Jagged, hard ground poked at his bare feet and he had to keep repositioning them, like a kneading old cat. They left him to stand in one spot. He heard the crunch of footsteps and talking that echoed.

A light clinked on—bright white through the hood. “Stay still,” barked a voice. It was Frankie. Lett’s hood came off. He folded forward, shielding his eyes from the light. Spotlights. He let his eyes adjust, peering around. He was standing in what seemed to be a clearing, though he could make out no trees or bushes. About fifty feet away, at the other end of the clearing, a man was curled up on the ground, also naked, his skin glowing fluorescent in the harsh light.

His cellmate.

A guard bounded out and kicked at him, yelling, “Stand the hell up!”

The cellmate rose, pushing up from all fours. His hood was off, too. His face was puffy and splotched with dried blood. He held his bound hands over his genitals. His squinting, blinking eyes stopped on Lett and kept blinking, as if hoping to make Lett’s image go away.

It was the commando.

They must’ve shipped him back, shackled down in the cargo hold, on the very same boat that he and Jock returned on.

“I won’t hurt you,” Lett said to him. “Just do as they say.”

The commando nodded back. A sick laugh rose out of him and drool hung from his mouth, swinging in the light.

It seemed like they were outside, but . . . Lett looked up. The sky was pitch black. Too black. No stars? How could that be? He stepped forward.

“Stay put,” someone yelled at him, and that echoed, too.

And Lett understood why.

They were in a cave—a lava tube, they called them here. These were all over the island. No one knew how many there were. Some were massive. They stretched far and deep into the land, into the earth, and within their cores the ancients had hidden from foreign invaders. It was just like in the Philippines. But the tunnels under The Preserve had led to it.

Lett now made out silhouettes along the lava rock walls—men in those belted coveralls. Lansdale wasn’t among them. Lett recognized none and imagined they were Frankie’s handpicked crew, though none looked Hawaiian. He could see Frankie too, relaxed, rocking on his heels.

His crew had machine guns and pistols, pointing at him and the commando.

The commando’s eyes had gone glossy with sadness. He sucked up the drool.

A guard strode over to Lett and the commando and handed each a Colt pistol. Lett held his by the end of the butt, letting it hang as if it had been dragged in shit.

“Better grab onto that,” the guard said, backing up.

“Nothing doing,” Lett muttered.

Lett and the commando stared at each other, the guns dangling at their sides.