Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Buchanan kept staring at the image. Appalled, he realized that the warrior was clutching a severed human head, blood dripping from the neck as the warrior raised the skull by its hair.

  “That’s what I meant about life and death,” Raymond said. “You see, the penalty for the losers was execution. And the winner? He not only got to stay alive. He got to be the executioner.”

  “What are we talking about here?” Buchanan demanded. “Are you telling me that if I win, I go free?”

  Except for the din of construction equipment in the background, the ball court became silent.

  “That’s what I thought,” Buchanan said. “For me, it’s a no-win situation.”

  “It may have been for the ancient Maya as well,” Drummond interrupted, his voice filled with phlegm.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s a theory among a few historians of Mayan culture that it wasn’t the losers who were executed but, rather, the winners.”

  “That’s absurd,” Buchanan said. “Who on earth would want to play?”

  “Raymond agrees with you,” the old man said. “But the theory is that winning was such an honor, it put you on a level with the gods. The next logical step was for you to be sacrificed so that you could take your place among the gods.”

  “It sounds to me like the only true winners were those who watched.”

  “Yes,” Drummond said. “As I told you, I pursue the unique. I’m about to be privileged to witness a rarity. For the first time in five hundred years, a game of pok-a-tok is going to be played. For me.”

  “And how is this supposed to prove whether I’m telling the truth about the Special Ops unit that’ll come here looking for me? Am I supposed to confess so I won’t have my head cut off?”

  “Oh, I think as the game progresses, you’ll have many painful inducements to tell the truth,” Drummond said. “But it’s not you I’m concerned about. My interest is in Ms. McCoy. I suspect that what she sees will make her more than willing to tell the truth. In exchange for ending what’s being done to you.”

  “It won’t do you any good,” Buchanan said. “She doesn’t know anything about my unit.”

  “Perhaps. I’ll soon find out. Raymond, if you’re ready.”

  9

  The ball struck Buchanan’s back with such force that he was knocked to the stone floor, his chin scraping on one of the slabs. If not for the padded leather armor, he suspected that the ball would have broken some of his ribs. Gasping, ignoring his pain, he scrambled to his feet and charged toward the ball. Raymond got there at the same time he did.

  Buchanan rammed his padded elbow against the side of Raymond’s head, knocking him sideways. Before Raymond could recover, Buchanan lifted the ball, its weight surprising him, and hurled it at Raymond, who grunted and lurched back as the ball struck his thigh, bouncing off his leather armor, thudding onto the court.

  “No, no, no,” Drummond said from the platform. “This won’t do at all. The point of the game is to throw the ball through the stone hoop, not at your opponent.”

  “Why didn’t you tell that to Raymond when he threw it at me to begin with? What the hell was he doing?”

  “Getting your attention,” Raymond said.

  “How many points does it take to win?”

  “Well, that’s a problem.”

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Drummond said. “You see, no one knows how many points are required in order to win. That information hasn’t survived the centuries. We’ll have to improvise.”

  “Ten.” Raymond smiled.

  “Ten what?” Buchanan asked in fury. “Do you mean I have to win by ten points? For Christ sake, what are you saying?”

  “The best of ten. Whoever gets to ten first.”

  “And then what?”

  “It depends on the answers I receive from you and Ms. McCoy,” Drummond said.

  Without warning, Buchanan dodged toward the ball, picked it up, and lunged toward the vertical hoop. As he aimed to throw, Raymond battered his padded shoulder against Buchanan’s arm, jolting him sideways, slamming him against the stone wall.

  Buchanan groaned, spun, and struck Raymond’s chest with the ball. Continuing to grip the ball, Buchanan kept spinning as Raymond stumbled backward. Braced beneath the stone hoop, Buchanan hurled the ball and felt his heartbeat surge when he saw the ball arc through the vertical circle.

  Raymond’s hands struck Buchanan’s back, knocking him forward and down, Buchanan’s chin again scraping on the court.

  Jesus, Buchanan said. Not my head. I can’t let anything happen to my head. Another concussion would . . .

  He scrambled to his feet, wiped blood from his chin, and glared at Raymond.

