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He had to speak. He had to defend himself.

“I am a civilian pilot, captain of a search and rescue helicopter, a Sea King based out of Incheon, South Korea. Call sign Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero. We were fired upon by a North Korean fighter while in international waters.”

“Do you know who I am?” the officer asked, his posture impeccable, his arms tucked behind his lower back as he marched slowly in front of Lee.

Lee avoided eye contact.

“Colonel Eun-Yong of the 54th mechanized battalion, commissioned to protect the motherland against western aggression.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “I catch spies.”

Eun-Yong turned his back to Lee, straightening the picture of the Supreme Leader Most Glorious. He touched the wooden frame with a deft motion, barely moving the picture as he asked, “What do you know about him?”

“Nothing,” Lee replied softly, his voice barely audible.

Without facing Lee, Eun-Yong snapped his fingers.

One of the guards grabbed Lee’s right hand, holding it rigid against the wooden arm of the chair, splaying his fingers wide. Another soldier opened the toolbox on the table and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters.

Lee felt his heart race.

Adrenaline surged through his veins. Fear swelled in his mind, causing him to sweat in the cold air. He looked at the soldier holding his hand with such brute force and fought to pull his fingers free. From the way the soldier positioned his arm over Lee’s, gripping Lee’s arm beneath the wing of his own arm as he grabbed at Lee’s fingers, it was clear he had done this before, and that terrified Lee. He shook in the chair, fighting against the leather restraints. The soldier’s baby face belied the savagery of the moment. The other soldier exercised the bolt cutters, working the levers back and forth and smiling as he made eye contact with Lee.

“What are you doing?” Lee cried, his voice breaking in a quiver.

“You will answer the question,” Eun-Yong replied calmly, turning back toward him, allowing the second soldier to step in front of Lee. “What do you know about him?”

Lee found his mind racing. What did he know? He couldn’t think of anything of any significance. He knew the North Koreans were paranoid, but did they really think his intention was to assassinate their leader?

The sight of the bolt cutters caused him to tremble. With his fingers spread, held rigid by the younger soldier, Lee found his mind racing.

“His name is Kim Jong-chol,” he blurted out.

“Don’t play games with me!” Eun-Yong cried in anger, waving his finger at Lee. “I will not be mocked! I will ask you one more time. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing,” Lee cried, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Nothing!”

Eun-Yong gave the slightest of nods, signaling to the soldiers. The first soldier tightened his grip, getting one hand beneath Lee’s palm and raising his pinky finger. The other soldier opened the bolt cutters.

“No,” Lee cried. “No!”

There was no further warning, no deliberation, no mercy. The soldier before him stepped in and snipped at Lee’s hand in an instant, severing his little finger in a single, brutal act.

“ARRRRGGG!” Lee screamed.

He rocked forward as the muscles throughout his body spasmed in response to the surge of pain. Lee fought in vain against the leather straps, trying with all his might to tear free from his restraints. Blood gushed from the stump on his hand, pulsing as it sprayed across the floor. The severed finger fell to the floor, rolling to one side away from him.

Lee pursed his lips, breathing in short pants, his mind reeling from the physical shock of the amputation. Every nerve in his body screamed in agony. He couldn’t think.

Eun-Yong paced as the soldiers positioned the bolt cutter over Lee’s ring finger. Lee was manic, his eyes focused on the steel blades already cutting into his skin. Blood welled from around the blades of the cutter. He fought to wriggle free, but the soldier beside him held him firm. His entire arm throbbed with pain. Waves of agony pulsed through his body.

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT HIM?” Eun-Yong yelled.

“NOTHING!” Lee yelled in reply.

Through the haze of pain, he felt the soldier clamp down on the bolt cutters slowly this time, the leverage building till the point the bone leading to his knuckle snapped and pain again surged up his arm, tearing along his forearm, his bicep and into his shoulder.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Lee shook violently, slamming his torso back and forth, clinching and struggling in vain against the leather restraints. He arched his back, trying to wrestle free, fighting to slip free from the soldier pinning his arm. The legs of the chair scraped across the ground, lifting off the floor and slamming back again as he flexed every muscle in his body trying to wrench himself free. Another soldier came up on his left, grabbing him and anchoring him in place.

