Page 1 of Bryson's Treasure

Prologue

Bryson “Ghost”Steele tried to remember his time on the Lazy S Ranch with his brothers, Grayson and Noah. The memories were all that got him through the day. Four days ago, his unit had been captured.

One of his unit brothers had betrayed the team. Ricky Cavous had been using their convoy to run drugs. Ghost had happened to look in the back of the wrong Humvee and found Ricky’s blocks of heroin. When he’d turned to tell his captain about the drugs, Ricky had cold cocked him.

When Ghost woke in a cold cell, he wasn’t alone. Five men from his unit were chained to the ceiling in connecting cells. Each day, a girl would walk in and pour water down Ghost’s throat—enough to keep him alive.

Ghost never saw Ricky. Each day, he heard the cries of his teammates. Ghost hadn’t been tortured yet. He’d been hit a few times but nothing compared to what he’d heard from the men in the other cells. Two Taliban men would come in and drag one of his team members out of their cell. He would have to listen to their screams for hours before they went silent. The silence was almost as bad as the screams.

He knew none of his team members would give up the information the Taliban was after. Ghost hoped he could escape. When he did, he would hunt Ricky down and kill him slowly. Ghost felt blood run down his arms from his wrists.

Over the past few days, he’d learned the men’s schedule. He was sure the girl who brought him water was sneaking in. She normally arrived right as the sun passed through the opening across from him. The sun had long passed the opening, and night was falling. She wasn’t coming.

Ghost closed his eyes for a moment to get some rest, then he heard his cell door open. She’d arrived, and in her hands was a yellowed cup with dirt around the rim. He was sure the water she brought came from a pond. But he was thirsty, and his life depended on it. He needed to survive so he could avenge his teammates.

He focused on the girl. Her hair and body were draped in a long black robe. The only thing he could see was her piercing blue eyes. Judging by her height, Ghost thought she couldn’t be older than ten. One of her eyes was bloodshot, and a black rim had formed around it. Anger boiled inside of Ghost.

“Please help me.” His voice came out raspy. Even after the sip of dirty water, he wanted more.

She shook her head.

“If you help me, I’ll take you away from here.”

She stopped at the door of his four-foot-by-four-foot jail cell. “America?”

“Yes, get me that key over on the table, and I’ll get you to America. I promise.” Ghost didn’t care what he would have to do to get the young girl to freedom. If she saved him, he would owe her his life.

When she turned and left his cell without a word, he felt his world crash around him. He wasn’t under any illusion that someone would save him. He would meet the same maker his teammates had. Ghost knew he was the last man left. The Taliban might drag his torture out longer.

The jingle of keys brought him back to the present, then the girl returned. She stared at his hands. “I can’t reach.”

Bryson lifted his dirty feet to her hands, and she placed the keys between his toes. Using his abs, he raised his feet to his hands, ignoring the pain of the chains cutting into his wrists. His body was exhausted, but he had someone other than himself to save now—he needed to save the young lady in front of him. With another grunt, Ghost grabbed the keys from his feet and worked the key into the lock.

When the lock clicked, Ghost dropped to the ground. His body was weak and needed food. His arms were numb as the blood rushed to his fingertips.

“We need to go,” the girl whispered as she shook his shoulder. “You promised freedom.”

Ghost lifted himself from the dirty concrete. Once he stood, he grabbed the bars of the cell to balance himself. Four days of standing on his tiptoes had done a number on his body.

With a deep breath, Ghost grabbed the young woman’s hand and headed toward the only door. When he passed the area where he’d seen his teammates dragged to and tortured, he stopped to grab a weapon. The floor was covered in blood. The horrible stench of decay and urine filled the room. On the table was a set of torture tools, complete with a long knife.

The girl tugged at his hand. “Hurry.”

Ghost walked as fast as he could as the young girl pulled him along. He heard voices as they neared the exit of the compound. “Where is everyone?” he whispered.

“Ibrahim al-Asiri is speaking.” The leader of ISIS.

Relief hit Ghost as they exited the building, but as long as he was on the streets of Jalalabad, deep in Taliban country, he and the young woman wouldn’t be safe. “What’s your name?”

“Azadeh.”

“Okay, Azadeh, I’m Bryson, and we need to get out of here.”

Ghost and Azadeh wove through the streets of Jalalabad. He stole a coat to cover his dirty clothes, and when they were on the edge of town, Ghost spotted Ricky. He was with other troops from the military base. They seemed to be doing a deal with the Taliban.

If Azadeh hadn’t been with him, Ghost would’ve taken the fucker down. When he turned to head in a different direction, Azadeh tripped and cried out as she hit the ground. Ricky and his men spotted them and cussed.

On instinct, Ghost scooped Azadeh into his arms then ran down the street. Gunfire followed him. He felt a bullet hit his leg, but he couldn’t stop. He slipped into an alley and hid until Ricky’s men ran by. When he felt it was safe, he took off down a side street. A few weeks ago, he’d made friends with a local trying to do better. Bryson ground his teeth and walked through the pain until he reached his contact’s house.

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