Authors: Holly Hart
T
he bike rolls
to a halt next to a bank of the stream, and my kidnapper sticks out a leg to stop us from toppling over. But still, he doesn't say anything.
"
W
hat are
you going to do with me?" I shout, finally building up the courage to beat my palms against his back now that we're not moving and at risk of falling down a cliff. He spins around so quickly that I barely even register his movement and catches my arm, stopping it in its tracks. He still doesn't say anything, just stares directly in my eyes and squeezes my wrist in an unrelenting vice-like grip. Briefly, I'm reminded of Fred, the malicious but ultimately pliable soldier who works in the pound, and remember the feeling of his hand clamped painfully around my shoulder.
S
omehow
, though, I don't think I'm going to be able to talk my way out of this one. Again, quicker than I can react, my kidnapper springs into action, pulling his other hand back and delivering a stinging slap to my cheek.
"
Y
ou shit
… I’m pregnant!" I shout out – more surprised than hurt, at least now while the blow's still reverberating through my skull.
"
I
told you
," the man shouts at me in a tone of utter disgust, "to keep quiet. If you don't, you die. I don’t care if you’re with child, infidel."
S
imple
, final.
I
feel
the shock of my kidnapping returning to me, and suddenly the sound of the crickets’ chirping dies away, and instead of hearing the sounds of the night all around me, all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. Instead of feeling the rough, thin leather seat of the dirt bike beneath my thighs, all I feel is the tickling sensation of a droplet of sweat dripping down my nose. It's like the higher functions of my brain are shutting down, and the only sensations it's allowing me to feel are the mundane and the useless.
S
till
, perhaps this, too, is my brain protecting me in spite of myself. The kidnapper pushes me off the bike roughly, and instead of resisting, my body is soft and malleable. He pushes me to one side, getting to his knees and studying the chassis of the dirt bike.
"
F
uck
," he swears, again in English, thumbing a sharp looking rip in the fuel tank. A bullet hole, I realize, thanking my lucky stars that it didn't spark and kill us both. He closes his eyes, and I watch the whole scene as if in a daze. But I can't keep my eyes off the bullet hole – it's as though I'm drawn to it, fixated upon it.
B
ut why
?
A
nd then it hits me
. If I am to have any chance of surviving this awful, horrendous experience – then I'm going to have to make my own luck. I can tell that something important is floating on the very edge of my consciousness, and I strain to remember it. For a few seconds, it's like trying to hold sand in a sieve, and then it comes to me – Jake.
W
hat had
Mike said about Jake? Something about him being a sniffer dog first and foremost but…
I
watch
the terrorist – my kidnapper – pull a cell phone out of his pocket and attempt to dial a number. He punches in the digits and puts it in his ear, but growls in frustration seconds later, and my ear somehow picks up the sound of a beeping dial tone in the silence.
No signal.
…
A
nd then it hits me
. Jake was a sniffer dog, but first they trained him to do other stuff – tracking, assaulting a building, and everything in between. He was a jack of all trades that just happened to be a master of bombs. And if I know Mike, he'll know that, too. But I have to make my own luck – I have to leave them a clue, but what?
M
y eye returns
to the bullet hole in the bike's fuel tank, and again I feel like it's being drawn there, like my brain wants me to notice it for some reason. And then, as though a curtain's coming down all around me, falling away from my eyes, I realize why.
I
need to cut myself
.
C
hapter Seventeen - Mike
"
F
uck
, fuck, fuck," I scream out into the unnerving emptiness of the moonlit night's sky. I repeat it again for good measure. "Fuck!"
I
n the darkness
, the engine of one of the dirt bikes is chugging away, a slow, repetitive growl that perfectly accents my foul, fearful mood.
J
ake comes up to me
, nestling his head against my injured thigh, and even though the gesture provokes an unexpected shot of pain, it's welcome because he snaps and me out of my berserk fugue.
"
H
ey
, buddy," I say, absentmindedly scratching him behind the ear. There's only one thing on my mind – going after Katie, and I know that every moment that I'm
not
doing that is time that’s counting against her. Counting against
us.
"
H
ow do
you feel about a walk?" I ask him, and his ears predictably prick up with excitement. Sometimes, quite often these days, I wish that I could be a dog like Jake. Things would just be easier without human emotions. Like love, and the fear I’m currently feeling that so soon after finding out I’m going to be a father, that, too, might yet be snatched away from me. I didn't even want to think about it, put a label on it, even breathe a hint of it until now – too worried that I wasn't ready, or she wasn't ready, but it was too soon.
I
chuckle bitterly
. If playing to other people's rules about how relationships should work costs me the chance of telling Katie I love her, that she's saved my life already, not only by nursing me back to health, but by getting Jake back – then from now on I won't be playing by society's playbook.
I
'm going
to have to strike out on my own. Well, with Jake by my side – so not completely alone.
"
W
hat the hell
are you doing with that gun, soldier?" a brusque, aggressive voice shouts out of the darkness.
I
turn
my head to the source of the sound and notice two military policeman with their emblazoned helmets standing behind me, rifles slung across their chests – one absurdly tall, one miserly short.
"
G
ood
, you're here," I say. "You need to get a team out after her."
