Saving Emmy by Rayne Lewis

Chapter 31

The blows kept coming. From the left. From the right. To the face and the gut. Over and over, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh met the stifling air. Thankfully—if it was something to be thankful for—the blood running from his broken nose made the blows glance off his cheeks.

“Hayes. E-eight...one—”

Whack!A blow from the left.

“Haye—”

Whack!Another strike to his jaw causing his teeth to bite his inner cheek. The tang of more blood hit his tongue.

“Work him over good.” A woman’s voice with a Middle Eastern accent came from behind him. “Don’t kill him, yet. Death is too merciful. She needs to see him and suffer.”

Ember. Where is she? Are they torturing her like they are m—

Thud!A fist to the gut. Mitch lost the air he didn't know his lungs held and the exhale spewed blood from his mouth and busted lip. He couldn’t inhale. The stifled air caught in his gaping mouth. Nothing in. Nothing out. Name. Rank. Number. He would neither scream, nor beg. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing his agony. Name. Rank. Number. His Army identification only crossed his lips.

Another jab to the ribs had him curling against the blow, wanting to cradle his side and comfort it, but his hands were bound to the arms of the chair along with his feet. He was at their mercy, of which they had none.

Crack!

Fuck!That was bone. His torso burned in agony.

“Hayes...” He sputtered, gasping and forcing out each word, “E—”

A blast to his temple gave sweet relief and darkness overcame him as he passed out.

* * *

Empty. That’s what they found when they barreled into the rear lot of the hardware store. Mitch’s truck and Ember’s SUV were abandoned. The store was locked up and they were nowhere to be found.

“Fuck!” Slate roared into the night. “Where the fuck are they?” His rhetorical question put the pit in his stomach into a ravishing churn.

“Calm down, Sla—”

“Don’t tell me to calm the fuck down! She’s gone. Missing. We know who has her. Fucking Bazwar!” The cursing rolled off his tongue like he was still enlisted in the Army. He’d curbed it somewhat after being enlisted for eight years, but it was a second language now. “Where the fuck do we start looking?” He turned to pace.

“Calm. The fuck. Down.” King’s voice permeated the still night air and commanded the resulting effect. Everyone stood stock still. They hadn’t heard him pull up while Slate was lost in his fit of anger.

“Chase called me.”

“Bastard. He wasn’t supposed to bother you...with Mary—”

“When your friend goes missing it isn’t a bother, it’s a fucking nightmare. And, I’m pissed that you didn’t call me but we’ll deal with that later.” King was taking control of the situation. “Trip picked up Mary and Rhys and took them to Susan’s. Maven’s there, too. Chase is with Susan.” King’s voice turned from concern to ice. “SITREP.”

Arctic began to fill King in with the little information they had, which in all, meant nothing.

“Blood!” T-BAR’s voice held venom. He was beside the back door in a shadowy area dimly lit by the poor lighting.

The guys gathered where T was standing, all of them pissed and stirring with anger.

“The night deposit.” Cy toed the bank bag with his boot, not wanting to pick it up and disturb any evidence.

“Search the lot,” King said as he headed to his truck. “I got flashlights for anyone who needs one.” It was an empty offer because each guy had a flashlight in their EDC, Every Day Carry bag, stowed in their trucks.

“Keys.” Creed crouched a few feet in front of the back door.

T and Arctic walked over to him.

“Slate, are these Mitch’s or Ember’s?” Arctic asked.

Slate wasn't in the huddle. The guys all looked to the middle of the lot where Slate was staring at something in his hand.

“Buddy...we got keys. Whose are they?”

But Slate didn’t answer, didn’t move an inch, didn’t acknowledge Arctic’s question. He curled his fist and brought it to his lips, pausing before he brought it to his heart.

T was the first to come to his side. “What is it, Slate?”

The others gathered, too.

He uncurled his fist and held his palm under the light coming from King’s flashlight.

“Fuck!” T’s roar was echoed by King, Arctic and Cy’s expletives.

