it?"

"Doesn't your current situation remind you of anything?"

"My current. . . situation?"

"The night you and Joe found me and Vicky at the old airfield in England. Isn't this how you found us? Tied, beaten?"

Grant's shoulders went slack. "This is about your wife?"

Henley waved the gun in front of him. "You're G.o.dd.a.m.ned right it's about Vicky! Isn't that reason enough?! She died because of you!"

Grant was stunned. He was still weak from low blood pressure, and his voice kept giving out. But he couldn't let it go, and he verbally struck back. "Vicky took her life because she couldn't come to terms with what she did! She betrayed you, Brits, Americans, and herself! And you know that's the. . . f.u.c.king truth, Jack!"

Henley stepped directly in front of him, leaning close. "No!" he shouted. "You and Joe took your f.u.c.kin' time trying to find her even when I asked you to! All you could think about was tracking down that sonofab.i.t.c.h Labeaux or talking to Torrinson, when you could've been looking for her!"

Grant suddenly realized Henley had "gone off the deep end" months ago. If he could only convince him he needed help. . . before he pulled the trigger.

"Jack, look, right now we both need to calm down. C'mon. Untie me. Once we're outta here, we'll find. . ."

"Bulls.h.i.t!"

Grant took a deep breath. Okay. Different approach. "Listen, Joe and I made our decision to retire in part because of what happened to Vicky."

Henley slowly lowered the Beretta, trying to make sense of Grant's statement. "You. . ."

"That's right! Don't you think for one G.o.dd.a.m.n minute her death didn't weigh heavy on us, too, Jack! Why do you feel so G.o.dd.a.m.n sorry for yourself?"

"What the f.u.c.k do you mean?"

Grant closed his eyes, as dizziness swept over him again. His voice was getting more hoa.r.s.e. "What?"

"I said, what the f.u.c.k do you mean?!"

"Oh, yeah. Do you believe you're the only one who's lost somebody close?"

"What does that have to do with you and me?!"

Grant took a deep breath. His brain was telling him to keep talking, bide for extra time. But he didn't know why. "I lost my wife, too." Henley's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. Grant continued, "I'm. . .I'm pretty sure I told you. . . that night we ran into each other at that pub. My wife Jenny died while I was in Nam. I couldn't get home in time to be with her. She died, all alone. I never forgave myself," he added quietly. A longer moment of coherency and Grant struck back. "But you were the only one who could've stopped your wife, gotten her help. Why didn't you, Jack? Because you're nothin' but a weak 'd.i.c.k!'" Uh-oh, Grant thought.

"You sonofab.i.t.c.h!" Henley lunged forward, swinging his weapon, the barrel striking just above Grant's temple.

Grant's body rocked sideways, the chair nearly tipped over. Dazed, he felt warm blood dripping down the side of his head. His vision blurred, but he could tell Henley was backing up with his Beretta held at arm's length. Even if he could somehow move out of the line of fire, turn, fall over, anything, Henley would take more than one shot.

Grant lowered his head. He pushed too far. He had to face the fact--he was a dead man. He exhaled almost all the breath left in him. After all the combat missions, Vietnam, the death traps, h.e.l.l holes, all the risks taken, yet here he was about to die in a dark, damp bas.e.m.e.nt, at the hands of a former Navy commander.

Henley kept backing up until he was ten to twelve feet away, making sure he had an easy, accurate shot.

Grant was powerless to do anything. "Jack, don't. . do . . this." But he knew it was going to happen. "Jack!!"

Henley took aim, and pulled the trigger.

Two bullets found their mark. One struck Grant in the right shoulder, just missing his collarbone, the jolt sending him and the chair backwards. His head hit hard on the concrete, knocking him out.

The second round penetrated Henley's chest. The impact from the hollow point slammed his body against the wall, with the round fragmenting, maximizing tissue damage, causing rapid blood loss. He fell forward. His body landed on the concrete with a sickening thud.

Fred Easton walked past Grant, verifying he was unconscious, then he stood over Henley's body. He knelt on one knee, with his S&W .357 Magnum held tightly. With the size of the wound, and the amount of blood loss, Henley should've been dead, but Easton checked for a pulse anyway, surprised to find one, weak, but still beating. Standing up, he kept looking at the man who had mentally lost it.

