Page 52 of D-Day

“Okay, tell me that’s the last reference to my midwestern roots you’re going to use. I do have a loaded weapon.”

Dragonlady laughed softly.

D-Day kepthis thoughts focused on one thing, holding his breath until they let him up for air again as they forced his head under water. He had been overpowered by the onslaught of NPA who had taken him down to the ground. He had killed a few, but there were too many. He’d been brought to this compound in the middle of the jungle, forced into a type of dungeon below the mansion. As he passed the cells, he caught sight of Zorro and Buck. Both of them had been stripped down to their skivvies. Zorro had blood on his side and Buck was sprawled on his back.

“D!” Zorro shouted, but the guard standing near the cage they were in hit his rifle butt against the mesh.

He’d been marched to this room with some kind of water trough along the back wall. His hands bound in front of him, he had no leverage, his head and shoulders under water. Pinpricks of light burst behind his eyes, his lungs filled tight and pushing against fresh bruises. He’d reached the point that his body had stopped fighting for clean air, his blood pounding between his ears. He didn’t struggle, didn’t strain to pull upright. It wasted precious air to the brain. Didn’t they know that SEALs were drownproofed, taught never to panic when they were underwater and in distress.

The man yanked him up, D-Day’s hair blocking his vision already swimming with stars. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

D-Day didn’t say a word. How the hell had they captured Zorro and Buck? Seeing them sprawled in that cell, bleeding…it took everything in him to keep quiet, and not yell his rage.

They dunked him again, and he wanted to fake them out, let them think he was unconscious, but there were three men in this room with weapons—he wouldn’t stand a chance. He would have to wait for an opportunity to surface. Over and over, they asked the question, then over and over they shoved his head underwater. D-Day felt like he was back on a SERE training op, only these weren’t instructors trying to break him, these guys were the real deal.

Finally, an NPA lackey pulled him to his feet, and D-Day stumbled against his captor, his weight pushing the man against the wall. D-Day closed his hand over the man’s knife and when he pushed D-Day back, the blade came with him. Attacking would be suicide, but defense was another matter.

With a rebel behind him, D-Day left the interrogation room and walked the corridor, his vision blurred from the strain of holding his breath, his breath hitching every so often. In the dim light, he tucked the blade between his sopping-wet T-shirt and his waistband. They brought him into the room with the four banks of cells, Zorro and Buck occupying one of the middle ones.

The man cut his bonds and, with a vicious shove, and kick, D-Day staggered into the metal cage and slid to the filthy concrete. He leaned against the stone wall, water dripping off his clothes.

The guards said something to each other, then they left.

“Welcome to the Four Seasons,” Zorro said, as D-Day’s head lolled to the side, and he could feel his heart beat in his teeth. “That’s our best room.”

He pushed off the wall and crawled over to the mesh. “How are you guys holding up?” he asked, cursing the mess of his face. D-Day eyed Zorro’s patched wound.

Zorro shrugged, trying to play it off. “A nick. Ricochet I think, but it still hurts like a mother.”

“So, the guys here aren’t appreciative of your special band of humor?” D-Day asked with a lift of his mouth.

Zorro chuckled. “No, and they get really mad when I go off in rapid Spanish.”

“Maybe you should shut the hell up?” It looked like they went for the hot spots—nose, eyes and jaw, probably his kidneys, too. A roadmap to D-Day’s future.

“Nah, where would be the fun in that?”

“How’s Buck?” D-Day asked, his gaze going over Helen’s brother, his gut clenching at the ashen tinge to his skin. He was so still.

Zorro’s face turned grave, a grimness reflected in his eyes. “He’s been in and out, and the only good thing about his head injury is that they’ve left him alone. Can’t get information out of an unconscious man.” Zorro hovered protectively over Buck. “He needs serious medical attention. I’m worried as hell.” He glanced toward the door, only buying time until the guards were out of earshot. “You’re not going to believe this, but Ziad Bannout is alive. Looks like he fooled our Tier 1 counterparts.” D-Day closed his eyes and let out a hard breath, a shockwave of dread coursing through him, thankful that Helen got away with the triggers. Bannout was a fucking nightmare and needed to be put down like the rabid dog he was. “The triggers were meant for him, not the NPA. Where are they, by the way?”

“Safe and sound.”

“That’s a relief,” Zorro said, shifting Buck’s head on his thigh. What worries me is that he still has those ballistic missiles. Do you think they’re here?”

“Yeah, I do. I caught a glimpse of a launch pad further down the road,” D-Day said. “There was no time for Lando to deliver the ones I sold him, but Bannout probably has sellers all over the place. He wasn’t going to wait around for ballistic missiles, and our CIA certainly weren’t going to allow the one’s I used as bait for Lando into anyone’s hands.”

Footsteps sounded against the concrete, and D-Day and Zorro looked toward the door. A man stepped into the room, cloaked in shadows.

“Fuck,” Zorro said. “Fucking goat fuck has us right where it wants us, amigo.”

Two men went around him and unlocked D-Day’s cell, and they dragged him out, pushing him to his knees. The man in the shadows walked forward and crouched down. “Graham Butler,” Ziad Bannout said, his voice a threatening rasp. “I believe you might be in possession of my property.”

“I don’t know what it is you think I have, mate, but you’ve got a whole lot of nothing. Maybe we can broker a deal.”

Bannout shoved the pistol in D-Day’s face, the muzzle pressed hard against his forehead. “This particular merchandise is irreplaceable, and the people at Lando’s compound said you were there right before my people got there…with a blonde bombshell, I’m told.” He slammed the weapon across D-Day’s face, pain exploding in his cheek and temple, his vision blurring for a moment. “My men are combing the jungle for her. When I find her, I will retrieve my product.”

He could only hope that Helen was halfway back to Manilla about now.

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