In the light shining through the darkness, in Slate’s hand, laid his grandfather’s World War II battle cross. The one Slate wore and gave to Ember every time he deployed. The cross that Ember now wore daily, never taking it off even to shower.

It was bathed in blood.

Slate said nothing. The guys said nothing. The anger level hit ten. They all knew that things had just turned from bad to worse. Ember wouldn’t take off the cross. It would never leave her body—only by force, or by death.

All prayed it was the former.

* * *

Which was worse, the blinding darkness or the deafening silence? Both were driving her mad. She waited what seemed like hours, but without a watch, her phone, or the shadows of nightfall, she couldn’t gauge time. Plus, how long had she been unconscious? It could be daylight now. Though Ember doubted that because with the hot Texas sun her box of blackness would become an oven by mid-morning.

The thought sparked another spike of fear within her. She had to get out, though she knew that wasn’t possible. If she couldn’t get out, she’d have to make someone come in. She had to attract her abductors. That was her only hope of getting out.

Are they near? Is the truck abandoned in the Texas plains, in the middle of nowhere? Shit!Only one way to find out. She took in a breath for courage and hoped it worked. She’d have to gain the element of surprise when the door opened. Ember released the breath, filled her lungs again, covered her ears and let out a piercing scream. Her ears, though covered, rang at the shrill banshee cry reverberating off the metal walls and floor, making her wince. She held the scream for as long as she could until her lungs burned for air.

Next, she began to bang on the metal walls, feeling them give and flex with every beat of her flat hands. Again, she yelled and screamed, making enough noise to wake the dead. When she exhausted herself, she waited. Waited and listened. The silence was maddening. What she thought was deafening before was mere lulling compared to the absence now.

When her fit brought no one to the truck, she settled in for a second round, this time kicking at the side walls, causing claps of thunderous noise to echo in the box. Again, she stopped and waited, listening for any faint sound.

There!Her breath hitched and she strained to hear. Was her mind playing tricks on her, conjuring up sounds, just to appease her ears? There. Again! Talking. She put every ounce of effort into her ears. Yes. Voices, now louder. Louder means closer, right? She prayed it would only be one person, maybe muttering to themselves, but she didn’t lie to herself. There were most likely two, hopefully not more. It would be difficult, but not impossible. Being five-foot-three, she was usually underestimated. She was small, but she was fierce. She’d mastered hand-to-hand combat and was ready.

Ember backed herself against the farthest wall from the door. She would make them come to her. Her placement would force one, if not both, to get inside the box of the truck after opening the door to pull her out. She second-guessed her plan. Should I wait at the door and jump them before they realize I’m there? No, she shook off the plan. If it was one person, the plan would be brilliant, but if there were two, or heaven forbid more, she’d be offering herself up on a silver platter. Better stick with plan A. Hide in the back. Make them surrender to you.

The voices were right outside the truck. Her heartbeat raced though she was trying to calm it. God, can they hear my heartbeat echo in this tin can? Adrenaline readied her. There was no flight; just fight. And she was ready to fight. But, not ready for what happened next.

She heard the heavy, metal latch of the door fall from its confines. She widened her stance. Metal against metal, the rollers of the door rumbled as it rose less than a foot. Then, a light tinkling sound of metal hitting metal echoed against the floor.

Fuck!She knew that sound. The heavy metal door came back down, bathing her in darkness once again, but she bolted to it anyway. In the same instant, just as the sounds registered, the fumes of noxious gas spewed from the metal canister and rolled to the center of the box.

Fuck! Shit! Fuck!She instinctively held her breath and covered her face, knowing it would be no use. Her eyelids slammed shut as the gas erupted into her eyes and every pore of her nose. A deluge of snot poured down her face, mingling with her non-stop tears. She couldn’t wipe any of it because her coughing spasms caused her to clutch her chest.

Control yourself. You’ve been trained, you've experienced this before.

Her body betrayed her mind. Instinct had her banging and kicking at the sheet metal door while gagging on the gas and her own bile. She heaved but nothing came up. Again, two, three, four rounds of stomach-crunching heaves and she fell to her knees. Fuck! She was going to die. This was it. Bazwar won. She wouldn’t stop fighting even through the agony she was experiencing.