  “No, no, no,” Drummond repeated. “You’re not playing by the rules.”

  “Tell that to Raymond!” Buchanan shouted. “I’m the one who got the ball through the hoop.”

  “But you didn’t get the ball through legally!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re not allowed to use your hands!”

  “Not allowed to—?”

  “We don’t know much about the game.” Drummond gestured forcefully. “But we do know this. Presumably except for picking up the ball, you were not allowed to use your hands. The ball was kept in motion by thrusting it with your forearms, your shoulders, your hips, your knees, and your head.”

  The idea of hitting the ball with his head made Buchanan inwardly flinch. It would probably kill him.

  “For breaking the rules, you have to be given a penalty. One point demerit. Now you have to score eleven, while Raymond needs only ten. Unless of course he breaks a rule.”

  “Sure. But somehow I get the feeling he’ll make up the rules as he goes along and I’ll keep breaking rules that haven’t been invented yet.”

  “Just play the game,” Raymond said.

  Before Buchanan could react, Raymond scurried toward the ball, picked it up with his hands, threw it into the air, caught it with his forearms, and hurled it toward the hoop, the ball flying neatly through.

  Thunking, the ball landed at Buchanan’s feet.

  “Raymond, I get the feeling you’ve been practicing.”

  “Good sport,” Drummond said. “I like a man who loses a point graciously.”

  “But I’ll bet you like winners more,” Buchanan said.

  “Then make me like you better,” Drummond said. “Win.”

  Buchanan managed to grab the ball. At once he felt his legs kicked out from under him as Raymond leapt, hitting with his feet.

  Buchanan fell backward, the weight of the ball against his chest. He struck the court hard, grateful for the leather armor on his shoulders. Even so, his impact sent a spasm through the shoulder that was still healing from where he’d been shot in Cancún. The weight of the ball took his breath away.

  Raymond jerked the ball from his hands, threw it into the air again, caught it with his forearms again, and hurled it toward the vertical hoop, scoring another point.

  “Yes, you’ve definitely been practicing.” As Buchanan came to his feet, he felt his body begin to stiffen.

  “This isn’t amusing at all. You’re going to have to try harder,” Drummond said.

  Sooner than anticipated, Buchanan scooped up the ball, grasped it with his forearms, pretended to lunge toward the hoop, but actually watched for Raymond to attack, and as Raymond darted to slam against him, Buchanan spun. Clutching the ball to his chest, avoiding Raymond, Buchanan jabbed with his elbow as Raymond went past, and Raymond lurched, doubling over, holding his side from the pain in his left kidney. Instantly Buchanan ran toward the hoop, stood with his back to it, cautiously watched Raymond, then risked a glance upward, judged his distance from the hoop, and threw the ball up behind him, exhaling with satisfaction when the ball hurtled through.

  “Excellent coordination,” Drummond said. “You look like you’ve had experience with b
asketball. But this game has aspects of volleyball and soccer as well. How were you at those?”

  Distracted, Buchanan felt the wind knocked out of him as Raymond attacked headfirst, plowing his skull into Buchanan’s stomach, knocking him over.

  Buchanan writhed, struggling to breathe. Meanwhile Raymond scooped up the ball and scored another point.

  “What’s the name of your Special Operations unit?” Drummond asked. “This mythical unit that’s supposed to come and rescue you or else punish me if I harm you.”

  Buchanan wavered upright, wiped blood from his chin, and squinted toward Raymond.

  “I asked you a question,” Drummond demanded. “What is the name of your unit?”

  Buchanan pretended to dart toward the ball. Raymond lunged to intercept him. Buchanan zigzagged, coming toward Raymond from the opposite side, once more ramming his padded elbow into Raymond’s left kidney.

  The repeated damage to the area made Raymond groan, faltering with his hands on the ball. Buchanan yanked it away, wedged it between his forearms, and started to throw. Pain blurred his vision as Raymond tackled him from behind at his midsection.

  Falling, Buchanan was terribly conscious of the ball beneath him, of Raymond’s weight on top of him. When he hit the court, he felt as if the ball were a wedge against which the top and bottom of his body were being split in opposite directions. Raymond’s plummeting body shoved the ball against Buchanan’s stomach. For a terrifying moment, Buchanan couldn’t breathe. He felt smothered.

