Forcing myself to sit up, I grab the tray and fling it against the bars. That’ll earn me another beating. More broken bones. I don’t give a shit. “You want me to talk? How’s this? You’re all a bunch of sadistic fucks. You can carve me into a thousand pieces, and I’ll still never tell you what you want to know!”
I collapse, my head hitting the dirty floor. Shouts echo down the winding stone hall, and I try to scramble back, knowing they’ll come for me. I don’t care what they do, but I won’t make it easy for them.
Despite all the months I’ve been here, I still can’t understand much Pashto. But Kahlid’s men sound panicked. Heavy footsteps race down the hall past my cell, and then…
Gunfire.
Not AKs. Not Taliban guns. Colt M4s. SEALs. Special Forces. Rangers.
“Go, go, go!” someone shouts, a hint of a Southern twang coloring their words.
“Four hostiles down,” another voice responds. “Clear.”
Wrapping my good hand around the bars, I try to pull myself up. “American,” I call weakly. “Here.”
“Get that goddamn door open. Now.” Light flares, bright enough to penetrate my swollen lids, as the canvas is ripped away, and a dark shadow looms as someone breaks the lock. “Holloway?”
“Yes.” I reach out a tentative hand and find a tactical vest as the man kneels next to me. “Who—?”
“West Sampson. SEAL Team Eight on a joint op with ODA. Can you—”
“Where is he?” Ryker roars from down the hall.
Oh God. He made it.
“Third cell,” West calls. “I’m bringing him out.”
Only a few feet away now, Ryker growls, “No one touches him but me. Dax?”
I jerk my head towards his voice, opening my eyes, desperate to see him. Except…I can’t. Not after what those fuckers did to me. The pale reddish glow from the hall brightens as the heat of a flashlight paints my face.
“Fuck. Dax, what the hell…? Your eyes.”
“Questions later,” West says. “This place is coming down as soon as we’re clear. Get him up and move.”
“Where’s Kahlid?” Ryker asks as he hauls me over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, his arm hooking under one knee as he grips my wrist tightly. Unable to see or tell up from down, I can’t orient myself, and nausea crawls up from my stomach when he starts hustling down the hall.
Shouts, another three shots. “Blue Team Alpha approaching egress point. Need a location on Target Zulu,” West says.
We start to climb. I’m…safe. I’m going home. The tears gathering in my burned and blistered eyes send shooting pain through my skull, but I don’t care.
“Roger that. Kahlid’s down. They’ve got him at the mouth of the cave. He’ll be dead in five minutes.”
“Then we’ve got time.” Ryker’s voice lowers, turns grave. “He’s ours, Sampson. Give us sixty seconds alone with him, then we’re gone.”
West doesn’t respond—at least not that I can hear. The first whiff of fresh, free air smells like heaven, and then West orders everyone to fall back. Somewhere below me, I hear raspy, rattling breathing.
“I told you I’d kill you,” Ryker says as he bends and sets me on my feet. Keeping an arm around my waist so I don’t collapse, he presses a pistol into my hand.
“I can’t see, Ry,” I whisper. “You have to—”
He shifts me. “Put your other arm around my shoulders and hang on. I’ll aim for you. We fire together.”
With a nod, I clutch the back of his tactical vest so I don’t fall, and he supports my left arm with his. To my right, he cocks his pistol.
“Fifteen months, asshole. Every day, I pictured this moment. When your last sight would be the two men who took down Hell. Say your prayers, fucker.” After a beat, Ryker snorts. “On second thought…don’t.”
We fire together, and as the gun falls from my shaking hand, Ryker says, “We’re going home, brother.”
