Chapter Three

 

Bree dashed toward the trees. The men had a truck. The only way to up her advantage was to choose the type of terrain their vehicle wouldn’t be able to handle.

She threw a wild glance over her shoulder. The man who’d tried to grab her was sprawled on his back, gasping like a line-caught tuna, while his partner stared after Bree with such obvious shock that it was almost funny. Obviously, he hadn’t expected a woman.

Bree yanked her wool cap lower over her matted hair. With her gun tucked to her chest, she ran uphill. Her pursuers wore civilian parkas, not military uniforms. They weren’t soldiers, or at least not openly so. Not that it mattered. They could still haul her off to prison, making sure to manhandle her just short of actual bloodletting before dressing her up for the customary televised propaganda interview. But she’d give them nothing to use.

They might force her to say she was sorry for flying over their country, but everyone would see in her eyes that she wasn’t. She’d never apologize to a regime that had for the better part of a century kept their own people on the brink of starvation, while a privileged few lived a life of luxury enviable in any economy, in any country, all while they threatened the rest of the world with incineration by nuclear weapons.

Barking interrupted her thoughts. The dogs were back, running with her, their breath puffs of mist, their eyes shining with delight. One of them snatched at her sleeve, trying to slow her down. “Get lost, Fido!” Bree yanked her arm free. The dog ducked before she could whack it with the butt of her pistol.

The men behind her were on the move, too. She could hear the truck’s engine, and it was coming closer. No! If these people captured her before she could rescue her wingman, what would happen to Cam?

Another one of the dogs leaped at her. It grabbed her sleeve, and hung its full body weight from her arm. She tried to shake it free as the second dog latched on to the back of her jacket. Her strength flagged as the extra weight dragged at her. Gasping, she stumbled forward. Her lungs burned; her chest ached. Water streamed out of her eyes and down her cheeks, stinging her wind-burned skin. But she would not give up!

Bree struck back at the dogs with her pistol. A muffled thump told her she’d smacked the dog’s shoulder and not its skull. It yelped and fell away. Without missing a step, she started beating at the dog clamped onto her jacket.

The truck gained on her. It was white with extra-fat tires meant for rugged terrain and barreled over ruts and bumps and through the smaller trees as if they were nothing.

Bree bolted into the trees where the trunks grew closest together. Drive through this, bucko.

And he did, knocking down the pines as if they were saplings. The landscape opened up—a clearing where it appeared a long-ago forest fire had created a meadow. Bree slowed, searched left and right for cover. And found none.

Bree gritted her teeth and decided to make the dash across the open field, whacking at the persistent dogs as she went. She’d throw one off only to have another attach itself to her and slow her down. Finally, she hit one hard enough to send it to the ground. It didn’t get back up.

A startling twanging sound ripped through the air. Something rustled above her, and then dropped around her. At first, she thought tree branches had fallen. But it was a net! It had come from the truck, from a catapult attachment on the roof.

Bree felt like a fly caught in a spiderweb. The snare was made of heavy, rough twine. She struggled to break free as the dogs raced around her, triumphant and barking, a frenzied game of ring around the rosy. She flipped them off. “Say it to the finger!”

Four men got out of the truck. Two of them she recognized from earlier. The guy she’d thrown on his ass wouldn’t meet her gaze, she noticed with muted satisfaction, and flicked her wary attention from their faces to those of the newcomers. They appeared to be civilians, too.

Bree hunted for the edge of the net, but the hem had pulled tight, closing off the bottom. The only option was to cut her way out. She drew out her pocketknife and began hacking away. The net’s webbing was thick, heavyweight. She worked feverishly. The two new men walked toward her with alarming purpose. There was no question in her mind that they planned to take her into custody. Her heart turned over. She’d already sliced open a small hole, but she needed more.

Come on, come on. She tried to cheat and stretch the hole before it was wide enough. Pulling on the outer edges of the tear didn’t expand it an inch. The rope was too strong. She slashed at the webbing, her forehead soaked with sweat. The woolen cap itched at her skin. A few more cuts and she’d be free.

“Drop your knife,” the taller of the two men ordered. It took her a heartbeat to realize that he’d used perfect English. A North Korean educated in England, she guessed.

Bree dropped the knife, but only to draw her pistol. Stealthily, she slipped the 9mm out of her pocket. Article Two, Code of Conduct: I will never surrender of my own free will.

Bree released the safety and waited for the two men to reach her. One was a heavyset goon of a man with a vacant face. The perfect Igor, she thought. He was big, and he had an even bigger gun, a kind of Chinese-made automatic rifle she recognized. He held it limp-armed, pointed down, but Bree knew that could change in a heartbeat.

