A deep, gruff voice from somewhere in the dark called to the dog in Spanish.
Susan lay upon the ground beside Mitchell, her hands on her bloody wound. Tears filled her deep-green eyes. She couldn’t go back. She would rather die now on the dirt road than spend another day in captivity, in fear.
The pain was excruciating. Mitchell gritted his teeth as he tried pulling his arm free. It was no use; the animal’s jaw was just too powerful.
Flashlights lit up the road. A man whistled loudly. A moment later, the dog let go of Mitchell and obediently ran back to its master.
Mitchell let out a deep breath. The pain in his left arm from where the dog had bitten him was agonizing.
Men approached, laughing with one another.
Mitchell raised his hand to block the light from the flashlights shining in his eyes. He couldn’t see who was there, but he had no doubt that one of the men was Duran, the leader of the cartel, with some of his men walking toward them. Biting his lip, he shook his head in defeat. It was a feeling that he wasn’t used to.
A dark figure approached. Clutched in his dirt-stained hands was an AK 74.
“Mister Williams, you really screwed up. Or should I call you Captain Ryan Mitchell?” The man taunted him in fluent English.
Mitchell knew the voice well enough; it was indeed Duran. A former Colombian soldier who had sold his services to a local drug cartel before taking over one after its patron died under mysterious circumstances.
Mitchell took a deep breath to calm his beating heart and then sat up on the dirt road. He reached over and pulled Susan into his arms, trying to control his own growing feeling of desperation and her fear.
“So, Duran, what gave me away?” said Mitchell in Spanish, trying for time.
Duran stepped closer, his dark eyes narrowing. “Oh, you were very good. I’ll give you that, Mister Mitchell. Your cover story as a washed-up Yankee soldier was perfect. No one suspected a thing. In fact, I was thinking of promoting you within my organization. The problem was that poor old Zayas, my former deputy, was a truly suspicious man. He had many Colombian police and military informers in his back pocket, so he had you checked out and to his surprise, it would appear that you have been a busy boy all over South America over the past few years, Mister Mitchell.”
“Well, I guess the overly efficient little toad won’t be checking on anyone in the future,” responded Mitchell, thinking of the botched escape from the camp. Zayas had been the one to sound the alarm and the first one to die. Clearing his mind, Mitchell looked up, hoping that Duran would become overconfident and step just a little closer. It was his only chance; if he could somehow grab the thug’s AK, he’d have a chance to kill the other men still lurking in the shadows. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.
“Enough of this crap, Patrón,” said a man, holding the surviving dog in the dark. “Just shoot the Yankee bastard and drag the girl back to the camp. I think it’s time we sent her parents a new video of her partying with some of the boys.”
Mitchell looked down; Susan was trembling uncontrollably. There was no doubt in both their minds what her captors intended to do to her this time.
“All right, time to die, Mister Mitchell,” said Duran as he cocked the AK’s charging lever, loading a round into the weapon’s chamber.
Susan closed her eyes.
A red light, like a firefly, appeared out of the dark. A small dot came to rest on Duran’s forehead. Before anyone could react, the muffled sound of a silenced weapon firing from behind Mitchell changed everything. Duran’s head snapped back; his body crumpled to the ground with a hole blasted straight through his skull.
Before the dog handler could even raise his weapon, the silenced weapon fired twice more. The man and his dog dropped to the ground, dead. Two more shots quietly pierced the night, killing the last thug hurriedly fumbling for his pistol.
Mitchell turned his head and looked into the forest as a darkened shape emerged from the jungle, a M4 carbine in his hands. A smile crept across Mitchell’s dirt-plastered face. It was Nate Jackson, an African-American former U.S. Army Ranger Master Sergeant and Mitchell’s closest friend. With his weapon held tight into his shoulder, Jackson moved as silently as a ghost toward Mitchell and Susan. Jackson quickly checked the bodies lying on the road. When he saw that they were all dead, he turned about and lowered his carbine.
“Jesus, Ryan, you look like crap,” said Jackson, shaking his head disapprovingly.
It had been almost two months since he had last laid eyes on Mitchell. Reaching down, Jackson helped Mitchell to stand up.
Pain shot through his body. “I’ve had better days,” said Mitchell through clenched teeth. Turning his head, Mitchell looked into the dark brown eyes of one of the few men he would unreservedly trust with his life. Both men stood just over six feet tall, but Jackson had a much heavier build and was ten years older than Mitchell’s thirty-two.
Mitchell reached down and gently laid a hand on Susan’s shoulder. “It’s ok, Susan. Nate is a friend of mine. It’s time for us to go.”
Susan stared at the bodies lying motionless on the road. “Are they dead?”
“I hope so,” replied Jackson.
“Good,” Susan said, her voice lacking all emotion.
Jackson bit his lip. There would be hell to pay over this assignment; he just knew it. Without saying a word, he handed his M4 carbine over to Mitchell. He bent down, opened up a pocket on his camouflage jacket and then carefully applied a clean dressing to Susan’s wound before delicately picking her up in his arms.
“Let’s go,” said Jackson. “We don’t have time to waste patching you up, Ryan. We'll have to do that later.” With that, he took off jogging down the trail, trying not to further inflame Susan’s painful injury.
After a couple of minutes, they turned a sharp bend in the dirt road. A few meters away was a black BMW SUV parked on the side of the road with its engine running. The instant Jackson appeared out of the dark, the driver’s-side door opened. A small, slender Asian woman stepped out. Samantha Chen, a former Special Forces medic, saw Jackson cradling Susan in his arms. Cursing aloud in English and Chinese, she immediately dashed over to Susan. Checking the wound in her side, she angrily shook her head. “Get her in the back seat,” ordered Sam.
Jackson did as he was told and carefully placed Susan down on the leather back seat of the BMW. Right away, Sam jumped in, ripping open her first aid bag. With years of combat and trauma experience under her belt, she quickly got to work. She had to clean the deep wound to prevent infection from setting in and then work on stopping the flow of blood.
Jackson dug around in Sam’s first aid bag for a few seconds and then turned to face Mitchell. “What happened?” asked Jackson as he began to treat Mitchell’s injuries.
“I think I was spotted early on,” replied Mitchell as Jackson shot a syringe of morphine into his left arm. He felt the pain in his body subside. “When I went to make my move, they were waiting for me.”
Jackson shook his head and mumbled to himself while he cleaned and dressed his comrade’s wounds. He barely recognized Mitchell with his long, shaggy brown hair and unkempt beard. He looked more like an escaped prisoner than his friend, a former U.S. Army Ranger captain.
Walking back beside the BMW, Jackson tried looking over Sam’s shoulder while she worked. “How’s it going, Sam?” asked Jackson as he checked his watch, knowing that it would be light soon.
“Give me another minute,” Sam answered, skillfully placing a saline IV into Susan’s arm.
“One minute only,” replied Jackson.