11 February 2000
06:00
Sri Lanka, Small City
Dawn crawled over the horizon like smoke, gray, heavy, uncertain. The first light spilled through the cracked windshield of the car Christa had given him the night before. Dust clung to the dashboard. The air smelled faintly of oil and burnt metal. The seat beneath him was torn and damp, the fabric rough against his skin.
James sat motionless, eyes half-open, breath leaving faint ghosts on the glass.
Outside, life returned to the waking world. A dog barked somewhere in the alley. A vendor shouted in a language he half remembered. A child laughed. Even ordinary sounds felt foreign, too bright, too alive.
He flexed his hands on the steering wheel. They trembled, not from fear, but from hunger and exhaustion. The knuckles were swollen, the forearms marked by the pale ghosts of restraints. He touched one scar without thinking, fingers tracing the ridged skin, jaw tightening.
The rising sun washed the narrow street in amber. A man pushed a cart of bread down the lane, humming softly. James watched until the figure vanished into the haze. He didn't belong here, not in this light, not in this life. No papers. No name. No home waiting.
He reached into his jacket pocket and unfolded the scrap of paper. Christa's handwriting, smudged, fading, alive with her final breath. A phone number. Nothing more.
He started the engine. It coughed like a wounded animal before catching, startling a flock of pigeons from a nearby roof. He drove slowly, every glance to the rearview mirror a calculation, every reflection a threat.
The city was stirring, metal shutters rolled open, women arranged fruit in neat pyramids, and children darted through puddles. To them, he was just another weary foreigner. But beneath his ribs lay the truth: a survivor of something the world could never imagine.
At the corner, he stopped beside a cracked payphone booth. Barefoot, he stepped onto the cool pavement, the wind carrying the scent of diesel and sea salt.
Coins clinked into the slot. His fingers trembled as he dialed the number.
It rang twice.
A voice answered, low, sharp, measured.
"The Foreigner speaking. State your business."
"Christa Clark gave me your number. She said you owed her a favor. I'm calling it in."
Silence. A rustle. Muffled voices.
Then: "Let me speak to Christa."
His throat tightened. "She's gone."
A longer pause. Only the static hum of the line remained.
"State your names, all of them. She left a message three days ago."
"James William Lukyan."
"Where are you now, Mr. Lukyan?"
"Outskirts of a small city. Sri Lanka."
A beat.
"Find the Jaffna Railway. When you arrive, look for a sign that doesn't belong. Follow it until the path ends. A doorman will find you. Ask for Gerry. Tell him I sent you."
The line went dead.
James stared at the receiver, the dial tone whispering in his ear. Then he hung it up and stepped back into the street. The world kept moving, indifferent.
He bought a small loaf of bread from a silver-haired vendor. "Jaffna?" he asked quietly.
She pointed south. "Forty-five kilometers. Bad road."
He nodded, tore off a piece of bread, and returned to the car. It was dry and tasteless, but it stilled the hunger gnawing at his gut.
The road south unfolded like an open wound, cracked asphalt under leaning palms, fields shimmering in the morning heat. Rusted checkpoints, burnt trucks, bullet-scarred signs. Relics of a war that had ended without peace.
Movement steadied him. The drive demanded focus. Each mile built a rhythm, each breath a small rebellion against the past. Sometimes he spoke aloud just to hear his own voice, to prove he still existed.
By the time he reached Jaffna, the sun hung high, bleaching the streets in white heat. He parked near the railway station, the air thick with iron and salt.
Crowds swirled, families, vendors, soldiers, but his gaze searched for the anomaly, the thing out of place. He found it near an abandoned platform: a chalk mark on a wall, a circle crossed through its center.
He followed.
Another mark on a lamppost.
Another, scratched into a metal door.
Each led him deeper, the noise fading behind him until only the hum of distant traffic remained.
At the fourth symbol, the alley ended in cracked concrete. The final mark was etched into the wall itself. He pressed his fingers against it. A hidden latch shifted.
