He had no idea if it was the drugs or some form of delayed PTSD, or memories that had been too long suppressed, but he was losing it. Now was not the time, and this was not the place to be unraveling.
With everything left in him, he pulled himself back from the scream that was caught in his throat. Flash-backing SEALs were dead SEALs, and they sure as hell weren’t good to anybody else.
The sound of footsteps behind him made him realize that it was over. If they didn’t surrender their weapons, they weren’t going to live to see another second.
“Drop the weapons and get to your knees.”
2-Stroke stiffened. That was Darko’s voice, and his hand clenched around the gun he held. Everything in him wanted to blow the man away. He looked over at Aella, and there was defiance on her face for a split second until she realized that any move she made would be her last. She dropped her weapon, and 2-Stroke did the same.
“Knees!”
He and Aella sunk down next to each other. Zasha dragged Chry forward. He met Chry’s eyes. In them were the shadows of the torture she’d endured, but stronger, brighter was her concern for him, her fear for him. He didn’t want it. Couldn’t handle that kind of look. He wasn’t what mattered. She mattered, and this ATF agent who had risked her life to get them out mattered. He was a SEAL, a weapon of Uncle Sam.
Automatic gunfire erupted outside, and everyone jerked their heads toward the sound.
Never give up, never give in, and you’re never out of the fight.
Those words echoed in him, embedded in the deepest part of his soul along with his love for his brothers, who were right now fighting their way toward them. Everything jumbled up in his brain as Darko moved around Aella and backhanded her across the face. He kicked her and beat her for several minutes. 2-Stroke reared up off the floor intending to stop him, but two of his thugs restrained him with several punches to his gut and face. When he looked back at Darko, for a split second, he thought it was his father’s face. He blinked several times, and everything went back to normal.
“Stop it! Stop, you animal!” 2-Stroke shouted, struggling to break free, but Darko ignored him.
Then while Aella was helpless, her lip bloodied, a gash across her temple, he pointed his gun at her.
2-Stroke went wild, unable to take another death because of him. She had come here, risked her life to save them. He could do no less. He elbowed one of the guards, who reeled back, then punched the second one.
Leaping across her protectively, 2-Stroke covered her with his body. “No!” he shouted the sound of his voice reverberating in the hall, in a place where men had been debased and tortured, denied the most basic needs of life as death smiled and waited for its chance to take them.
She wasn’t going to die here. Not for him.
“Move,” Darko said.
2-Stroke raised his head and stared at the crime lord. He was handsome, dark and tall, but like a fallen angel, he had only emptiness in his black heart.
“She can be another hostage. You can use her like us.”
“She drugged and tricked me!” he shouted. “She’s dead!”
“No, I will say anything you want,” he pleaded, a wave of dizziness and nausea washed through him. “Record it, sing it, write it down in fucking blood.” They had tried to strip him to the bone, take the last ounce of his sanity and shred his self-respect into nothing. But regardless of their efforts, he hadn’t broken. But he would do anything so they all survived, even though he had to sink into the mire and the muck with them. So be it. He could recover from his own emotions, his own pain, but Aella couldn’t recover from a bullet between her eyes.
He turned toward Zasha, meeting her feral gaze. “Anything. Let her live.” He injected a wobble into his voice and breathless gasping as though he’d given up.
In a way, he did surrender to the situation, knowing that the measure of him as a man was wrapped up in his duty, service, and love of his country. There was nothing they could strip from him that he didn’t willingly allow. They might have control over his body, but they would never control his mind or his heart.
Zasha sheathed her knife, kicking Chry’s feet out from under her, sending her crashing to the dirt floor. He clenched his teeth. His hands wanted to curl around her neck and break her like a rag doll.
She touched Darko’s arm. “Baby, you said they would be mine.”
Darko sighed and turned toward Zasha, and it was clear that she had some pull with him, like holding the leash of a very big, very vicious dog.
While he pondered, Aella looked up at him. “You don’t even know me.” She sounded distraught and puzzled, and he understood, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t need to know someone to lay his life on the line for them. It was his job to lay his life on the line, whatever line Uncle Sam drew, whenever and wherever he drew it.
“Your decision,” Darko finally said, as he lowered his weapon.
Zasha smiled and walked over and shoved her hand into his hair, grasping it painfully in a tight grip and jerking his head back. “Tell me something I can use right now, and I’ll let her live.”
“She’s an ATF Agent here to rescue us.” Zasha didn’t seem convinced that was vital information. He had no choice. “My team is here,” he bit out, his scalp stinging from her vicious hold, swallowing hard, his throat working with his head bent back at that angle. He silently sent an apology to the guys. He knew how disappointed they would be. But like before, they’d found a way to track him down. He was confident that they would be able to do that again.
A gust of wind blew through the broken roof above them, bringing a sweep of snow inside to swirl around Zasha’s feet.
“Clever bitch,” she said with a boot to Aella’s face. She turned to the crime lord. “Darko, baby, we’ve got to go.”
2-Stroke could finally breathe. He got up from Aella, then offered her his hand for her to rise. Then he went over to Chry and drew her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart. It was fast but welcome, telling him that she was still hanging in there. As brave as any SEAL.
“It’s okay, babe. We’re okay,” he whispered, so glad to find her warm and vibrant. She shivered and he set just enough space between them to catch her mouth, kissing her to reassure her, to let her know that he was all right. She responded with a soft gasp.
Then the guards jostled them, shoving them forward. 2-Stroke slipped his arm around Chry’s waist and the three of them, prodded by guards, stumbled along behind Zasha and Darko.
The ridged hull inflatable boat, piloted by one of the members of the SEALs’ boat crew, slapped through the waves at full throttle, lifting and falling, sloshing through the chilly Adriatic as waves and sea spray soaked Saint’s uniform. It felt like BUD/S all over again.
The island was a dark blob on the landscape, showing a sickly green through his night vision goggles, lying low, bald, and gnarled in the water. The island was once a notorious prison and labor camp to hold political dissidents. Croatia’s own The Rock.
Except in this terrible place, prisoners were pitted against each other in brutal psychological exercises designed to eliminate their personalities.
It was no mistake that Zasha and Darko had chosen this place to take 2-Stroke and Chry. Their personal torture madhouse.