CHAPTER 97

DAS VERARBEITUNGSZENTRUM

CELL 13

The explosion was so massive it picked up all three of us—Casanova, Ghost, and me—and hurled us across the cell.

We hit the wall with crushing force as the deep boom of the blast deafened us. We collapsed down onto the hard floor and lay in a gasping pile, none of us able to move a muscle. Dust plumed from cracks in the walls and ceiling.

I heard, as if from miles away, the sharp, high-pitched yelps of Ghost in pain. Everything was muffled, and the air was filled with swirling clouds of smoking dust. I rolled sideways, and there was another sharp cry from Ghost, then I felt him twisting under me, fighting to get free. I fought my way to palms and knees and turned to see the big white dog standing there, a yard away, quivering with pain and confusion.

“Ghost,” I croaked, “report.” This was a command that had taken me a long time, and the help of a top dog psychologist and trainer, to make him understand. If he was hurt—really hurt—he’d bark twice. A single bark would tell me he was ready to play. Or fight.

He took a moment and then gave a single bark. Not a lot of authority in it, but he emphasized it with a half-hearted wag of his bushy tail.

“That makes one of us,” I groaned.

My body felt like I’d been dropped six stories into a rock quarry. The D30 composite materials inside my body armor had absorbed a lot of the foot-pounds of impact, but I still hurt. A lot. And I’d taken off my helmet to interrogate Casanova.

I turned to see how Casanova was doing, and he stared at me, and through me, and through the wall. He did it from a funny angle, his right ear pressed against one shoulder, and there was a sickening bulge in the side of his neck. The side of his skull had a weird, flattened appearance, and it was clear he’d hit the wall hard enough to crush his skull and break his neck. Ghost and me landing on top of him had ensured that whatever he’d been about to tell me was something Casanova was going to take to the grave.

I wanted to hang my head and beat my fists on the floor and yell. This was my last best lead to Santoro. I closed my eyes. I wanted to give up. I wanted to cry.

I wanted to die.

“Get up, Cowboy.”