Page 77 of Duty Bound

Blade pulled back behind the blind. The man didn’t spot him.

After a moment, he peered through the slats again, wincing at the explosion of pain in his left arm. He couldn’t see anyone else. The guard lit up a cigarette and had a smoke.

Common sense told him there would be more guards, maybe in the house. Maybe on rotation. Soon enough, a chief interrogator from Kabul would arrive and take over.

He did not want to be around for that.

If he was going to get the hell out of here, now was his chance. The house was relatively insecure, there were no bars on the windows, and the door didn’t appear to be reinforced.

Blade looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing in the room except a wooden chair and a small puddle of fresh blood, which belonged to him.

He stumbled back to the window. It was old style glass, thin, but not shatterproof. That gave him an idea.

The guard finished his smoke and disappeared.

Blade waited, counting the seconds until he came back again.

Three hundred Mississippis.

Five minutes.

That’s how long it took to patrol the perimeter.

As soon as he disappeared the second time, Blade pulled the blind aside and clenched his hands together. He punched a small square out of the window.

There was a soft tinkle as the tiny shards landed on the dirt outside.

He waited, but no one came.

Without wasting any more time, he used the shards that remained in the pane to saw through his plastic ties. They separated with a snap, but the sudden jolt to his left arm nearly made him pass out.

Gritting his teeth, he contemplated his options. Kick down the door or go through the window. Both were risky. Breaking all that glass would draw the guard, but kicking down the door would draw the attention of whoever was still in the house.

He chose the second option.

Blade picked up the chair and using his good arm, hurled it at the window. Glass shattered, leaving dangerous shards glinting around the edges. Pulling the blind off its railing, he knocked out most of the glass and clambered out. Despite this, it still cut his hands and legs.

As expected, he heard the sound of running footsteps, but made it to the corner of the house in time to stick out his fist and send the guard flying.

He bent down to pick up the fallen AK-47.

Shit, if only he could use his left arm. He was still wrestling with it when he heard a voice shout, “Put down the weapon!”

Slowly, he turned to see two more guards standing in the doorway, pointing their semi-automatics at him.

Fuck.

He considered taking them both out, but knew the odds were against him. On the other hand, surrendering would mean getting hauled back inside and given another beating, and this time they wouldn’t be so lenient.

He hesitated, feeling strangely detached, like he was in someone else’s body. The two men watched him warily, waiting to see what he’d do.

Their instructions were to guard him, not kill him. He might have information that was useful, failing which, he could be ransomed.

What these guys didn’t know was the Taliban leaders wouldn’t be thinking along the same lines. That decided it for him.

Damn it all.

He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

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