Page 91 of The Session

Benson held up a pair of forceps. A foot of bloody hemostatic gauze hung from them.

“You certainly didn’t skimp on the dressing,” Dr. Benson noted.

“Next time I’ll be a little more judicious.”

“Next time I’ll stand six inches to my right and we won’t have this problem,” Blackjack added.

Mark was impressed by the man’s ability to endure pain. He had refused anything other than a local anesthetic.

Part of the refusal might have been chalked up to machismo, but Mark also suspected that he might decline anything that would knock him out completely when undergoing surgery in a place where there was a fifty-fifty chance the power would stay on.

The door to the operating room opened and Ortega stepped inside, dressed in scrubs and a mask.

“Please. One visitor at a time,” Dr. Benson pleaded.

“I’m here to take over for Bookmark. You’re needed outside,” Ortega told Mark.

Ortega leaned over and inspected the wound, making sure to stay clear of Dr. Benson.

“Woof,” said Ortega.

“Does it look bad?” Blackjack asked.

“No, it’s your tattoo. I can’t tell what the hell that is. Is that that red-faced dude from Star Wars?”

“No, dumbass, it’s a devil and an angel fighting.”

Ortega gave Mark a nod, dismissing him. Burton was in the hallway talking to Kade and Captain Renard.

“If he can survive Ortega’s taunts, I think he’s going to be fine. What’s the latest on Mr. Wesley?” Mark asked.

“He’s alert now, a little bit of swelling, but they don’t think there’s going to be any brain damage,” Kade said.

“Everyone else?”

“They’re already cleaned up and back at HQ,” Burton told him.

Captain Renard nodded to Mark. “I apologize. I have to go. We’re about to go make some arrests. Thank you, Mr. Lightman, for your assistance.”

The use of his father’s last name was disconcerting. He waited until Renard had left, then turned to Kade and Burton.

“What’s that about?” Mark asked.

“It’s why we needed to talk to you,” Burton said as he reached into his pocket and handed Mark a folded-up yellow flyer. “Apparently you got spotted after you got here, and somebody made a connection.”

Mark opened the flyer. There was a black-and-white photo of him beside French writing, along with a telephone number. He didn’t need to translate everything to grasp the message: Someone was offering $1,000 for any tips on his whereabouts.

“Somebody figured out who you are, and you’re now a kidnapping target,” Burton said.

“Goddamn it.” Mark had not anticipated anything like this.

“We’re sorry it’s like this, but . . .” Kade began.

“I’m a risk for everybody else. I understand,” Mark said. But it felt like a gut punch, just as he’d begun to feel helpful and part of the team. Equally frustrating was that he was still trying to learn more about Haiti.

Mark had seen plenty of bad, but he was starting to see glimmers of the good—from the expressive art for sale on the streets to the cheerful throngs of people he observed gathered in open-air churches, listening to sermons late into the night. Even when they drove through completely blacked-out neighborhoods, he heard radios playing and people carrying on with their lives. There was a stubborn hopefulness here that Mark found lacking at times back home. Even in himself.

“Your bags have already been packed and delivered to the airport. A plane will be arriving for you any moment. We’re going to take you there and make sure you get on board safely,” Kade said.