"
W
e don't
need
to do anything," the MP on the left growls back to me, "and we won't be until we work out what's happened here. You're coming with us."
"
L
ike hell I am
," I shout back, my fist clutching reflexively around the handgun at the end of my right arm. "We've got a hostage situation – every second counts."
"
A
nd we'll still have
a hostage situation when we've got to the bottom of all this," the MP on the right this time replies, to my dismay, "but first, I want to know where you got that gun."
I
jerk
my head at the young private who tossed me the weapon. "He gave it to me," I say, "when we were responding to the incursion – the incursion
you guys were supposed to prevent.
Or am I wrong about that?" I ask, knowing that I've hit the nail on the head. "Tell me you guys aren't supposed to be the ones protecting the base?"
A
long
, pregnant pause hangs in the air between the three of us, and the two military policeman look at each other warily, as though silently trying to come up with an excuse.
"
Y
ou're
in no position to be threatening us," the taller of the pair growls at me. "If that's not your personal weapon, then military regulations state that you can't be firing it…"
I
don't let
him finish, interjecting a loud, baffled laugh to make it quite clear how absurd I find what he's just said.
"
M
ilitary regulations
…" I say, drawing out the words. "That's what you're worried about? You guys are a
joke
."
I
turn
my back on the pair of them, ignoring the sound of their muffled, whispered conversation. I know how these guys operate, I know that they will doubtless try and arrest me – someone's got to get the blame for this attack, and these guys are slimy enough to try and make that person me. God knows how, but they'll find a way – of that I have no doubt. But I don't intend to give them the opportunity.
I
kneel down
, pretending to examine the body of one of the fallen insurgents, but really slipping three black AK-47 magazines out of his vest and surreptitiously sliding them into the pocket at the knee of my desert fatigues. I do the same with another body, this time four magazines.
T
wo hundred and
ten bullets – sounds like a lot, but I've been soldiering long enough to know that in a real fight, I wish I had ten times that. Still, if I need more than that to get Katie back, then this battle's lost already.
"
H
ey
, what are you doing?" I hear from behind me. I'm pretty sure it's the short MP, but I don't hesitate – he's hardly going to shoot me, so I know I've got some time.
"
J
ust looking
…" I say vaguely, buying myself a few more seconds, and turn my head to face them. It seems to put them slightly at ease, but really I'm just checking that they are far enough away from me that they won't be able to intervene when I make my break for it. Jake's close by.
"
G
ood boy
," I croon under my breath, "come here." He pads over obediently, coming to stand by my side, his head close to my ear as I crouch down next to the bodies. "Ready for a run?" I whisper into his ear, pretending to scratch him. He does that thing that looks like a nod, and I see him almost imperceptibly tense up – his muscles rippling under the surface of his short fur. No outside observer would notice, but I do – after all, it's hard not to implicitly get to know the partner you've spent years training alongside.
I
feel
the comforting weight of the Colt in my hand and check my surroundings. I count four dirt bikes left, accounting for the one the kidnapper made his getaway on, and see that the two military policemen are a good ten yards away from me – too far to intervene physically.
I
stand up
. "Okay, guys, I'll come with you," I lie, taking a step in their direction – but also the direction of the dirt bike with the chugging engine. They don't seem to notice, don't seem in the slightest bit suspicious of my plan. More fool them. They lower their weapons and seem more at ease.
"
N
ow
, Jake!" I shout, sending him sprinting off in the direction of my pointed finger.
"
W
hat the hell
?" I hear one of the MP's shout from behind me.
"
S
orry
, guys," I shout without bothering to turn my head to face them, "I don't trust that you guys are going to do what you need to. I’ve got a kid to save. And sorry about the other bikes," I say while swinging my injured leg over the saddle of the one I've chosen, masking the look of pain on my face.
"
W
hat do
you –" I hear from behind me, before the meaning of my words becomes abundantly clear. I raise the handgun, aiming it at the furthest bike. I feel the comforting weight of the weapon sitting in my hand, take a deep breath, and as I release it, pull the trigger, sending a bullet speeding into the engine block.
"
S
top
!"
I
have
no intention of doing that. I swing the weapon in my hand, aiming it at the next bike, breathe out, pull the trigger; swing the gun, breathe out, pull the trigger; pull my legs in tight around the bike and twist the throttle on the handlebar, sending the bike jumping off into the darkness with a loud roar of its powerful engine.
***
A
t any other time
, the feeling of the cool wind whipping through my hair and snapping against my unprotected face would have been a glorious sensation, especially after the inertia that had been enforced upon me after my battle injury. Yet, I can't help but think of how Katie must've felt, taking this journey just a few short minutes before – terrified and fearing for her life.
J
ake's waiting
for me by the smoldering remnants of the base's outer fence, as I knew he would be. His tongue is lolling out, and he's breathing heavily. "Come on, boy," I encourage, slowing down as I pass so that we're both travelling at a manageable speed. I take a quick moment to peer over my shoulder, checking that no one's mobilizing to follow me, and I'm proved right. I don't know how to feel about that – the base is in complete disarray, with half dressed soldiers running around like headless chicken, but I can't see any evidence of organization forming amongst the chaos – can't see anyone forming up to be part of a rescue squad.