  Then Raymond scrambled free, and Buchanan rolled off the ball, gasping, knowing that his abdomen had been bruised—worse, that the stitches in his knife wound had been torn open beneath the leather armor that girded his right side.

  Raymond picked up the ball with his forearms and, without any visible strain, threw it, scoring another point.

  The court echoed with the powerful thunk of the ball as it landed. Construction equipment kept roaring in the background. The fires kept crackling. A gunshot reverberated from the forest. Smoke, tinted crimson by the sunset, drifted over the court.

  Drummond coughed.

  He kept coughing. Phlegm rattled in his throat. He spat and finally managed to say, “You’ll have to try harder. What is the name of your Special Operations unit?”

  Stiff, weary, in pain, Buchanan stood. If he and Holly were going to get out of this alive, he had to convince Drummond that the old man couldn’t afford the consequence of killing his hostages.

  “Name, rank, and serial number,” Buchanan said. “But I’ll go to hell before I give you classified information.”

  “You don’t know what hell can be,” Drummond said. “What is the name of your Special Operations unit?”

  Buchanan grabbed for the ball. Although his movements were an excruciating effort, he had to keep trying. He had to ignore the sticky wetness beneath the leather pad on his right side. He had to overcome his pain.

  Raymond sprinted to intercept him, stooping to grab the ball.

  Buchanan increased speed, getting to Raymond much sooner than expected, kicking, his right shin striking the unprotected area between Raymond’s shoulders and his abdomen.

  Bent over, Raymond took the kick so hard that he was lifted off the court. He tilted in midair, landed on his side, rolled onto his back, kept rolling, came to his feet, and whacked his forearm across Buchanan’s face so hard that Buchanan’s teeth snapped together.

  For a moment, Buchanan was blind, jolted backward.

  Raymond struck him again, knocking him farther backward. Blood flew. Dazed, Buchanan prepared for a third blow, shielding his face, ducking to the left, unable to see clearly.

  “What is the name of your unit?” Drummond demanded.

  Raymond struck again, smashing Buchanan’s lips.

  Then suddenly Buchanan had nowhere to go. He was thrust against the wall of the court. Through blurred vision, he saw Raymond drawing back his arm to strike yet again.

  “The name of your unit?” Drummond shouted.

  “Yellow Fruit!” Holly blurted.

  “Yellow . . . ?” Drummond sounded confused.

  “You want the unit’s name! That’s it!” Holly’s voice was unsteady from terror. “Stop. My God, look at the blood. Can’t you see how hurt he is?”

  “That’s the general idea.” Raymond struck Buchanan again.

  Buchanan slumped to his knees.

  Keep going, Holly. Buchanan strained to clear his vision. Damn it, keep on. Hook them.

  Yellow Fruit! She hadn’t told Drummond about Scotch and Soda. Instead, she’d used the name for a unit that was no longer operative. She was following what Buchanan had taught her during their search. When you’re absolutely stuck, tell the truth, but only that portion of the truth that’s useful. Never expose your core identity.

  “And what exactly is Yellow Fruit?” Drummond demanded.

  “It’s a covert Army unit that supplies security and intelligence to Special Operations units.” Holly’s voice continued to shake.

  “And how do you know this? A while ago, Buchanan assured me that your knowledge was limited.”

  “Because of a story I’ve been working on. I’ve tracked down leads for a year. Buchanan’s one of them. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t tried to get close to him and hope he’d say more than he meant to.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not enough to satisfy you. Damn it, I’ve got nothing to do with this. I want out of this. Jesus, tell him what he wants, Buchanan. Maybe he’ll let us go.”

  “Yes,” Drummond said, “take her advice and tell me everything I want.”

  Buchanan was kneeling, his head bowed. Wiping blood from his mouth, he nodded. Abruptly he struck Raymond in his solar plexus, doubling Raymond over, striking again, this time with an uppercut that made Raymond’s eyes cross and sent him reeling back, collapsing on the court. Raymond’s feathered helmet rolled away.

