Fireplay by Steve P. Vincent (books you need to read .TXT) 📕

Jack’s eyes were squeezed shut as he tried to move his head away from the cold steel barrel pressed into his temple, but Brinson simply pushed the pistol against him harder. He was afraid of the lengths Brinson would go to in order to protect his secrets, even as his mind cursed his stupidity. He’d walked right into Brinson’s grasp.

He was bundled into the back of a car with Brinson in the back and two men in front. As the black sedan roared forward and Jack was pushed back in his seat, his eyes flicked between Brinson and the world outside. They were leaving Kabul and the relative safety he’d enjoyed. US and Afghani authorities alike would do nothing to help him, and he was in the hands of a man who had every interest in silencing him.

“Please, just let me go.” Jack’s voice wavered slightly and the barrel pressed ever harder. “I won’t report the story. I won’t report anything.”

Brinson laughed. “You had your chance. You didn’t have to snoop around Navitas. You could have given up your story. You could have gone home.”

“But – ”

Brinson pressed on. “Instead, you kept digging and asking questions. I’m not going to hurt you, but you can’t be allowed to live. Goodbye, Jack.”

Jack cowered away. He clenched his muscles and gritted his teeth as the pistol clicked and gave a slight kick. A second after Brinson pulled the trigger, however, he still seemed to be alive. His nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply. He swung his hands around and clubbed Brinson, despite the handcuffs, over and over again. The other man just laughed as he weathered the blows. His laughter only grew louder.

“You’re a bastard.” Jack fumed, as he took a deep breath and placed his hands back on his legs. It wasn’t smart to antagonize a guy with a gun. “A fucking bastard.”

Brinson lowered the pistol and laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Jack. You’ve got fire. I wish my men could have some fun with you. Unfortunately, your fate is sealed.”

“Why?”

Brinson shrugged. “We were just a small outpost amongst the sand until you did your best Lois fucking Lane impression and stumbled into danger. I’m not a bad guy. We tried to get you to back off, Jack. But you just wouldn’t fucking listen.”

“My wife accuses me of that all the time.”

Brinson grunted and sat back in his seat. The conversation had clearly finished for now. Jack had no idea where they were taking him but he assumed it was back to Navitas, where they’d kill him and quietly make his body disappear. He figured he had about eight hours to live. What irked him most was that he’d told nobody about the Dropbox account. Josefa knew there was a story, but not how to unlock any of it.

He closed his eyes and settled into the drive, racking his brain for any possible way to escape. It was useless. Brinson had frisked him and taken all of his gear. His hands were cuffed and he had three marines sitting within six feet of him. While he hoped that Ortiz or the Embassy would help, Brinson was right. He was screwed.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he woke there was no sign of the city, just desert on either side of the road. Jack looked to his left, where Brinson was staring out the window with the pistol still in hand. Somewhere along the way they’d picked up an escort: a pair of ANA Humvees in front of them and another behind. He sighed. Any chance of escape had fallen from minimal to zero.

Jack turned to Brinson. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Major Brinson sighed. “Really? You’ll be dead in two hours, Jack.”

Jack nodded. Brinson sighed again, told his men to pull over, and then dug around in the bag at his feet for some toilet paper. He tossed it to Jack as the car moved onto the gravel shoulder of the road and ground to a halt. The Marine riding in the front passenger seat climbed out, opened Jack’s door, and jerked him roughly out of the car. Jack marched a hundred feet away and squatted.

As he shat, Jack looked back to the convoy. Only the man who’d pulled him out of the sedan was watching Jack. The marine leaned against the vehicle with apparent impatience. He had a sidearm with him, but no rifle. The other marines had stayed in the vehicle and the ANA Humvees showed no sign of activity as they idled with their troops inside.

Jack exaggerated the time it was taking him to finish as his mind raced. This was likely his one chance to escape, even though the possibility of any attempt succeeding was nearly zero. There were a dozen or so armed men less than a football field away, he had no weapons or supplies, and there was nothing but desert ahead.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He thought of his wife, Erin, waiting back in New York, oblivious to the danger he was in. She’d be the most upset by his death or, more likely, his unexplained disappearance. He doubted the marines would be in a hurry to release details about his fate. He’d be another anonymous body claimed by the sand.

He opened his eyes again. He’d decided. This was his only chance. He kept low as he wiped his ass and pulled up his pants, keeping his eye on the convoy. Nobody was paying him more than the loosest attention. As best as he could tell, he might get another fifty yards away from them before they noticed what he was doing and the bullets started to fly. But he had to try.

He stood at his full height, turned, and sprinted off into the desert.