23

SOMEWHERE IN SOUTHERN LEBANON

Kailea Curtis had no idea if it was day or night.

She had no idea where she was or how long she had been there. All she knew was that it was blistering hot and she could not remember the last time she had had something to drink.

She had awoken to find a cloth hood over her head. Sweat was pouring down her face and back. She felt claustrophobic. She was having trouble breathing. She could feel the adrenaline in her system spiking and knew she had to fight the fear.

Flashbacks began ripping through her mind. She could feel the M4 in her hands. She remembered firing three steady bursts. She could picture herself ejecting an empty magazine and preparing to reload. And then she saw herself being surrounded by hooded men—three of them—their Kalashnikovs raised and ready to fire. She saw a fourth man stepping toward her, holding a pistol in his hands. No, wait. It was not a pistol. It was a Taser. And that was the last thing she could remember until now.

There was no way, however, that she had merely been tased. She had to have been drugged as well. She had never done drugs. She rarely even drank. Her father had been a violent drunk, and she had vowed never to go down that path. She was not used to feeling drugged out or hungover, but that had to be what this was. Someone had given her a heavy dose of narcotics. The problem was they were wearing off and she could feel herself teetering on the precipice of panic.

Suddenly Marcus’s face came to mind. It was distant and out of focus. He was saying something, but she could barely hear him. It was as if they were underwater. Still, she thought she could make it out if she concentrated. Most of it, anyway. She’d been trained for this, he was telling her. You can do this. Fight the fear. Control the adrenaline. Channel it. Manage it. Let it sharpen your focus.

Without even realizing it, she began counting down from fifty. It was a trick Marcus had taught her to slow her breathing and steady her nerves.

All stress is self-induced, she heard him saying. It’s in your mind. You don’t need it. Lay it down. Panic is contagious. But so is calm. Stay calm. Do your work. Slow is smooth. Smooth is smart. Smart is straight. Straight is deadly.

It was working. Her heart rate began dropping. Her breathing slowed. The claustrophobia began to fade.

She was sitting on a metal chair. Her hands were chained behind her back. Her feet were chained together too.

She could hear two people whispering. They were both men. But they were not speaking Arabic. They were speaking Russian. It struck her as odd, and she strained to hear what they were saying. She could not get all of it, but one of them was complaining he was hungry. The other was complaining their cell phones had been taken away.

Then she heard the roar of fighter jets and a series of explosions. They weren’t exactly close, but neither were they so far away. Best of all, they were Pratt & Whitney engines. She would know them anywhere. Which meant they were American planes—or at least American built. Which meant they were almost certainly Israeli fighters. Which meant the Israelis were getting closer. That was a good sign. So, too, was the fact that no one had spoken directly to her. Nor had anyone laid a hand on her. Not yet, anyway.

Marcus was right. She could do this. She could endure almost anything they threw at her without giving away anything vital. She just needed to stall. After all, the good guys were coming. It was only a matter of time.

That led to another thought. Had she been the only one taken? What about Marcus? What about Yigal? Had they been able to retreat before she’d been overrun and captured? She hoped so. Marcus would make it his mission to come get her. He wouldn’t rest until she was safe. She was sure of it. He’d probably demand to lead the rescue party. For an instant, that thought actually put a smile on her face.

Then it occurred to her that both men might have been killed in the raid. Yigal had been in the IDF less than two years. He was an intelligence analyst, for crying out loud, not a combat soldier. Did she really believe the young Israeli had safely eluded an entire Hezbollah raiding party if she hadn’t? Not a chance. He was either dead or captured. If he had been captured, then maybe he was close by.

And what about Marcus? Was there any chance he had not fought to the bitter end? None, she knew. Nor was there any chance he had retreated to safety without her at his side. That meant Marcus, too, was dead or captured.

Which was it? Kailea wondered. And how could she find out?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy boots approaching. A moment later, she heard a metal key click in a metal lock. She heard a metal door turn on metal hinges. The boots were getting closer. Every muscle in her body tensed.