From my pocket Kong is still yelling something at me, but I’m not processing. Herkimer is rubbing the curling iron between Charlie’s legs, making erotic noises, flicking his tongue like an excited lizard. When I spasm in outrage against my restraints, Herkimer just laughs at me. It gives him pleasure. But when Jagjeet clenches against the handcuffs, Herkimer raises a heel high in the air and brings it down on his rib cage. There is a moist sound of breakage and Jagjeet groans and then goes very still, his breathing very shallow.

“Don’t be jealous,” Herkimer says to Jagjeet. “I haven’t forgotten about you. We’re going to have our special time real soon.”

I have never felt more vulnerable, more expendable. Coming here was a mistake. When I found out the location of Azar’s facility I should have just told Nunes. I’m not qualified for something like this, and now I’m going to pay for it. And so is Jagjeet. And Charlie.

I should have told Nunes everything from the beginning. That’s clear to me now.

With an attitude of ooh-la-la titillation Herkimer starts teasing down the hem of Charlie’s bra. To his immense satisfaction I again rage against my restraints—the chair gives a little bit—but Charlie just stares ahead dully. She has his saliva cooling on her face, the heat-memory of the curling iron between her legs, his hands on her body, yet she looks as if she is waiting for a bus. I can detect the tension in her eyes—no one else can—but her jaw is as slack as if she were cradling a mouthful of unbroken potato chips.

This is the inner strength, the coolness, that enabled her to lie to me for a year.

Kong is still yelling at me, but I can’t make it out over Herkimer.

“Where do I begin?” he is saying. “It’s so hard to decide. Jagjeet is probably a waste of time. I know you’re only too eager to die for the Izzos. And Charlie, you’re a tough little nugget, aren’t you? You’ve already held out on me.” He taps the tip of the curling iron against her bullet hole and Charlie gasps in pain.

“No, Charlie,” Herkimer continues, “that’s not a good use of my time. I think I’ll start with you, Starks. You’re the softest.”

I’ve missed a lot of what Kong was saying. I need for him to try again. “What?” I yell out loud. “Say again?”

Naturally, Herk thinks I’m talking to him. He reiterates that I’m the softest and then strikes me again for having the temerity to ask a question when it has already been established that that is beyond my purview. The curling iron against my skull makes a hard, abbreviated crack like the sound of stones hitting the concrete bottom of a pool.