In the beginning, he was confident they could pull it off. He also believed he would never come under suspicion for the theft of top secret doc.u.ments. Henley had a.s.sumed full control. But then Henley found his chance to turn the theft into a personal vendetta, telling him he planned to kidnap, then kill Grant.

They could have ended it right after they drove away from the garage, in some deserted field, or alley, or even the river. Instead, they brought Stevens here, to suffer, as Henley put it. Easton saw there was only one way to end it, to protect himself. He'd get rid of Henley.

He checked for a pulse again. Nothing. Turning away, he walked back toward Grant. He debated. Should he finish what Henley started? Stevens not only knew his face, but his name as well. He'd just answered his own question. He moved his arm forward, aiming the weapon at Grant's head.

An explosion of sound erupted within the confined s.p.a.ce, as Adler and Novak came rushing in, firing simultaneously. Rounds struck Easton in center ma.s.s, with more penetrating the upper chest. His body spasmed as each round hit him. He stumbled backwards, falling against the cinder block. Staring down, unbelieving at blood pouring from his chest, he slowly slid down the wall, his body crumbling.

Adler and Novak cautiously moved forward, keeping their weapons aimed. Adler knelt near Grant, but kept his eyes on Easton.

Novak moved closer, kicked away the .357, then got down on a knee, and checked the carotid artery. "Deceased," he said as he crawled over to Henley's body. "Ditto."

They holstered their weapons. Novak crawled next to Grant, as Adler's knife sliced through the ropes binding his wrists and legs. Then they lifted him off the chair and laid him on the floor.

Adler crawled behind him, then sat on his own haunches before gently lifting Grant's upper body off the concrete. He scooted closer, enough for Grant to rest against him, keeping his shoulders above his heart. Novak pressed his hand over the wound. Blood flowed more swiftly then they expected.

"Mike, I'll take over," Adler said, trying to quell the amount of blood flowing. "You call for an ambulance. And bring in that medical bag!" Novak ran from the bas.e.m.e.nt. As he got outside, in the distance he heard a faint sound of sirens--cops! Someone had called 911.

Grant started coming around, beginning to feel the pain in his shoulder, and again in his head. Somewhere in his subconscious he heard a voice.

"Skipper! Come on! Look at me." Adler was really worried. Grant's face was drained of all color. Then, his eyelids started opening, and he blinked a couple of times. He was feeling pressure against his shoulder, then the voice called again, "Come on! Open your eyes!"

He slowly rolled his eyes toward the sound. The person wasn't quite in focus. He closed his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating again.

Adler unscrewed the canteen top, then held it close to Grant's mouth. "See if you can drink."

Cool water dripped on his dried, cracked lips, and he managed a small mouthful. He opened his eyes and looked overhead as the face finally came into focus. "Joe?"

Adler smiled. "None other." Grant tried sitting up, but Adler gently pulled him back. "Stay where you are."

Novak came rushing in. "Ambulance is on the way." He knelt down, pulled out a battle dressing, then tore it open. He took over for Adler and pressed it against Grant's shoulder. "How ya doin', boss?"

"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds shot me full of. . . something."

"You mean other than a bullet?" Novak chuckled.

Grant managed a nod, then focused on Adler. "I thought I was dead, Joe."

"You came pretty d.a.m.n close."

Confused, Grant asked with a raspy voice, "What happened?"

"Don't you remember?"

Grant forced his brain to work. "Jack. Where's. . . Jack?"

"He's dead."

"You?"

Adler shook his head. "Don't know who the guy was, but I a.s.sume Jack was shot by his 'a.s.sociate.' And, yes. He's pretty much dead, too."

"Easton."

"What?"

"I. . . I think his name's Easton." Grant let out a short grunt. "I'm gonna puke."

Adler immediately reacted. "Mike, keep holding that dressing. I wanna get him on his side." He succeeded just in time. He poured some water in his palm, then washed around Grant's mouth. "Feeling better?"

"Not much."

"Here. Rinse your mouth, then spit."