The taller man appeared to be the boss. His parka was a few steps up in quality from Igor’s, and his features were fine, almost patrician. The dictator’s nobility, she guessed, the look of a greedy pig who satisfied his needs before those of infants and children. She knew all about his type. May they rot in hell, or whatever form hell took in their religion—if they even had a faith. And if they were atheists, may they rot anyway, and their brethren, here and around the world. They were why she’d joined the military, to keep people from having to live under their oppression, with no hope of ever breaking free. If these men thought she’d be their biddable little puppet, they were way off base. I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender my men while they still have the means to resist.

The men stopped about twenty feet away. “You are not what I expected,” the taller man remarked.

Well, neither are you, she thought. She watched warily as he beckoned to the two other men who’d hung back near the truck before turning back to her, examining her from head to toe. “A female, but you’ll do,” he said.

She’d do? Bree puzzled over that while the pair approached eagerly and accepted a small sack from him. Good Lord. What had he just done? Paid them for her?

Gah. It sure looked that way. It was like watching a transaction take place in the market. The men smiled, their heads bobbing in appreciation and respect. Cigarettes dangled from their mouths. Their hands were rough and dirty, used to labor. Locals. Farmers, maybe. Backing away, they whistled for the dogs—another question answered—the mongrel ownership issue. Then the group disappeared into the woods. So, Mr. Suave, Pay-peasants-for-pilots was a bounty hunter. He examined the hole she’d made in the net and then her, shaking his head as if she were a disobedient child. Bree frowned. Really? Is that what he thought? We’ll see how disobedient this bullet feels going down your throat, creep.

“If you return me to my people, they’ll reward you,” she tried, thinking of the blood chit in her right pants pocket. And of the radio that couldn’t seem to transmit past the hills. “Let me use your phone, and I’ll call them.”

“No.”

“The Geneva Convention states, regarding the treatment of prisoners of war—”

He interrupted her. “You are not a prisoner of war.”

You could have fooled me.

“I will now free you from the net. Drop your weapon.”

Not that easy. Bree tightened her hand around her pistol.

The boss nodded at his monster accomplice, who lifted his machine gun. Bree heard the click of a safety, saw the red line of an infrared sight track upward. But she couldn’t see where the beam ended, because Igor aimed between her eyes.

She swallowed. “Okay. Okay.” But she took her time. Every little step counted when it came to resistance; she’d learned that in POW training. Ever so slowly, she opened her hand. Finally, the pistol hit the ground by her boots with a solid thump.

Igor stepped forward, grabbed the hem of the net—but not her pistol, she noted. With a mighty grunt, he lifted the heavy webbing over his head, holding it high, obviously expecting her to walk out from beneath it. While his hands were occupied, Bree scooped up a handful of mud and threw the dirt in the men’s faces. As they struggled to wipe their eyes, she scooped up her pistol and took off running.

Bree ran harder than she ever had. Although the snow in this area barely covered the ground, it slowed her down. Pressing her elbow to her ribs to assuage a stitch in her side, Bree tried to increase her pace but couldn’t go any faster. Her lungs hurt and her body burned with fatigue. Her energy had finally bottomed out. Shock, untreated cuts and bruises, hunger—everything had conspired to suck her dry. Igor was hot on her trail. She didn’t dare chance a glance behind her; she knew who it was by the sound of his big boots.

The truck followed, too. She turned, fired at the tires. Dust kept her from telling if she’d scored a hit. She swerved her aim to Igor, but he was closer than she’d thought.

Igor swiped at her, missed her collar, but pulled off her woolen cap. Blinded momentarily, she felt her finger press the trigger as he slammed it from her hand. The gunshot rang in her ears. She ran, mourning the loss of her weapon. But Igor had the advantage of height and food in his belly. His next strike caught her by the jacket. He reeled her in.

She tried to unzip the jacket to win her freedom at the expense of what she had stored in the pockets, like a wolf that gnawed off its leg to escape a trap. But she stumbled and Igor tackled her.

They tumbled over the hard ground. Bree knew she was gaining bruises and lacerations, but pain didn’t register as her fear factor soared. She was about to be captured, or killed. The reality of it sank in hard. Article Three: If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and will aid others to escape.

She fought back, kicking and punching, moves she’d used only on the practice mats in martial arts workouts. She struggled free, but Igor threw her to the ground. She landed on her stomach, and it knocked the air out of her. He flipped her on her back. The toe of her boot caught him on the chin. In the corner of her eye, she saw him go down. And she was off again, running hard.

The ground around her popped and fizzed. Confused, she watched dirt spray up in clods. A second later, the retort of a gun explained it all. They were shooting at her.

Something slammed into her calf, felt like a fist. It knocked her leg out from under her. She rolled on the ground, clutching her calf. Her hand came away bloody.

The cloth was torn. Then the pain kicked in, a delayed reaction to the gunshot wound. Ah, God. Please. Don’t let me die yet...

