Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
Present Day
He sucked in a hard breath. Fabric drew against his
nostrils. Hot.
Can’t breathe. No air! He thrashed, searching for freedom,
for air. . . I’m
going to die! At the thought, he jerked.
Where am I? A bounce smacked his head against something
hard.
Metal. Captain Dean Watters groaned. Opened his eyes. But
couldn’t
see. The meaty rumble of an engine warned him he was in a
vehicle.
The tail of one by the roaring sound and steel digging into
his shoulder.
The way his breath coiled back at him told him he had a hood
over his
face. Mouth taped. Hands taped. Feet—he tested his leg—
taped.
Get out or die! Dean kicked. Tendons strained against his
effort.
Brakes squealed. Gravity shifted and tugged him. Rounding a
corner.
Again the engine roared.
Where are they taking me? Where’s Z?
Recollection swarmed him in a thick cloud of defeat. She’d
walked
out.Willingly. He couldn’t blame her.They’d been through the
fires of hell
and back since they were captured. The enemy had broken her.
Gotten
into her head and convinced her that helping them was the
smart choice.
A sudden lurch made him slide.
Hands pawed at him as shouts erupted.
He was lifted. . . .
The truck bounced.
Gravity pulled him left again—another corner. The truck
must’ve
turned. Then spinning. . .
Still blind and bound, Dean felt himself flying. Through the
air.
Unrestrained. He tensed, no idea where he’d land. What he’d
hit. Or
in what. And he prayed—begged—God to let him live. He had to
live.
Had to find her.
Down. . .down. . .
Crack!
He landed with a thud. White-hot fire shot through his
shoulder
and arm. He groaned around the tape over his mouth. Shoved
aside the
pain, reoriented himself. Brightness speared his eyes.
Specks of light
glittered through the thick fabric. He scrambled to his
knees, desperate
to know where they’d dumped him.
A siren wailed.
Shouts.
He knew those sounds, the shouts. The base. His captors had
thrown
him at the gate of the base. Armed with that knowledge, he
remained
still. Anything to let those with the weapons know he wasn’t
a threat.
“Stay where you are! Hands in the air. Hands. In. The. Air!”
The
command came in English, Pashto, Dari, then Farsi.
Boots shuffled closer, along with more shouts to get his
arms up.
One service member came very close. It took everything in
Dean not to
move. One wrong twitch, and they’d put him down like a sick
dog. A
beam of light struck him. So much like the light torture.
The light vanished. “Dude’s tied up.” The voice was right
over
Dean. “Hold up.”
“Careful,” came another voice. “He could be rigged.”
Right. Why hadn’t Dean thought of that before? Am I?
Mentally, he
patted himself down but felt nothing strapped to him.
Whoosh!
Glaring white seared his corneas. He grimaced and ducked.
Dean
squinted rapidly, trying to force his eyes to readjust.
A Marine frowned at him as several others gathered
around,
business ends of their weapons aimed at Dean’s head. The
lead Marine
pointed to the tape as if asking permission.
Dean nodded and his body swayed. He jerked straight. Then
his
body pulled him backward. Dizzy. . .so dizzy.
The Marine ripped off the tape.
After a moment of prickling fire, Dean stretched his jaw.
“Watters. . .”
Breathe.
“He needs water!” a grunt shouted.
“No.” Dean shook his head. Wet his lips, which tasted of
salt and
blood. “Watters, Dean. . . Patrick. . .captain.” His vision
was ghosting.
“Four f–four—” His body surrendered.
