Page 1 of Fighting for Valor
Chapter One
Six Years Ago
Hell Mountain - An underground prison deep in the Hindu Kush
Ripper
My hands are numb. Fuckers won’t take the chance I can break free, so they tighten the cuffs past the point of pain every time. The metal chair arms dig into the undersides of my wrists. The hood they shoved over my head before they dragged me in here makes it impossible to see more than a dull glow from the overhead lights.
I’m alone. That much I know. I can hear Ryker—head of our Special Forces team—cursing down the hall. Kahlid’s—the meanest of the Taliban’s torturers—going at him again, trying to force him to talk. Our captor’s overly-sweet and patronizing tone carries, but I can’t make out his words. Only the sounds of fists on flesh, the occasional scream or grunt, and then Dax, Ry’s second in command, demanding Kahlid do something…physically impossible.
By Ry’s estimates, we’ve been here six months. One hundred-and-eighty-four days trapped in the depths of Hell Mountain. I’ve lost count of the number of bones they’ve broken. The number of new scars criss-crossing my back, my arms, my chest.
“Hey, assholes! Pick on someone your own size!” I call out, hoping to draw Kahlid away from Ry. As the commander of our ODA team, he’s taken the brunt of the torture. Both because Kahlid thinks he knows more than me and Dax and because Ry keeps goading the asshole. Trying to protect us.
Ryker McCabe is the biggest, baddest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Almost seven feet tall and the size of a small house. Kahlid’s never even come close to breaking him.
“Pig fucker!” Ryker growls. Kahlid’s reply is softer, the words obscured by the twists and turns of the cave tunnels. I can’t just sit here doing nothing…waiting for my turn under the knife, the blowtorch, or the strap. So I strain against the cuffs, and the left arm of the chair creaks. Another jerk of my arm and the whole thing wobbles. Kahlid and his men are usually more careful than this. Maybe Ry was locked to this piece of shit last. He would have done his best to destroy the damn thing.
Blood oozes around the cuffs as I contort my body, wedging my right leg against the loose piece of metal. This is going to hurt. A lot. Taking a deep breath, I start yelling the first few words of Bohemian Rhapsody. I hope to all that’s holy Ry and Dax can drown out any noise I make next.
A moment later, Dax joins in, then Ry’s rough voice echoes down the hall. For six months, we’ve communicated in taps and scratches, changing up our code every week. Bohemian Rhapsody’s our current signal to “make as much fucking noise as possible.”
As we hit the second verse, I use all the strength I have to push against the chair. The metal creaks, strains, and then I’m on the floor, my left shoulder dislocated, pain rolling over me in waves, but the chair’s in three pieces and my right hand is free.
Get up. Now. Move.
This could be my only chance. They never leave me in here for more than an hour or so, and it’s been at least twenty minutes. A little more maneuvering, and I slide my cuffed left wrist down the now-destroyed arm of the chair. My bloody fingers shake, and I yank the hood off my head, then use the scratchy material to wipe my hands.
Holy hell.
Two ancient computers sit against the far wall. Both of them on. I can work with this. As I stagger towards them, I remember I’m supposed to be singing, curse under my breath, and pick up the tune again—badly. Never could sing worth shit.
I’m useless without both arms, and I grab my left wrist, wrench my arm straight out in front of me, and scream as the shoulder pops back into the socket.
For too long, I fight not to pass out, but then shake my head. Hard.
Think, dumbass. Computer. Message.
Before the song ends and we have to start all over again, I manage to open a command prompt on the woefully out-of-date terminal. If I’m not careful, though, Kahlid and his men will know what I’ve done and they’ll move us—probably somewhere even worse—so I have to cover my tracks.
Every mission has a dropbox protocol of sorts. Specific codes to use and places to send a message when you can’t find an encrypted connection to CENTCOM. My fingers aren’t working right. Half-numb and still bloody. It takes me three tries to type in the IP address I memorized before we left base months ago.
I can’t authenticate. Too risky and time consuming. But I’ve thought a lot about what I’d do in this situation—in every situation. It’s what we trained for. Adaptability. So many days and nights alone, bound, or thrown down in the pit at the end of the tunnel without food or water. Nothing to do but think.
I fall silent as I type, but Dax and Ryker pick up my slack until Ry screams.
ODA-94820RJT008000-AF-HK-ACHERON
I have no idea if anyone will see the message or understand my code. My initials. My birthdate. AF for Afghanistan. HK for Hindu Kush. And Acheron—another name for Hell. It’s the best I can do. The message disappears into the ether, and I cover my tracks with a few lines of code that look like I’m trying to open an encrypted connection to a dummy server the Army runs.
Wait. I don’t hear anything. No more singing. Just…footsteps. Fuck.
“Resourceful,” the heavily accented voice says from behind me. I whirl around and only have time to register the amused gaze of one of Kahlid’s men before he fires a stun gun, and I go down, my entire body twitching and my vision shrinking so I can only see a single drop of blood on his boot before I fade away completely.
It’s hot. The stagnant, thick air reeks of sweat, human waste, and filth. I force my eyes open, but can’t see anything in the dark. Am I dreaming? Am I dead? No. My shoulder throbs with every breath, and I reach up to poke at it gently… Fuck. I’m naked. This is new. My hand falls to the ground. Dirt. Darkness and dirt. Where am I? This doesn’t smell, sound, or feel like Hell.
Slowly, I rock up to my knees, dizziness threatening to send me back onto my ass, but I suck in the hot air and will my heartbeat to slow. Control. I’m a master at it. Controlling my body. My mind. As the rapid beat calms, I shuffle forward.
