73

SOMEWHERE IN LEBANON

The drugs were wearing off.

Marcus was fading in and out of consciousness and trying to remember where he was. He was once again drenched with sweat, and as he came to, he was finding it hard to breathe. It was brutally hot. He could barely move. This was not the freezer. Nor the latrine. He caught a whiff of sour fruit, and that was when he remembered.

His first task was not to panic, he told himself. But that was easier said than done. He was trapped in the trunk of a Mercedes-Benz. And being cooked alive. The narcotics, he realized, had been a blessing. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but he was tempted to wish he had never woken up.

Marcus forced such thoughts away. He was awake now. And there was no going back. He could feel the car moving. He could hear the road beneath him. There was no telling how much longer they would be driving. He had no idea where they were going. He assumed Beirut, and likely to the airport, to be transferred to Tehran. There were only two things he was certain of now. For the first time since his capture almost two days earlier, he was not being watched. That meant this might be the only chance he had to escape. And he had to escape.

The trunk was pitch-black. But it would not be for long. He was barefoot. He remembered that his boots and socks had been stripped from him in the earliest minutes of his capture. There was, therefore, the real risk that he would cut himself and be unable to stop the bleeding. But it could not be helped. To escape, he needed at least some light, and to get it, he had only one option. So he began to kick furiously at the left taillight, the only one he could reach. The lights were plastic, not glass. It should not be that hard, he decided, and he was right. Before long, Marcus had his first success. The light popped out, and day flooded the trunk of the cab.

Now he needed some room to maneuver. He had never been claustrophobic, but the combination of the tight space and the immense heat was rapidly getting to him. He could feel his heart rate spiking. His breathing was becoming more intense. There was not much time. Either he was going to break free, or he was going to go crazy. He began counting down from fifty. That had always worked for him in the past. But this time it did not. So he abandoned the effort and silently begged God for mercy.

His hands were bound behind his back. Without their use, he knew he had no chance. He pressed his torso against the wood crates and pushed them as far toward the front of the trunk as he possibly could. It wasn’t much, but it gave him a couple of additional inches.

Next he curled himself up in a ball and forced his bound hands downward until—with enormous effort—he was able to get them under his legs. Now they were in front of him. Part of his SERE training in the Corps had been how to break free from a range of makeshift handcuffs, from flexicuffs and zip ties to duct tape and rope. If he had a little more room, he knew he could tear the duct tape in a flash. He just needed to raise his hands above his head and bring them down onto a sharp object in a sudden, swift motion while pulling his wrists apart. If it did not work the first time, a few more tries would strain and then rip the tape, and he would be free. But there was not nearly enough room to try it now.

And Marcus felt the panic beginning to overtake him.

The closer they got to Beirut, the more checkpoints they encountered.

Al-Masri knew entering the capital was going to be difficult, especially if they tried to enter from the south. He therefore directed Zayan to head to the city of Jounieh but not enter it. Jounieh was a city of well over a hundred thousand people. The broader metropolitan area comprised more than four hundred thousand. It might be a good place to hide, but as it was not their destination, there was no point risking additional checkpoints.

Instead, al-Masri ordered Zayan to hook around Jounieh’s eastern suburbs and take Highway 51 heading south. This route would finally take them to Beirut. It would also cost them precious hours.

The clock on the dashboard already read 7:16 p.m. The sun would soon be going down. And they still had hours to go before they were safe.

Marcus felt around in the shadows for the wooden crates surrounding him.

The ones in the backseat of the taxi had been filled with watermelons, he recalled. They were likely built of far sturdier boards than these crates, which were filled with smaller fruits—loquats, he thought—not nearly as heavy as the watermelons. These crates were built of thinner boards, and from the feel of them they had seen a lot of sun and a lot of rain. They were old and weathered, and Marcus had an idea. Grabbing hold of the middle slat of the closest crate, he yanked on it, trying to break it off. Instead he simply pulled the whole crate toward him.

He shoved the crate back against the front of the trunk with his torso and tried again. He pulled up his knees and placed them against the box to create some resistance. Then he took hold of the slat and yanked again. The crate didn’t move, but neither did the slat break off.

Again Marcus shifted his position. He curled himself up in a ball, used his legs to push against the crate with all the force he could muster, and yanked the slat with opposite force. This time the slat did break free. Sour plums tumbled out all around him, and he felt a jolt of pain as the sharp wood drove into his left forearm.