Never stop fighting!

She balled her fists tighter and threw them against the door along with her body, again and again, over and over, never stopping, never giving up, pain radiating through her.

“Open. The. Fucking. Dooooor!” She screamed each word and punctuated each by slamming a fist against the hard metal. The darkness in the truck matched the darkness overcoming her as she fell to the floor. The metal floor pooled her spit and vomit. Gagging, snotting and tearing, she still fought to stay conscious. Her lids cracked open and shut again, but not before she heard the metal rollers and a blinding glare shot into her eyes.

But, her darkness overtook her.

* * *

“King.” Tex’s signature twang came over the speaker of King’s phone. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a trace on Ember’s phone.”

Tex’s voice steeled on the other end and deepened at the mention of Ember’s name. “SITREP.” His command was heavy and direct.

King laid out the situation. He could hear Tex clicking away at the keyboard he always seemed to have in front of him. For a fleeting moment, King thought about Tex’s wife and family, wondering if they ever got a moment together, with him helping so many teams.

The silence on the line was agony and King knew personally every second mattered when the one you loved was in the grasp of a madman.

“I’ve got a lock on her cell.”

“You found her?” King’s eagerness got the better of him, but before the words were out he already knew Tex’s reply.

“Didn’t say that. All I can guarantee is that her cell is pinging off the tower near Rolvan Flats,” he paused, “about an hour away from the old, abandoned Timmack mineshaft.”

King knew the area and his heart sank to his stomach. The landscape surrounding the Timmack mineshaft was desolate. He only hoped they would find Ember and not just her phone pinging in isolation.

Tex came back on the line and rattled off the coordinates, “Keep me in the loop. Keep safe.”

Before King could thank him the line went dead.

Tex never held on the line long enough for thanks and gratitude, though King knew better than to attempt the gesture.

* * *

Six burly guys were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in King’s truck and were speeding out of town, blowing through red lights and pushing the speed limit beyond safe.

Now, approaching their target, the truck barely stayed on the road as it careened through the back roads while their GPS guided them to the middle of Bum-Fuck Nowhere. Pavement was no longer an option and the road was now dirt. Only headlights, and the night’s full moon, illuminated their pathway.

“I’d welcome a multi-cruiser-police pursuit right about now. We could use all the law enforcement when we get to their destination,” King muttered.

A pealing chime echoed in the cramped cab and Chase’s voice came through the Bluetooth.

“I have Zion on standby if you need. My guys are ready and willing to go to bat if need be.”

Slate, though filled with anger and hatred at the moment for Bazwar, felt a calming peace come over him at Chase’s words. Though King’s friend, Slate barely knew Chase, but not only was he willing to help him and put his team at risk, but his team was willing to stand at the ready. The brotherhood. It spanned ranks and teams and companies. It was a bond like no other.

Slate couldn’t conjure the words with the lump in his throat but King answered the call. “Thanks, buddy. You got a marker.”

“No thanks needed, but will keep that marker on the back burner. Never know when it’ll be needed.”

The call disconnected before Slate could ask about Susan and the girls, but he knew it was futile because Chase would protect them as if they were his own men.

They approached the area about a mile away from the GPS location near the ping of Ember’s cell and all prayed that tracking the phone meant finding Ember and Mitch and not an abandoned electronic in the desert.

King turned off the headlights, not wanting to alert anybody of their approach. With no trees or buildings to mask their arrival, King didn’t chance that the headlights would give them away. The full moon was more than enough light to navigate closer through the desolate desert. King killed the engine a half mile later, and four men strapped themselves to the teeth by the light of the moon. Everyone had their go-bags with enough guns and ammunition to hold off a small army. None hoped that was the case, but if so, they were prepared.

King pulled a stash of M4s and two M16s from the underbed compartment of the cab’s back seat along with extra loaded magazines. He rounded the back of his truck, dropped the tailgate, and slid the concealed storage compartment from beneath the faux truck bed liner.

It was a tactical wet dream.