“No. No. No,” Lee cried, his mind reeling from the pain. He was in shock. His heart raced, thumping in his chest. Blood flowed copiously from the severed stumps on his hand.

Eun-Yong was in a rage. His face was red with anger. Spittle flew through the air as he screamed at Lee.

“TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!”

Lee couldn’t speak. His head throbbed. He felt like someone had stuck a red hot poker up behind his eye. Spasms of pain shot through his arm and up his neck. He fought like a wild animal caught in a snare, thrashing and roaring in anguish. His vision narrowed. He thought he was blacking out, hoping darkness would come as a relief from the torture, but Eun-Yong was no amateur. Through the sweat and tears clouding his vision, against the flexing and trembling of his body, Lee caught the subtlest of nods from Eun-Yong to the soldiers.

“NOOOOOOOO!”

The pain of having a third finger amputated caused Lee to convulse. Having his middle finger severed struck him like a bolt of lightning, as though an explosion had gone off in that instant, blinding him for a second. The pain seemed unbearable, as though there were no more he could endure, and yet each time he lost a finger the pain surged higher again. Eun-Yong knew what he was doing, he seemed to understand how each cut increased the agony Lee was suffering.

Lee’s head whipped back. He was shaking involuntarily, struggling for breath. Urine ran from his bladder, pooling on the seat of the chair and running down the back of his legs. His world shrank. His eyes focused on the stumps on his right hand, staring at the blood flowing from the wounds. He was in shock, swept up in disbelief, but the pain was very real. He pursed his lips, hyperventilating as he fought to control the pain, but it was overwhelming.

The soldier pinning his arm to the chair pressed a dirty cloth hard against the bloody stumps. Lee could see two of his three severed fingers lying on the bloodstained floor before him, the third lay out of sight. He could barely breathe. His eyes were wide with fear, watching as the soldier in front of him positioned the bolt cutter over his index finger.

He fought, trying to wiggle free, but the soldier beside him held him forcibly in place. Again, Lee felt the steel biting into his finger, already the pressure was building.

“No,” he whimpered, helpless, the anticipation of pain already shooting through his arm.

Eun-Yong composed himself, speaking in an even tone. “You don’t need to go through this. Just tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know anything,” Lee pleaded, sobbing. “Please, I don’t know.”

“Three down,” Eun-Yong said coldly. “There are seventeen more. Are you sure there is nothing you want to tell me about him? Why did you come for him?”

“For him?” Lee cried, finally understanding. In that moment, he froze, his mind reeling from all that had happened, from the realization they were after the girl from the stars. He had to tell them. He couldn’t put up a facade. He hated himself for betraying her, but he knew nothing of this child.

“Not him,” he said. “Her. We were sent to rescue a girl.”

The soldier with the bolt cutters flexed as the soldier looked to Eun-Yong for the signal, but the colonel raised his hand.

“You really don't know, do you?”

Lee shook his head. He couldn’t reply. His mouth was dry. Words failed him.

Eun-Yong raised his hand, flicking his fingers. He gestured toward a soldier standing behind Lee. “Bring in the American child.”

A young boy was thrust in front of Lee as the soldier beside him applied pressure to his wounded hand. The boy looked Korean. He couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. His long hair was matted and unkempt. He was wearing an oversized Nike T-shirt that looked like a dress on his small frame.

Lee stared at the boy with disbelief as the soldier before him with the bolt cutters held steady pressure on his index finger, cutting into the skin.

Blood dripped from his mutilated hand.

The child should have been horrified, but it was almost as though the young boy expected this, as if he had anticipated what was happening before he was dragged into the room. Perhaps he'd heard the screams. His head tilted to one side as he took a good look at Lee's trembling hand still held forcibly in place by a kneeling soldier. Lee's index finger was poised between a pair of bolt cutters. The boy seemed strangely detached, as though he were carefully examining the dynamics of the situation. There was no pity in his eyes, just acceptance.

“This dog knows nothing!” Eun-Yong cried. “He is no better than the others.”

The soldier with the bolt cutter eased the tension on his index finger.

“Take him away,” the colonel ordered.

The soldiers released the straps around Lee’s arms and legs, pushing a bloodied rag into his left hand so he could tend to his wound. Still fighting the pain, Lee pushed the rag hard up against the three stumps on his right hand, trying to stop the bleeding. He felt weak, drained of any strength.

