Then I remembered. That wasn’t going to happen. I hated the fact that I couldn’t stand up and smash the shit out of this prick, hated it, but this beating had awakened something primordial that I’d left behind in that collapsed building in Fallujah.

Corbin stepped back. He was breathing heavily. My shirt and pants were ripped and bloodstained. I was moaning, rolling on the floor, hoping I wasn’t overacting. “Try me again, asshole,” Corbin threatened between breaths, leaning on the bureau for support, “and you won’t walk out of…” He coughed some mucus out of his throat. “I’m telling you. We’re taking you back, and I promise you, you’re gonna rot there.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I said through gritted teeth, doubled over, convincingly in pain.

Corbin straightened his clothes. Smiling, satisfied, he bent down and ripped the plastic ties off my wrists, then stepped over me and opened the door. “Now get yourself back in that chair.” He started to close the door, looking back at me curled up on the floor. “And don’t try climbing out the bathroom window.” There was a meanness in his eyes as he added, “Whoops. I forgot.” He was laughing at his cleverness as he closed the door behind him. I heard him say loudly, “He’ll be right out. Soon as he straightens up.”

I rolled onto my back and lay there, gathering my strength. I could feel some liquids on my face and chest; I hoped it was sweat. “Cher,” I finally said in a rasp, “come here.” Mighty Chair rolled to the sound of my voice. I rubbed both wrists then picked the cushion off the floor and tossed it onto the seat. Then I grasped Chair’s arm, as if it were a bar in the gym, and used it to get to my feet, then swiveled into the seat.

I sat there for several seconds. For Bourne or Reacher, this beating would have been a minor inconvenience, forgotten by the end of the chapter; but for me it hurt like a son of a bitch. I wasn’t about to forget it. My left shoulder was screaming for attention, but I didn’t have time for it. I had to move quickly before they came back to check on me. I grabbed my backpack and put it on my lap. I reached inside and took out the plastic urinal tank. I kept it on top because it usually discouraged people from searching any deeper. I opened the tank, which in fact was not connected to Chair and was filled with water. I lifted out the plastic bag protecting a compact Glock 42 and a six-round magazine. I loaded it, put the empty bag inside the tank, put the tank back on top, and hung the backpack where it belonged.

I slipped the gun under my seat cushion, took one last deep breath, and said, “Cher, let’s go, please.”

On the still-muted TV a slow-motion replay of the hangings was being shown while talking heads silently provided expert analysis.