King drove a roaming armory and no one was the wiser. Vests, helmets, gloves, NVGs, comms, and an array of close combat tools: KA-BARs; SOGs; Leathermans, chem sticks. Every gadget that could attach somewhere, King had multiples. They were heading into war, to rescue their own, and King was prepared. Slate knew why. Suiting up brought back memories of Mary's tragic rescue and the unpreparedness of the guys.

Luckily, Mary’s nightmare ended with the team coming home alive, which wasn’t quite the case for King. The man cheated death so many times, he and the Reaper were probably on a first-name basis. King almost came home beneath the Stars and Stripes with a twenty-one gun salute. To think King and Mary not being, “King and Mary,” had Slate thinking of himself and Ember. Their “us” had barely even started being an “us.” He’d be damned if anyone was going to take that from him. He’d be unstoppable.

“M4 or 16? Your choice.” T held two rifles, gesturing for Slate to choose which one he wanted if they had to go “balls out” on this mission. This mission. The two words snapped Slate into operator mode. He was no longer the boyfriend, he was Alpha-three, take no prisoners, bad-ass motherfucker.

“M4.” Slate nodded towards the rifle.

Arctic handed him a vest and helmet. He strapped the helmet on, attaching the NVGs, and secured the vest over his shoulders and on the sides, pulling the straps tight. The MOLLE straps were filled with gadgets, things he knew King strategically and meticulously placed on each. He knocked the chest plate and reached for the rifle T held out to him.

Slate slung the carbine over his head, pulling the single-point sling into place, cleared the chamber and slapped the thirty-round mag in place, then chambered a live round.

“Locked and loaded.”

And the mission began.

* * *

They were dragging her. Literally dragging her through the dirt and grassy patches. Face down, arms outstretched above her head, pulling her along. Destination? She was uncertain. She was conscious, but between the gas burning her eyes, her lungs on fire from the retching and coughing, she was unaware of her surroundings. Add all that to the excruciating pain coming from the two people pulling her by her ravaged wrists, she was definitely not taking in her surroundings.

The dirt turned to gravel. Stones scratched against her stomach, digging into her flesh. She tried to arch her torso, but the way she was being “transported,” it was a losing battle. Her tee rode up, exposing her belly, allowing the ground to be merciless against her flesh.

Ember stayed calm, acting weak and docile between coughs and spasms, waiting for a chance to overpower her captors. Letting them think she was weaker than she was, would give her the element of surprise if the time came. When the time came. But, the million dollar unanswered question: How many more were there?

Her body bumped against the rise of two steps and they dragged her across a wooden porch. She heard the door open and her blood ran cold.

“Hayes...E-eight…”

Dad!His grunting sounds came after every blow, but when Ember craned her neck to see what was happening, her swollen and tearing eyes prevented it. She was dumped in a heap on the floor at her father’s feet.

“Daddy!” She was able to croak out the word between hacks.

“Emmy! Are you okay? Stay quiet...don’t let them—”

Ember heard flesh hit flesh and her father stopped talking.

“No! Stop!” Ember knew not to cry out. It was one of the first things taught about resistance in SERE training. Showing any response would spur them on and they would use him against her. But, it was her father; the cry was involuntary. The man continued to work her father over, landing blow after blow.

A bucket of water was dumped over Ember’s head and she frantically wiped her hands down her face to cleanse the burn from her eyes. Then, a second bucket was dumped, and again, she washed when the water dribbled over her face. It didn’t help the fiery sting, but at least she could see better. Before she could catch her bearings, she was rolled to her stomach with a knee jabbed into her back and her wrists were held to be bound. The man pulled one arm behind her, then up between her shoulder blades, and she yelled out in pain. But she got her other hand free from the woman helping to hold her down.

It was time to fight. She bucked wildly at the older Middle Eastern woman kneeling on her back, who she assumed was the mother of the other two. Ember pushed her body upward with her freed hand and rolled in the opposite direction her captors had her pinned, causing both to roll off her. With her arms free, she jabbed an elbow into the woman’s face, feeling a satisfying crunch. The cry of agony told Ember she’d planted it exactly where she wanted; dead center to the nose. Ember jumped to her feet, though she had to steady herself and was off-balance from the gas.

