Page 2 of Perilous Healing

Go.

Everything aches, my body burning with each movement. But as I make my way down the damp, concrete hallway, I know that if I stop—even for a moment—it will mean death.

He helped me escape this time, but I know that I’ll never escape again.

So even as every movement is yet more torture, I continue pushing forward.

I step on a clump of concrete breaking away from the tunnel floor and pause, hissing through clenched teeth as it bites into the soft flesh of my bare foot. Warm blood trickles from the injury, but I have nothing to wrap it. Even if I did, I can’t risk the time it would take to do so.

Soon I’ll be pushing through a door and taking my chances in the deep jungles surrounding the area I’ve been held in since I was captured almost a month ago. But dying out there is a lot more enticing than living in this perpetual hell.

I’ll happily take my chances.

Each step that takes me closer to freedom cements my desire to survive. I have to make it home. If not for me, then for my entire team who didn’t make it through our initial contact with the American crime boss we were here to stop. My command has to know what happened. They have to know so they can act.

Still, people will say I’m lucky. But to me, luck would have been bleeding out on the ground before they ever brought me back into the compound. Then I wouldn’t carry the weight of everything that was done to me over the past three weeks.

A woman’s scream rips through the stale air, and I sink against the wall, hiding in the shadows. My heart pounds, my head burning with an ache I’m sure will split me in two if it doesn’t stop soon.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she yells.American.Though I’m not surprised. The compound we’re in belongs to one of the most notorious drug runners in the U.S. Most of the guards are American, except for the one who let me go.

“You let him die!” a man bellows.

“And I’d do it again!” she retorts, then cries out once more as the resounding crack of a slap echoes down the hall. I clench my hands into fists, then take a deep, steadying breath and wait for it to be safe. I should just leave. Continue sneaking out, but if I do—if I leave this woman behind—what kind of man does that make me?

Save her.The two words come to me clear as day, surely my conscience telling me that I can’t leave her here. It’s the same stern order as the wordgo.The same push toward action.

Even if I don’t know her, Ihaveto save her.

Even if it means we both get caught, Ihaveto take her with me.

I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.

A door along the wall opens, and two men stalk out.

“I’m going to go find out what we’re supposed to do with her. My guess is they’ll want her head for this.”

“Shame, it’s a pretty head,” the other replies.

The door begins to swing closed, so I retrieve the chunk of concrete I stepped on and rush forward to catch the door before it locks shut. Then I wait to make sure the men keep walking. One thing I’ve learned, arrogance does not equal intelligence. If they’re so arrogant to believe they’re untouchable here, they won’t notice something as simple as a door not closing when it should.

Sure enough, they keep walking, so I sneak inside, prop the door open with the concrete chunk, and turn.

I’m standing in what is clearly a surgical room of some kind. There’s a hospital bed streaked with blood and an assortment of medical tools and supplies. The woman is chained to a chair, blue scrubs bloodied. Her dark hair falls like a curtain in front of her face, though her breathing is steady enough to show she’s alive. There’s a tray of sharp tools to her right, so I reach over and grab a scalpel.

“Come for more?” she demands, then looks up at me. I’m pinned beneath a mossy green gaze, though both eyes are bloodshot. Her face is bruised and bloody, and a large scratch runs down one side of her cheek. “Who are you?”

“Chief Petty Officer Williamson, ma’am,” I say as I rush forward and cut through her bindings. “I’m getting out of here, and I’m taking you with me.”

“Just like that?” she asks, rubbing her freed wrists.

“Just like that,” I reply.

“You don’t even know why I’m here.”

“I know you’re not supposed to be here and that these men are going to kill you.”

“And you can’t let that happen.”

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