She crawled, collapsed, and pushed to her knees again, inching forward as the men gained on her. A deep sense of regret swamped her. She thought of all the things in life she’d never experience: falling in love, marriage, having kids. She thought of the friends she’d never see again, the places she’d never visit, her parents’ grief when they learned of her death. USAF representatives would make another visit to Chestnut: an officer or two, and this time a chaplain, dressed in crisp blue uniforms. Her mother would be the one to open the front door to the sight of those grim-faced men with their sympathetic eyes, because Bree’s father would be in the shop in the barn working on someone’s car. “Mrs. Maguire, we’re sorry...so sorry...”

Bree crawled, gasping. The men’s boots appeared in her blurred vision. Igor grabbed her by the collar and hoisted her to her feet. She mashed her heel onto the top of his foot, bringing her elbow backward, his privates the desired target. But he jerked her backward, into his body. Something cold and round pressed into her temple.

A gun.

Bree went still as the bounty hunter walked toward her. Breathing hard, the gun pressed to her head, she weighed her options. Hell, she weighed Igor. She’d learned how to handle imprisonment and interrogation. She knew how to resist. Most of all, she’d learned how to survive. She was a fighter pilot, a valuable resource; her country wanted her home, alive. It was looking more and more likely that this pair wanted to keep her that way, or they’d have killed her already. Her only hope was that Cam would somehow escape this pair’s notice, and live until she could be rescued. Because I won’t be able to help you, Scarlet Bree swallowed. I’m sorry.

She glared at her pistol, dangling from the bounty hunter’s hand, before slowing raising her gaze to his dark eyes. He walked toward her, pulling something from his pocket. A hypodermic needle.

“There’s money for you if you give me back, unharmed. A lot of money,” she bargained desperately, breathlessly, recalling again the blood chit. “You’ll need the paper in my right thigh pocket. Go on, take it. Have a look.”

The bounty hunter came for her, his arm raised. “You are what I want. Not the money.”

Bree started to struggle. Igor jerked her against him, reminding her of the gun pressed to her head. She hated the gasp that escaped her dry lips as the needle sank into her upper arm. It burned. Immediately, she felt woozy, and fought futilely against the effects of the drug.

Her limbs went weak. The ground felt spongy, and she was floating...floating...

The bounty hunter sheathed the needle and spoke to Igor in rapid-fire Korean. He sounded impatient, angry. He probably hadn’t liked chasing her all over the countryside.

Igor wrenched her upright and threw her into the back of the truck. She landed on her stomach, and tried to push to her knees, but her arms and legs didn’t seem to be working right. She could lift her head and little else. A layer of hay and assorted bundles covered the flatbed. On the sidewalls were round iron handles, like what you’d use for harnessing livestock. Well, she thought drunkenly, she’d be riding to their destination in utter, bovine comfort.

“I draw the line at a nose ring,” she slurred huskily against the pain in her leg and the effects of the drug. Igor gave no indication that he understood English or had heard her at all. A pair of wide hands smoothed down her hips.

She went rigid at Igor’s touch. Teeth clenched, she submitted to what appeared to be a thorough but thankfully asexual pat-down, hoping she’d hurry up and pass out before he changed his mind and committed an act far worse. Igor found her second pocketknife, the blood chit, map, and compass. He found her tube of lip gloss, too, treating it equally with the rest of her gear—as if it were all worthless. Wiping his hands as if she were dirty, Igor stomped out of the truck and swept the rear door closed. Bree heard it lock.

Hay made a flimsy shield against the chill of stainless steel. Where the bullet had grazed her calf, it stung like killer bees. Hay poked between her boots and damp woolen socks. It’s nothing, she told herself. She didn’t feel it, any of it.

She wouldn’t feel what they’d do to her later, either.

Bree fell forward as the truck lurched into gear and bumped violently up the wooded slope. Rolling onto the road didn’t much improve the ride. Apparently, the North Korean dictator had fed his dollars into nukes and not the roads.

Bree did a push-up and got her knees under her. It wasn’t only the truck that left her swaying. She was losing her coordination; she had to think about moving each body part. Staring at her hands half buried in the hay, she saw that they were blurred, both of them—no, all four of them. She blinked and then there were eight hands. Somehow, she made her way to the back wall, nearest the cab. Her arms buckled, but a lump cushioned her fall. It was more solid than a bag of hay, not as lumpy as a sack of potatoes. And it was warm.

Bree lifted her head. The lump was an unconscious American soldier slumped against the wall. A pilot, like her.

Bree squinted, dragged fingers down a cool cheek. A smooth cheek. The face spun in a drugged kaleidoscope, but she could make out the features. “Cam,” she whispered, grabbing her collar before she slumped sideways and passed out.