Free Armageddon: The Cosmic Battle Of The Ages by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins

plastic band. He tossed her into the truck.
    Chloe was sure she had cracked a rib. During the twenty-five-minute ride to the local GC headquarters, Chloe began to pray. “God, give me strength. Let me die before I give away anything. Be with Kenny and Buck and Dad.”
    She remembered George regaling them with stories about how he had said absolutely nothing to his captors in Greece. If only she had that kind of fortitude. She would rather banter, anger them, mislead them. Was it better to sit and take it or to shoot back, to let them know she was no pushover?
    Torture. Could she handle that? “With your strength, God. Let me trade my body for the ones I love.”
    At headquarters she was uncuffed, searched, and again asked her name and home region. Chloe said nothing. She gingerly pressed a palm against her face and felt the abrasions on her forehead and cheeks.
    “She already told us. Phoebe Evangelista, American.”
    “Then there ought to be a -6 somewhere under that blood. Get a wet cloth and wash that off.”
    Someone held Chloe by the back of her head and dragged the cloth across her face. She cried out.
     
    “I don’t see anything. Doesn’t mean it’s not there. We running her name and description?”
    “Yeah. Nothing so far.”
    “Jock will be in at nine. Get her cleaned up and in a jumpsuit. And fingerprinted.”
    Chloe was tempted to go limp again and make the GC undress her, hose her down, and dress her, but she did what she was told. She came out of the shower with her face stinging, changed into the dark green jumpsuit, and clenched her fists.
    When she was led to the photo area and printing sta-tion, she kept her hands balled. Chloe looked so different from the girl who had been at Stanford six years before, she wasn’t worried about her photo giving anything away.
    A matronly Mexican guard reached for Chloe’s hand and said, “Right first, please.”
    Chloe shook her head.
    “Come on, honey. You don’t want to fight me. You’re going to get yourself fingerprinted, so you might as well just let me do it.”
    Chloe shook her head again.
    “I’m going to do this, so how’s it going to happen? Do I have to get a couple of guys in here to hold you down? Because If I do, here’s what I’m going to use.”
    The woman showed Chloe an ugly adjustable metal cord similar to the tool dogcatchers use at the ends of poles to snag puppies. “I wrap this about three inches above your wrist. When it tightens, your hand comes open. I don’t know who you are or why you’re in here, but you don’t want to endure this.”
    Chloe shook her head again, and the woman spoke into her radio, asking for help. Chloe resisted the two young men, but as the matron had said, it was hardly worth the effort. When that metal loop tightened around her arm, her fingers popped open, and the GC had finger-prints that were sent via the Internet to their databases all over the world.
    “We also read your eyes with the camera, honey. If you’ve ever had a driver’s license, been to college, gotten married, anything, we’ll find a match.”
    Chloe only hoped the GC were as shorthanded as everyone else. Maybe it would take long enough that Buck and George and the rest could bust her out.
Who am I kidding?
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    Rayford had hoped for a day or two of rest before jetting back to San Diego, but he had no choice but to leave Petra as soon as he could refuel. He was stunned to find Mac McCullum waiting for him.
    “Got the word from Buck,” Mac said. “Thought Tsion and Chaim ought to know so they could get the folks here praying. Albie’s already got a contact on the Al Hillah thing, so he doesn’t need me. I’ll be your pilot.”
    “Mac, I can’t ask you to-”
    “You didn’t. I volunteered. Now unless you’re gonna be a mule and pull rank on me, saddle up.” Rayford was more grateful than he could express. In the air Mac told him, “You can think, pray, sleep, or talk. I’ve got this baby on a path to San Diego,