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I close my eyes, when suddenly, there’s a scuffling sound above, outside the bars covering the top of the pit. A shadow appears, hovering over the edge—the outline of a man looking down at me.
“Fuck off,” I hiss, glaring at the guy I can’t quite make out. “Unless you’re looking to make round two a little more fair. Let’s hear you chuckle then, bitch,” I snarl.
The figure says nothing, and suddenly, something heavy drops to a thud next to me.
A rock.
“Eat shit,” I hiss, flipping the asshole off. The figure says nothing, but slowly, furtively, it gives a wave, points to the rock, nods. And then he’s gone.
I frown, glancing down, and suddenly realizing there’s something wrapped around the rock at my feet.
It’s paper.
My jaw tightens as I pick it up, pulling the paper away and opening it up to see it’s a note, written in broken English.
“You package is safe, Mister Russell. You have told me no debt so many time. But this I do for the lives of my sons. The package is buried under my home. You will get out. When you do, it is be here for you. I pray for you, my friend. – Samir”
I close my eyes, sinking against the wall and forcing myself to breathe. I know Juliana’s out there, waiting for me. And now I know the gold is too. It won’t be tomorrow. It won’t be the day after. It might not be the month after, or fuck, the year. But someday, somehow, I’m getting out of this fucking hole.
And when I do, there’ll be hell to pay.
Two years ago:
The hit comes out the darkness, like it always does. A fist to face. This is how I wake up most days here.
I grunt as three of them rush in from the door, slamming me the ground and screaming in Arabic. One pushes the business end of an AK-47 into my jaw as the other two tie my wrists behind my back, they haul me up, dragging me away down a dark hallway.
Fuck it, I let them. At this point, none of this even affects me anymore. And we’ve done this little dance a couple dozen times by now. Trust me, after the twentieth time some bitch-ass terrorists try and scare you with the theatrics, you stop giving them the satisfaction of being scared.
They drag me into an underground bunker and shove me to my knees on a rug in front of a camera. Yup, we’ve done this before, and I don’t even care anymore. Behind me, there’s the Taliban flag on the wall, and when one of them starts shouting through his mask and brandishing this huge-ass sword, I just stare at him with cold, unblinking eyes.
The camera turns on, the guy behind it nods, and suddenly, they all leap into action. Two of them start screaming some shit in Arabic while the guy with the sword makes a big show of waving it around and then placing it against my neck.
I resist the urge to chuckle.
I know enough of the language to get the basic gist of what they’re saying—how they’re going to cut my head off, death to America, death to England, death to France, death to Russia, death to… fuck, I lose track as they just keep going. They even scream something about George Bush, Jr. And part of me is inclined to fill them in that he’s no longer president, but they seem like they’re on a roll, so I just roll my eyes.
None of this shit scares me. I’ve been a star in forty of their goddamn movies so far. They’re not cutting my head off, or they would have by now. Over the last God knows how many months, I’ve slowly been figuring these assholes out. And soon, I’m going to use it.
While my captors go off on more rants, I let my mind wander. I wonder briefly, as I frequently do, if Jules still thinks of me. I wonder if she’s moved on. Honestly, at this point, if she has, I just hope he’s good to her. The idea of another man with her… I mean, fuck. It makes me want to kill with my bare hands. But to her, I’m dead. To the whole fucking world, I’m dead. I’m sure Darren’s told them all as much—that I died with the rest of the squad in the attack he orchestrated. I wouldn’t fault her if she’s with another man. I can’t.
But, when I get out of here, I will be taking her back. And if that other guy put’s up a fight, believe me… he’ll regret it.
Two weeks ago:
I move like a fucking shadow. Like a wraith. Five years I’ve waited for this, and tonight, there’ll be no hesitation.
No mercy.
The piece of metal I’ve been filling with a rock for months is ready, bent the right way finally to get into the lock on my cell door. And it works. Slowly, my own spit greasing the hinges, so they stay silent, it swings open, and I smile grimly.