As the soldiers dragged him from the interrogation room his eyes locked with those of the child.

“I remember you,” the child said, speaking in American English. “I remember how you died.”

Lee was stunned. Up until that point, the torture had been conducted in Korean. The soft, docile tones of English being spoken by a child sent a chill down his spine, leaving him speechless. To have this child speak of his death in the past tense terrified him.

Blood dripped from the rag he held over his hand. It hurt to apply pressure to his wounds, but he had no choice. Gritting his teeth, he fought through the pain, watching as the soldiers led the child away, laughing among themselves.

Lee couldn’t walk. The soldiers didn’t care. They dragged him across the gravel outside, carrying him between them. Another soldier opened a steel bolt barring a heavy wooden door and the soldiers dragged him down several concrete steps before throwing him in a darkened half-cellar. Leaving him in the shadows as the sunset shone through the trees behind them.

Lee whimpered, curling into a ball on the loose straw covering the floor. He felt physically sick, still struggling to comprehend what had happened.

In the darkness, a hand reached out for him.

“Are you sure you're going to be OK?” Helena asked as Jason struggled to steady his shaking hand and insert the key into the lock of his door.

“I'll be fine,” he insisted, finally feeling the brass key slip into the lock and click in place. He turned the key, turning the handle of his door at the same time and opening the door to his darkened apartment. A window had been left open. The curtains fluttered as rain blew in.

“You should stay with him,” Helena said, turning to Mitchell.

“I'm happy to stay with you,” Mitchell said.

Jason turned back toward them. “I'll be OK. I just need to get some sleep.”

Mitchell pursed his lips, nodding. He didn't seem convinced.

Helena's phone beeped with an incoming message. She turned away to pull a pair of reading glasses from her purse, leaving the two men for a moment.

“Dude,” Mitchell said. “Is this about Lily?”

“No,” Jason replied, shaking his head. Lying didn't come easy, and he looked down at his shoes.

“I told you, man. She was never going to be more than a one night stand. She probably found her dad and is already on her way upstate or heading over to Jersey ... You'll hear from her again, I'm sure. She'll send you a postcard or something. She's a nice kid. She'll be in touch, but you know nothing will ever come of it, right?”

“Right,” Jason replied reluctantly.

He stood there in the doorway, nodding his head softly, his eyes still cast down. Part of him wanted to tell Mitchell what had happened, but another part of him felt he'd be ridiculed by his friend, and right now that was more than he could handle.

It had been a long night. After a couple of hours spent watching reruns of Seinfeld in the emergency waiting room, a nurse had patched him up, cleaning the specks of gravel out of his graze and bandaging his arms. He hadn't needed stitches. A squirt of plastic skin covered the worst spots, and the compression bandage on his arms was more precautionary than anything else, to help reduce swelling and bruising.

Jason felt stupid.

He felt stupid for jumping out of the bus. He felt stupid for falling for Lily. He felt stupid seeing Lily levitating and disappearing into the belly of a UFO. He felt stupid thinking about the paper he’d given Professor Lachlan. In that moment, it was as though nothing in his life made any sense. If he had kept whiskey or beer in his apartment he would have drunk himself silly.

It was well after midnight and Jason just wanted to collapse on his bed and go to sleep and forget about the day. Maybe in the morning he'd be able to think straight and make sense of things. Right now, he was confused and hurt. Although his pain was more than physical and far more than the result of some emotional attachment to Lily. Seeing the UFO had left him feeling gutted, empty, stripped of the intellectual clothing with which he'd trusted his life.

Jason started closing the door, positioning himself behind it with only his head visible.

“Are you going to be OK?” Mitchell asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Breakfast. Mario's. 9am. OK?”

“Make it ten,” Jason replied.

“Done. See you then, bro.”

Jason closed the door softly, pushing gently until the lock clicked into place. He could hear Helena talking to Mitchell outside.

“Someone should stay with him.”

“He’s a big boy,” Mitchell replied, as their voices disappeared down the stairs. “He’ll be fine.”

Inside his apartment, Jason slumped to the worn carpet, leaning against the door. A cool wind blew in through the window, but already the humidity was building again.

