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…
From the comfort of his porch, J.T. watched Bo's Jeep inch down the street, hesitate at the stop sign for opposing traffic. The white cast gleamed in the sun, stark, but not as harsh as the metal rods that had poked from his skin during the early days of reconstructive surgery after their release.
J.T. held tighter to the wooden railing until splinters cut into his fingers with grounding reminders that he existed in the present. In the States. At home.
Easier said than done.
God, he needed to get his head out of the desert. He told himself Shakespeare had it right again in Othello by asking, "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"
But he wanted this hell over now. Instead, his brain and his soul were still stuck in that time. Which left him less than half here when more than ever he needed his head on straight to fix his life. Salvage whatever was left of his marriage.
Bo's Jeep, his cast, if not the memories, disappeared around the corner. They'd maintained life throughout their capture. They'd maintained honor until their rescue.