  Buchanan struggled to his feet. If he’d been allowed to use his Special Forces hand-to-hand-combat skills, he would not have had so much trouble dealing with Raymond. But winning in hand-to-hand combat wasn’t the point. Winning the game was. Otherwise, Drummond might become so outraged that he’d order Buchanan and Holly to be executed. And Buchanan doubted that the rules of pok-a-tok included karate.

  As it was, the damage that he had inflicted on Raymond was sufficient to leave Raymond sprawled on the court. Wavering, Buchanan picked up the ball between his forearms. He studied the vertical hoop, tried to clear his blurred vision, and threw the ball underhanded. His stomach turned cold when the ball struck the edge of the ring and thunked back toward him.

  Shit, he thought. He wiped sweat from his eyes, whirled to make certain that Raymond was still on his back, then glared up at Holly.

  “You bitch!” he shouted. “You were just leading me on! All I meant to you was a story!”

  “Damned right!” she shouted back. “Did you figure you were so wonderful I’d fall hopelessly in love with you? Get real, and look in the mirror! I don’t intend to get killed because of you! For God’s sake, tell him what he wants!”

  Buchanan turned toward the ring, threw the ball underhanded again, and this time the ball went through.

  “Tell him what he wants?” Buchanan glared harder. “I’ll tell him, bitch. Just enough to save my life. You’re the threat to him, not me. You’re the damned reporter! I’m a soldier! I can be trusted to keep my mouth shut!”

  Buchanan threw the ball yet again. It arced through the ring. “And I’ll win this fucking game.”

  “Just enough to save your life?” Holly turned paler than she already was. “Hey, we’re in this together!”

  “Wrong.”

  Buchanan threw the ball.

  And cursed when it struck the edge of the ring.

  “And you’re wrong as well,” Raymond said unexpectedly.

  Buchanan turned to look behind him.

  Raymond had stood. Blood streamed from his mouth, dripping onto his leather armor. �
��You’re not going to win, after all.”

  Raymond scrambled toward the ball.

  Buchanan lunged after him.

  And slipped.

  He’d been standing too long in one place. The blood from the opened stitches in his side had seeped from beneath his armor. It had trickled down his leg and formed a slippery pool where he stood.

  Although he didn’t fall, the strenuous effort of regaining his balance lost him sufficient time that Raymond was able to throw the ball through the ring.

  Without pause, Raymond darted toward it again. But as he scooped it up, Buchanan swept his right forearm beneath the ball, freeing it from Raymond’s grip. Using his other forearm, Buchanan thrust the ball against Raymond’s left shoulder. The ball’s impact made Raymond groan. It rebounded, and as Raymond staggered back, Buchanan caught the ball with upraised forearms. Hurling it, seeing it touch the ring, he felt elated.

  Then his chest cramped. The ball did not go through. It bounced off the edge and fell back. Jesus. Running forward, Buchanan leapt. But he didn’t get there soon enough. He didn’t raise his arms quickly enough. In midair, he had to strike the ball with his padded left shoulder. It flew back toward the ring.

  And bounced yet again. But this time, Buchanan was ready. As he completed his leap and landed on the court, he raised his forearms, caught the ball, threw, and scored a point.

  “Bravo,” Drummond yelled. “Yes, that’s how the game is played! Shoulders! Angles! Rebounds!”

  “Bitch, watch me win!” Buchanan yelled at Holly. “You’re the one who’s going to lose! You’re the one who’s going to die! You’ll wish you’d never met me! You’ll wish you’d never led me on!”

  At once Buchanan felt his breath taken away as hands slammed his back, propelling him against the side of the court. In a daze, Buchanan raised his padded forearms to cushion the impact against the stone wall. He spun and was slammed again, this time by Raymond’s right padded shoulder, a full blow to the chest. Then Buchanan’s back struck the wall, and a sharp pain made him fear that one of his ribs had been broken.

  “Argue with her later,” Raymond said. “How do you contact your unit?”

  “Exactly,” Drummond said. He coughed again, violently. More smoke swirled over him. The construction equipment continued roaring. Increasing gunshots reverberated, closer.