Several of Jason's posters had come away from the walls. The Blue Marble had peeled away and twisted, falling forward, still held on by tape at the base, but it was no longer a thing of wonder. It was just a poster. Looking at the glossy white backing, it could have been a poster for some rock band. All the meaning was lost, which was quite ironic, he thought.

Jason felt his heart sink. Words failed him. He’d done his best. He’d tried hard to stay objective, to think rationally, to look at life through the prism of science, and yet he couldn’t explain what he’d seen a few hours earlier. If Mitchell had described a similar scene, Jason would have ridiculed him, asking him what he’d been smoking. Jason never would have believed him, regardless of any details Mitchell could have recalled. Alien abduction was an absurd notion, and yet he’d seen one. Could his eyes be believed? Was he in denial by not believing?

Jason would have stayed seated there against the door for hours had his bladder not insisted otherwise. Yawning, he resolved to put the idiocy and inconsistencies of the day behind him. Perhaps things would look different in the light of a new morning. He doubted it, but the rhythm of life demanded rest, and he hoped sleep would bring respite.

There was enough ambient light in the room to move around without bumping into furniture, so Jason left the lights off. He closed the window and then wandered into the bathroom, scratching at the patchy stubble on his cheek. Out of habit, he closed the door behind him. He could have stood in front of the toilet to relieve himself, but he was tired so he plonked down on the plastic seat.

Sitting there in the darkness, he noticed a faint glow on the glass shower door. Slowly, the outline of a woman holding a sign appeared. His eyes darted up, looking at the drop light directly above his head. The darkened light bulb flickered. Someone had hidden a tiny projector behind the light fitting, aiming the projector at the shower.

“What the?”

Shush
.

That one word was written in thick, black letters. The woman's fingers clutched at a marker, a Sharpie from what he could tell. As the image became more distinct, Jason could see Lily standing there holding a stack of cards facing him. She peeled the front card away, tossing it carelessly to one side, out of camera view.

Don’t speak
.

Jason dropped his hands instinctively in front of his crotch, even though his baggy t-shirt covered his lap. He felt embarrassed regardless of the low light making any details around him a hazy, grey blur.

From his perspective, it seemed as though Lily could see him, as though she were responding to his motions. She flicked quickly through several more cards, tossing them carelessly to her left.

I’m sorry.

Confusing, I know.

I can explain.

So much you need to know.

Please, forgive me.

I meant no harm.

Trust me.

She had tears in her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” he said, and she held her finger to her lips, signaling for him to be quiet.

The next series of cards made his blood run cold.

You are in danger.

You must leave.

Not safe.

Please, trust me.

Without saying anything, he mouthed the word, “OK.”

Wherever she was, she was watching him in real time as she smiled in response. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she turned over four more cards.

Count back from 60.

Be out front on one.

No sooner.

No later.

As she discarded the last cue card, her image faded, being replaced with a series of numbers counting down.

59, 58, 57, 56, 55…

Jason sat there on the toilet stunned with his pants still around his ankles. Did he trust her? Could he forgive her? What was going on? Why the mind games?

46, 45, 44, 43…

Time was slipping away.

Jason hated being backed into a corner, being forced to make a snap decision. He needed the opportunity to assimilate what was happening.

Lily must have hidden the projector while she was having a shower the night before, but why the charade? She had to be nearby. Jason stood up, partially blocking the numbers as he pulled up his pants.

31, 30, 29, 28, 27…

He closed the seat on the toilet, flushed, and stood on the lid. His fingers pulled at the projector. It was tiny, no larger than a quarter, and had been wedged between the steel rim of the light fitting and the drywall that made up the ceiling. A long straggly wire acted as an aerial. He turned the device over in his hand. He’d never seen anything this complex in such miniature form before. There had to be a self contained power supply, a radio receiver, not to mention the projector with its bulb and lens.

18, 17, 16, 15…

Was there a microphone embedded in it as well? Was there a camera as well as a projector? She’d seen him. Was there some other device hidden somewhere else inside the bathroom?

10, 9, 8…

He couldn’t see anything over the sink, but in the darkness he could easily overlook a pinhole camera. He reached for the light switch but paused as he realized the countdown was coming to an end.

6, 5, 4…

Shit!