Control yourself. Calm yourself. Clear yourself.

She had to use fast, critical tactics: groin, knees, throat, eyes, any vulnerable areas she could assault to subdue her attackers. There were no movie theatrics to be played. She was in it to win it.

Adrenaline seared through her veins. The pain from her previous wounds evaporated.

She met familiar eyes and panic flooded her. Eyes that were burned into her memory. A distant memory.

Omar Bazwar?It wasn’t his eyes but his brother’s, Husani Bazwar, the shooter from the range, that scorched her soul. Another memory flashed. Almost the exact same eyes from years past now haunted her present. They belonged to Khalid Bazwar, a terrorist she’d taken out years earlier, who planted an IED along the roadside. His eyes haunted her through her sniper scope, now they haunted her again as she stared into his brother’s.

Omar charged at Ember but she side-stepped and kicked his knee. He wailed and buckled to the ground, temporarily taken out of the fight. He’d be down, but not for long.

Next, she spun to face her third attacker, a younger Middle Eastern woman who had nothing but evil in her eyes, matching her brother’s. The woman lunged at Ember but she jabbed a throat-punch followed by a quick straight punch, again connecting with her throat. The woman grabbed her neck so Ember followed up with a left hook to the jaw, sending the woman stumbling into the wall. She slumped at the waist. Ember wasted no time and sent her knee into the woman’s face. She collapsed to the ground, legs splayed haphazardly in front of her, and let out a muffled scream as she clutched her nose. Ember powered through with no mercy, bringing her booted foot down with brutal force, obliterating the woman’s kneecap. Gurgled screams split the air, and with her knee destroyed, she rolled to her side and passed out. All this happened in less than a minute, too long for Ember’s liking, but only because she was still feeling the effects of the tear gas. She bent to catch her breath and clear her head.

Omar got up, testing his weight on his injured leg. Ember noticed a blood-soaked spot on his arm, the shot Ember had taken in the parking lot that brought one of her assailants down, but it wasn’t enough to keep him out of the fight. Now, seeing it was Omar she hit, Ember wished she’d have gotten off a second shot and ended his miserable life.

He lunged to Ember’s blindside, taking her off her feet, and both fell to the ground. She was forced onto her side, but rolled to her back, wanting to be face-to-face with Omar.

His eyes seared her soul.

Those eyes.

Omar overpowered her with his weight, straddling her, and he let loose on her. Holding her down with one hand, he drew back his fist, planting a punch to her temple as she turned her head. Not at all a trained fighter like her, he made contact but it was a glancing blow. Pain bloomed and Ember’s grunt was involuntary. She’d taken worse during training, but still, it hurt like a motherfucker. Ember saw his mother get up and come straight towards the fight.

Ember and Omar grappled until he got one of her hands pinned to the floor. She raked her nails across his face and he let out a howl, but it wasn’t enough to loosen his grip.

Next, his mother reached for Ember’s free arm but she flailed, trying to keep it out of her reach. They brought her wrists together and both were bound. His mother sat on Ember’s calves, then zip-tied her ankles, pulling the tie tight enough to cut into the skin. Omar stood, stared down, and spat on her.

She was bound. She was fucked. And she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

They dragged her back in front of her father. Still tied to the chair, he fought against his restraints with all his might when he saw his daughter. Scalding anger fumed from him. Father and daughter faced each other. Each helpless. Each speaking with their eyes. Ember, telling him to be strong; Mitch, telling her to fight until the end.

The mother grabbed a roll of duct tape, tore off a piece, and covered Ember’s mouth. She tried to resist, but it was hopeless with Omar holding her head. Two more pieces were placed over the first. Then, they did the same to Mitch. The tape held loosely over his mouth because of the amount of blood on his face, but his facial hair kept it in place.

The mother lowered herself to Ember and spoke in broken English. “You are devil woman. Took my son!” She spit in Ember’s face. The vile action made Ember sick and she was helpless to wipe it from her face.

