Page 2 of What is Lost

No bob of a traditional flashlight, no silver beam at all. Only a faint fan of grainy red light, which can mean only thing.

The guy is wearing NVGs. Someone with night-viz can’t use a normal flashlight because the light blinds him. The only light which works is a beam shone through a red filter.

Bad news. She can think of only one reason they would send someone down here alone and kitted out like that. No need for two guys if all that’s hanging off the end of her manacle is a body.

Which begs the question: after all this time, when she has been MIA for more than two years, why?

Why kill hernow?

Every morning,she scratches another line. Every evening, she counts scratches. Up to 962. She’s been off the doughnut for almost three years. Long enough for her to understand no one’s swooping in to rescue her. For all intents and purposes, she is MIA, something she is sure the U.S. has denied up and down because after Vietnam, you know,appearances.

The other problem with being missing is someone has to know where to start looking.

The only reason the Taliban must have decided to off her now is that someone in command has decided that she will be less dangerous—or more useful—dead. A body is a bargaining chip.

Or, perhaps, the operation is pulling up stakes, and they figure she’s not worth the bother. Prisoners always try to escape. She was lucky they didn’t cut off her head the first time she bolted. Touch and go there, for a bit. She remembers Sarbaz’s dark eyes measuring her worth. She hadn’t bolstered her case by burying a blade in a guy’s throat, but, oh, that had been so satisfying. Of course, it would’ve been better if she’d actually been able to make it more than halfway down the mountain—but, details.)

So, why now?

Two possibilities. The first is that someone whohasn’t been read in and doesn’t even know she’s here, is coming down that tunnel.

Or the second possibility: word’s reached Sarbaz that someone has come looking and is getting too close.If that someone makes it to this camp, the Taliban have to ensure she isn’t here to be found.

But who’s looking for her after all this time? How does anyone even knowwhereto look?And what about the boys?The kids all know about the American lady doctor. Which means, if she dies, they’ll be killed. Sarbaz won’t want any slip-ups. Everyone knows what a well-aimed drone strike will accomplish.

You have to think.

The only upside about being held in a cave like this is there are many rocks to choose from and she’s had time and patience. She’s ground and tested rocks against other rocks day after day in the hopes of making a reasonable approximation of a stone knife. She honestly doesn’t expect one to do her much good. After all, they have guns and real combat knives. Dagar, their appointed executioner, sports a wicked foot-long blade.There’sa guy who takes pride in his work. A lot of heads have rolled. Oh, and hands. Don’t forget those. A worker steals food only once. She’s tended to a lot of those stumps, too.

She feels her way to her weapons stash, quicklyfinger-walks the stones then scoops up a nearly spherical stone about the size of a baseball. God, she wishes John was here. He’d been a pitcher. She bets he could bean anyone, first try.

If she is lucky, she’ll have one chance and the advantage of surprise.

So, make it count.Weapon in hand, she carefully lifts the chain attached to the manacle around her left ankle. Taking care that the metal doesn’t clank or scrape against the cave floor, she shuffles to her left as quickly as possible. She’s measured the chain’s length and knows she has about six feet to play with.

She also knows her cave very well. Could find her way blindfolded, ha-ha. After about four feet, her nose wrinkles at the tang of urine and feces steaming from the bucket they allow her to empty twice a day, morning and evening. The stink is a great marker.

Because here is what she bets none of those guys have considered, quite possibly because none have suffered through ninth-grade geometry.

A straight line drawn from a fixed point from left to right—or vice versa, take your choice—does not inscribe a straight line.

It inscribes an arc.

She’s betting these guys thinks in straight lines. Up, down, left, right, forward, back. She is now to the left of the entrance. Which means that if thisguy moves in a straight line toward where he thinks she usually is, he will step into that arc of attack.

Go low, go fast.She cups the rock in her right hand. Put her weight into her swing and clobber his face good and hard. If she’s lucky, she might smash his nose, his eye sockets.And when he doubles over, smash his windpipe.Or she’s got the chain. Do a Princess Leia. No air means no ability to call for help. That the guy suffocates...well, life sometimes really sucks.

Have to take him down fast, too. Grab a piece of him—an arm, part of his tunic—and haul him in.No matter what, as soon as he’s down, get hisknife.All the men tote one. That way, if the rock isn’t enough, finish him off with the knife then grab his other weapons. He’s sure to have an AK, a weapon she could handle in her sleep, and a Makarov for a sidearm?—

The thought stutters at the sharpcrackof a stone. Her lungs squeeze down. The steady thump of booted feet on stone and earth continue. One person. She’s sure of it.

And then, pulsing in the darkness, she sees, again, that faint red glow.

Good.That glow’s a marker. She’ll know exactly where he is. Moving with exquisite care, she bends at the knees and lays her small spool of chain on the rocky floor. She stays down, too. Even withNVGs and the red flashlight affixed to his AK, he’ll need maybe two, three seconds to both find and then shoot.

Nerves tingling, she keeps her gaze fixed on that bobbing red glow...which goes out.

What?Why did he do that? Playing games? Trying to freak her out? Her pulse drums. She stares so hard into the dark well of the entrance her eyes feel as if they’ll pop from their sockets. She strains to hear something, anything over the wild knock of her heart?—

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