In a panic, he tossed the projector on the ground and threw the bathroom door open. With his heart pounding in his chest, he leaped onto his bed, scrambling across toward the door. Both of his hands worked with superb synchronicity, turning the lock and handle in unison and allowing him to fly through the door and out into the hallway with barely a thought to what he was doing, abandoning his apartment and leaving the door wide open.

Mentally, he had already reached the number one and there was still a flight of stairs ahead of him leading down to the building foyer.

Fuck!

A motorcycle pulled up outside. The exhaust was rough, coughing and spluttering as though the fuel/air mix was too rich. Jason took the stairs three at a time, reacting, not thinking.

There was something deeply intriguing, perhaps even fascinating and satisfying in the heart-thumping sense of embarking on a mysterious, forbidden adventure.

Lily's tiny frame looked out of place on the motorbike as it waited there idling. Had he stopped to think, even for a moment, there was no way he would have climbed on the back of a motorbike, but there she was, waving for him to hurry.

He ran across the lobby, almost crashing into the doors as he pressed the exit button. Ordinarily, the door opened almost instantly, but that night the electronics seemed to pause for an eternity. Deep inside the door, the lock clicked, indicating the door could be pushed open, but he didn't have either the keys to his apartment or the keycard for the main door to get back into the building. Too bad.

“This is crazy!” he said, unable to suppress the grin stretching across his face at the sight of Lily on the back of a dirt bike modified for riding over the rough countryside well beyond New York City.

The motorbike was a contradiction of clashing colors. Large red coils at the front provided stiff suspension for the handlebars, while the seat at the rear was bright green. The seat was set surprisingly high, exposing the knobbly off-road tire. Fumes drifted from the chrome exhaust. There was no license plate.

“You’re late,” Lily cried as he rushed outside into the night. She handed him a helmet. Lily was wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket, and not a formal dress kind of jacket, one custom made for motorcycle riders. The thick leather and padded sections on the shoulders made her tiny frame look bulky, almost butch, as though she had muscles bigger than his.

Jason smiled, looking at the helmet she handed him as he said, “What's going on?” He almost laughed. He found it preposterous to see her fragile frame on such a large, powerful motorbike.

Lily revved the engine, keeping the bike from idling.

“No time to explain. Get on!”

“Now, wait a minute,” Jason replied, but Lily grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him close and kissing him briskly on the lips. She pulled back from him just as abruptly, looking deep into his eyes as she spoke.

“I know this is difficult. But we have to leave.”

Jason turned. There were a dozen or so men and women running down the street toward them.

In the distance, easily a quarter of mile away, several police cars turned into the street with their lights flashing and their sirens blaring.

“Now!” Lily cried.

What had started out somewhat playfully, suddenly made his blood run cold.

Gun shots rang out.

Although Jason had been intrigued by Lily’s sudden appearance and what seemed to be a transformation from her shy and quiet demeanor to an overtly aggressive and assertive persona, this was no joke. Something had gone horribly wrong. A state of panic swept through him, paralyzing him.

“Please,” she pleaded. “You’ve got to trust me. Your life is in danger!”

There was something in her voice, in the look in her eyes and the desperation in her actions that cried out louder than the gunshots.

Jason jumped on the back of the bike and grabbed onto her waist. In his rush, he dropped the helmet. But why would she give him a helmet when she wasn’t wearing one? Before he could consider that thought, Lily popped the clutch and the bike roared away, accelerating sharply. Jason tightened his grip and held on.

The engine roared as the bike cut up over the curb and onto the side street crossing Columbus Avenue.

Jason found himself holding on with desperation, fighting not to be thrown from the bike. He kept one hand around Lily's waist, gripping the belt running through her jeans, while his other hand held a handle on the back of the seat.

The wind cut through Lily's hair, causing the long strands to whip painfully across his face.

The high pitched whine of the engine sounded absurdly strained, as though she had long forgotten to change gears as she continued to accelerate. When the gear change finally came, though, it was smooth, and the bike shot forward at breakneck speed as they raced toward Central Park.

A police car skidded around the corner ahead of them, sliding sideways and blocking half the road. The officer leaped from his car and threw a spike strip across the remainder of the road. What the hell is going on, he wondered? Jason had gone from being half asleep to his heart pounding in his throat in barely a minute. How had he ended up on the back of a motorcycle? His mind was struggling to keep pace with events.