Ember thought she was talking about Husani, the man who shot Gabriel Dorian at the gun range and now sat in jail, but the mother went on.

“Khalid was warrior.”

Khalid. Ember knew exactly who Khalid was and he was no warrior. He was vile, scum of the earth. Scum of the earth who could no longer hurt anyone because he was dead. By her .338 round straight between the eyes, eyes identical to his mother’s.

She continued, “His father was warrior, too. He kill American infidels. Died honor in homeland. Khalid fight in father honor. Kill many American soldiers. Make mothers weep of sadness. I rejoice. Happy and praise.”

Ember studied the woman’s haunting, hate-filled eyes. The eyes of Omar and Husani.

The eyes of Khalid.

Ember was transported to a memory years earlier. One minute she was staring into the mother's abhorrent eyes, the next, she was on the hot rooftop of an abandoned shell of a building, laying prone, looking through the scope of her rifle into the carbon copy of the same eyes.

* * *

The Ranger squad was clearing the village, moving from house to house, looking for insurgents and finding caches of weapons. Ember remained their eyes above, overseeing their movement and the activity around them. She looked for threats: approaching cars, motorbikes or people, anything that could be a target against her team. Suicide missions were routine with ISIS, and smaller radical sects trying to show their allegiance to the terror group. Ember scanned ahead of the troop and across the rooftops, looking for anything out of place, anything that didn’t belong. The squad broke through the door of a ramshackle home when Ember spotted a young man behind one of the rows of houses, walking alone, a rifle slung in front over him. His head scanned from side to side, trying to stay hidden among the debris and rubble, but she could see his every move. She watched and waited.

Hanging from his side was a satchel no bigger than a shoebox and across his chest hung a rifle from a bygone era. He clutched it close to his body and, again, swung his head to see if he’d been spotted.

He was spotted...by Diamond.

She radioed the squad, but the comms crackled in her ear, dead to the attention of her team. She tried again with no response then called into base reporting the possible threat, needing clearance to dispatch the target.

The Rangers advanced closer to where the man hid as they entered another house and cleared it of any occupants. The village was abandoned and all residents had cleared out weeks ago. Anyone still occupying the buildings and homes were insurgents and dealt with as such. She tracked the young man, adjusting her sights. He moved swiftly over what was once a home and towards the remains of a burnt shell of a car. She called in to the squad again with no reply, and once more to base for approval. The moment hung waiting for a response. Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her temple. She didn’t move to wipe it. Zeroing in on the man, she waited.

Move on. Move on. Don’t do anything stupid.

Ember hoped he’d abandon whatever mission he’d been assigned. She counted her breathing, slowing it and her heart rate. Approval came through her earpiece. Nestling her cheek to the riser of her rifle, Ember switched the safety off.

Control yourself. Calm yourself. Clear yourself.

The young man edged closer to the car. Ember categorized and chronicled every movement. She heard the faint crackle over the comms. She’d taken out many targets, men and women alike, didn’t matter. In her book, any threat to her brothers in the squad was a threat against her.

The man scurried to the rear of the car and reached into the satchel, pulled out a cylinder, and placed it behind the rear tire. He paused with his hand still on it.

Pick it up. Don’t leave.

His fate rested in his next move. Pick it up. But, he didn’t.

Fate had decided.

Ember released her breath, counting as she exhaled, and her finger moved down the trigger guard resting in place. With his profile in view, she zeroed in, seeing the beads of sweat glistening from his black hair and tan forehead. It was as if he were standing a foot in front of her. She eased her finger against the trigger, feeling the resistance of the pull.

The man’s head turned and his eyes widened as if he could see her. Those eyes. Eyes of contempt, bitterness and hatred. The eyes of evil. They scorched her soul; burning into memory.

Controlled. Calmed. Cleared.

She broke the wall of the trigger.

* * *

Thwat.The stinging slap brought Ember out of the past and staring into the same eyes of hatred. Of evil. Khalid’s mother’s eyes burnt into her soul.

Ember had killed her son.