My hands are shaking now, partly from the restriction of blood flow, partly from adrenaline. I take three deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down. Panic gets people killed. Panic makes mistakes. Jordan is depending on me. I don't get to panic.
The zip tie's locking mechanism is a simple ratchet system. The spring steel slides into the narrow gap between the teeth and the housing. I work it carefully, feeling for the catch, applyingjust enough pressure to release the lock without snapping the thin metal.
Three more minutes. Then the first zip tie releases with a quiet snick.
The second one is easier. My hands are free, but they're useless, completely numb from lack of circulation. I spend another minute working feeling back into my fingers, wincing as pins and needles stab through my palms.
Then I turn my attention to the door.
It's locked from the outside, but it's not reinforced. Just a standard commercial door, probably original to the resort's construction. The frame is wood, not metal. The lock is a simple keyed deadbolt. One solid kick near the handle, right where the bolt meets the strike plate, and the wood splinters. The door crashes open, the sound echoing down the corridor.
I freeze in the doorway, listening.
Voices down the hall. Guards, arguing about something in what sounds like Arabic. My Arabic is functional, good enough for field work but not fluent. I catch enough to understand they're complaining about the unexpected complications. They were expecting a simple grab-and-ransom operation, not dealing with a mercenary and his crusading wife.
One of them mentions moving the hostages before dawn. Another argues about whether to kill Jordan now or wait for further instructions.
My hands clench into fists. These men touched Jordan. That ends one way.
If this were a professional operation, I'd already be dead. They would have checked me properly, taken my clothes, left me in a cell with no tools and no hope. But these men are ideologues playing at terrorism, not trained operators.
I move silently down the corridor, staying close to the walls, using the shadows. The maintenance area is dimly lit, andmy dark clothing helps me blend. Years of SAS training kick in. Muscle memory takes over where conscious thought would be too slow. I'm not Robert Fitzwallace, devoted husband and worried Dom. I'm Captain Fitzwallace, and people who threaten what's mine don't survive.
The resort is a maze of corridors, but I always memorize the layout of any new place. Habit from too many years in hostile territory. I know where the exits are, where the security stations sit, which hallways lead to the guest areas and which ones serve maintenance access.
I know where they're likely holding Jordan. Somewhere isolated but accessible, somewhere they can get to her quickly if they need leverage.
The service corridors connect in a grid pattern, and I move through them like a ghost. Past the laundry room, past storage for linens, past the mechanical room with its thrumming boilers. I'm heading up, toward the second floor where the premium suites are located.
That's where I find her.
Two guards outside a door, both stamping their feet against the cold. The corridor is unheated, and their breath fogs in the air. They're not expecting trouble, certainly not from an escaped hostage who should still be bound and helpless in a locked room.
First rule of close-quarters combat: speed and violence of action.
I'm on them before they can shout. The first guard never sees me coming. A knife-hand strike to his throat crushes his larynx, cutting off his air and his voice simultaneously. He makes a wet, choking sound and goes down.
I catch the rifle before it hits—can't afford the noise—and swing it by the barrel into the second guard's temple as he's turning. The impact makes a solid thunk. His eyes roll back, and he drops like a puppet with cut strings.
Both down in under four seconds.
I check pulses. First guard is dying, drowning in his own blood. I could save him, but I don't. He touched Jordan. Second guard has a pulse, strong and steady. He'll wake up with a concussion and a story about the night he faced a former SAS captain unarmed.
I take the first guard's weapon—a proper automatic rifle, Russian make, good weight and balance—and check their pockets. Keys. Mobile phones. Radios. I take it all, then drag their bodies into a nearby storage closet.
The door to Jordan's prison is locked, but the key turns smoothly. I ease it open, weapon ready, prepared for anything.
Jordan is alone, still bound, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. Her face is swollen and discolored. One eye is nearly shut. Her dress is torn, and I can see more bruises on her arms and legs.
When she sees me, her whole body sags with relief. Tears well up in her good eye.
"Fitz," she breathes. "How did you?—"
"Later." I'm across the room in three strides, cutting through her zip ties with a knife from one of the guards. My hands are gentle despite my urgency, careful not to hurt her already damaged wrists. "Can you walk?"
"Yes. I think so." She tries to stand, stumbles, and I catch her. She's lighter than she should be, her body trembling with exhaustion and shock. "Did you kill them?"
"One. The other will wake up with a concussion." I help her to the door, checking the corridor. Still clear. The other guards haven't noticed their missing colleagues yet. "We need to move. Where's Grace?"