The wall opened.
A narrow staircase spiraled into darkness.
He hesitated only once, then descended.
The air below was cool and thick with the scent of oil and ink. A single bulb flickered, painting the steps in dying light. At the bottom stood a steel door, its paint peeling in long strips.
He knocked twice.
"Who is it?"
"The Foreigner sent me. Name's James."
Metal scraped. Bolts slid back.
A broad-shouldered man with a shaved head appeared, eyes sharp as stone, a pistol resting against his thigh.
"Come in."
The door shut behind him with a clang that echoed finality.
Inside: rows of computers blinking in half-light, printers chattering, shelves stacked with documents and blank IDs. The air stank of cigarettes and toner.
At the far desk sat a man with mismatched eyes, ne steel gray, one pale green. A scar ran down his forearm.
"Looking for me?"
"Gerry?"
"That depends. You, James Lukyan?"
He nodded.
"The Foreigner said you'd come. Said Christa vouched for you."
"She did."
Gerry's tone softened. "I heard. Damn shame. She was one of the good ones."
The words hit hard, scraping raw wounds. He said nothing. In his mind, the Clarks blurred together: Christa's sacrifice a day ago, then a twin sister who'd died and Tiffany lived, the fire that had taken John's wife and Tiffany's life. All loss. All connected.
Gerry's voice cut through the haze. "Sit."
The stool groaned under his weight.
"You need a new name," Gerry said, fingers already moving across the keyboard. "Something clean. Something that disappears."
"I already have one."
Gerry paused. "Let's hear it."
"William Luxon."
A faint smirk. "Sounds Latin. Luxon… light. You trying to make a statement?"
"No statements. Just a name."
"Fair enough." Gerry's hands blurred over the keys. Two silent assistants emerged, one with a measuring tape, the other with a camera.
"Stand still," one ordered.
They measured, photographed, and documented. The flash seared the room white for an instant.
"Military?" Gerry asked.
"Sort of. Yes."
"Good. Soldiers don't talk much."
Lines of code scrolled. Printers came alive. The rhythmic hum filled the air—mechanical, relentless. The sound reminded James of the laboratory, but this time, the machines served him.
Minutes later, Gerry slid a passport across the desk.
William Luxon.
Born 31 October 1973
Nationality: American
Occupation: Private Contractor.
The face in the photograph stared back, his, but sharper, calmer. A man who might survive.
Beside it, Gerry placed a sealed envelope. "License, birth certificate, utilities. Digital trail activates tonight. By morning, William Luxon will exist."
James turned the passport over in his hands. "How much?"
Gerry shook his head. "Already paid. Christa covered it. Said if anyone came with her name, I'd know why."
James's throat tightened. "She always planned too far ahead."
"That's why she lasted as long as she did." Gerry crossed to a safe, withdrew the car keys. "White van, two blocks east. Clean. Paperwork matches. Inside, you'll find clothes, cash, and a pistol. If anyone asks, you haul sound gear for a church."
James nodded. "And you?"
"I was never here. Neither were you."
Their eyes met, mutual understanding, unspoken gratitude.
As James reached the door, Gerry's voice stopped him.
"Luxon."
He turned.
"People like you never really disappear. The ones who built you, they'll come. When they do, remember this: sometimes the only way to survive is to become the monster they already believe you are."
James said nothing. He just stepped into the stairwell and climbed toward the light.
Outside, the air was thicker, the heat rising fast. The city swallowed him whole. The envelope in his pocket felt heavier with every step, a lie made flesh.
He found the van exactly where promised. It smelled of leather and fuel. He slid behind the wheel, opened the passport once more.
William Luxon.
A man unchained. A ghost with purpose.
"I'll head to Scotland," he murmured, voice low. "As promised to Christa."
But as the van rolled forward, another name whispered through the back of his mind, the girl who had once smiled at him beneath a silver sky.
"And I'll always carry you in my heart, Luna."