Page 193 of The Fourth Option
The Afghan’s hands went to Walker’s legs, frantically trying to pry them apart, slipping on the sweat and blood that covered the exposed skin.
Walker applied more pressure, staring into the man’s dread-filled eyes as his frenzied grasps failed to find purchase on Walker’s bare thighs.
The man’s hands went behind his back and produced the Choora knife, which he unsheathed and slashed at Walker’s legs, slicing through the outside of his quad.
Walker roared and twisted tighter.
The Afghan’s eyes rolled back into his head as the loss of blood flow to his brain resulted in unconsciousness. The knife that had originally been designed to penetrate the armor of invaders when wielded by Pashtun tribes in the Khyber Pass dropped to the floor.
Walker felt the body go limp between his legs but held him in place for another minute to be sure. He then kicked him away.
Walker pulled himself up the chain inch by inch until he was at the support beam. He threw his legs over it to relieve the pressure on his hands and unhooked the chain from the spike that had held it in place. He dropped to the floor and used the Choora knife to cut through his leg and hand restraints. He carefully uncoiled the wire from his big toe and even more carefully unwound it from his genitals. He then took a knee next to his enemy and drove the traditional Afghan blade into his throat.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
WALKER STOOD, NAKED,sweaty, and caked with blood from his jaw to his thighs, the new wound in his right leg seeping, his chest heaving, looking down at the dead Afghan at his feet.
He turned and walked toward the FBI agent, the long, bloody blade in his hand.
He knelt and sliced through the restraints around Stanton’s hands and feet.
“Jarrett Stanton, I’m Chris Walker. I believe you’ve been looking for me.”
The FBI man’s eyes shifted between the naked warrior before him and the dead man whose blood was pooling on the floor.
“Hold this,” Walker said, handing Stanton the blade. “Stand by the door, and if anyone comes in, stab them in the heart.”
The former CIA operative darted into the attached bedroom and returned moments later with a Browning A-5 shotgun in his hands and a ripped bedsheet tied around the deep gash on his leg.
He quickly peered through one of the small windows and leaned the shotgun against the wall.
“Hard to see out there,” he said, pulling on his jeans and T-shirt that the Afghan had thrown into the corner. He then knelt to put on his socks and boots.
“This is a Browing Automatic 5 shotgun,” he said, picking it back up. “It’s only got five shells, hence the Auto-5.”
Stanton still had not said a word.
“I checked and it’s loaded with double aught. Belle’s grandfather had it here for home defense. Stanton, are you getting this?”
“Yeah,” Stanton stammered.
“Okay, five shells. How many bad guys did your buddy Bates leave outside?”
“What? Ah, two. Two guards armed with AKs.”
“Where did your partner go down?”
“Just in front of the Tahoe.”
“Do you have more firepower in there?”
“My M4.”
“Good. This is our plan. We are going to walk, not run, out of here. For a split second they might think it’s the Afghan. They believe the noises they heard in here were torture. As soon as I see one of the guards, I am taking him down. Then I’m finding his friend. If we only see one guard, the other might have gone with the two who have Belle in the shed.”
“How do you know she’s in the shed?”
“I heard her scream as they dragged her in but she’s not screaming now, so we have to move. You with me, Stanton?”
