The sand swirl parted to reveal … a caravan of crappy jeeps, trucks, RVs. Nothing organized about their approach to indicate military training. Damn.
J.T. slipped his emergency beacon off his survival vest, dug a hole in the sand. Tossed it inside. Pitched brush over it. If they were taken, at least rescue troops would have some point of reference and tracks to follow.
"Keep your head down," Spike instructed. "Don't move. Don't even look at them. With some luck they'll drive right by us."
Bo whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Unless they have dogs."
"Zip it, sunshine," Scorch interjected. "We can do without the gloom and doom."
The drone of engines increased with the cloud of sand spitting behind the vehicles, drawing closer, eating up the miles, becoming clearer as they broke through the rippling heat waves. A half-dozen vehicles, as best he could tell by sneaking peeks through peripheral vision. He couldn't risk looking at them directly, but God, it felt as if they were right on top of them. Still driving though.
J.T. quit breathing. His heart slammed his ribs until it seemed ready to explode out his ears.
The vehicles jerked to a stop, one after the other. The pounding in his ears stopped as well. Everything stopped inside him. Stilled.
Maintain life. Maintain honor. Return. Only that mattered. Survival. Returning home.
Voices shouted in Arabic. Movement flickered to the right. At least twenty or so men.
Honor. Life. Return.
Boots appeared in his line of sight. Paused. Stayed. They'd been found. Spit dried inside his mouth.
A shout sounded from above him. J.T. allowed himself to view through peripheral vision. No direct eye contact. No sudden movements or aggressive action to provoke.
The men looming over them weren't wearing uniforms. Mismatched weapons confirmed his fears. Russian-made AK-47 assault rifles. M-16s. Uzis. All weaponry of the very sorts of people they'd been sent to gather intelligence about. Underworld types dealing in opium trade to funnel money to terrorist camps.
J.T. knew. He was in a crapload of trouble.
His fingers jabbed into the sand as if to anchor himself for what would come next. Their captors would establish dominance and control from the start, pummel them to obtain information ASAP to maximize its utility.
He just needed to hold on, stay alive until rescue could come. He stayed on his stomach beside his three crewmates. Flattened his palms by his head, in the sand.
Keep calm.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw it. The betraying twitch from Bo, just seconds before– ah hell, don't do it, kid—the young copilot looked up.
Like making eye contact with the stalking lion.
The man over him shouted, stepped on Bo's right hand. Crunching.
J.T. swallowed down bile. Grit his teeth. Struggled for restraint.
Before Bo's echoing curse faded, the rebel raised his AK-47 above his head. Brought the butt down, fast, hard.
On Bo's other hand.
A strangled scream ripped along the roaring wind. Bo rolled to his side, cradled his mangled fingers, distorted wrist to his chest with his other abused hand. His face screwed up in agony even as defiance blazed from his too-young eyes.
Inviting the worst.
The crunch of breaking bones reverberated in J.T.'s brain, breaking something inside him, as well. He didn't remember making a decision to move, act, intercept. Just flung himself sideways while those cracking-bone sounds rattled around in his head.
Stupid. Reckless. Useless. But already the rifle was raised to come down on Bo again and J.T. couldn't stop the man. But he could control the damage.
J.T. shielded his copilot. His comrade in arms. Launched his body between the young soldier and the shouting rebel. Took a rifle butt to the shoulder. Caught a boot in the ribs.
Focused on the big three. Life. Honor. Returning home…