The Leveling

But even if Mark makes sense of the photos, you’ll still be screwed.

Decker had sent Mark and Daria those photos so that the evidence he’d collected wouldn’t be lost forever. Not to save his own ass. He’d gotten himself into this mess, and it was up to him to get himself out. He had no overwatch looking out for him, no tracker telling backup where he was.

The car was climbing a moderate incline, straining the engine.

Decker thought back to Hell Week at Coronado, when he’d trained to be a SEAL. He’d punished his body beyond what he thought was possible, swimming for hours in freezing salt water, staying awake for the better part of five days…He’d cracked four ribs falling off an obstacle course, but he’d kept going because the only thing worse than soldiering on was the thought of quitting. One hundred and three guys in kick-ass shape had started off in his BUDS class that week, but only twenty-two had made it to the end. And of those twenty-two, only fifteen had made it through the rest of the training to become full-fledged SEALs.

Even after getting tossed from the teams—he’d disobeyed a direct order, a bullshit order that he was pretty sure had been issued because he’d screwed his squad leader’s wife without knowing who she was—he’d always been proud that he’d been part of that group of fifteen, had worn it like a badge of honor.

His thoughts turned back to the present, and what would happen next. His captors would question him, which was probably the only reason he was still alive.

Probe for weakness. Remember your training.

Code of Conduct. Article III. If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape…

Decker ran his hands inch by inch over the entire interior of the trunk, searching for, but not finding, a cable that might release the lock. He did, however, locate the back sides of the rear seats. On one of them, he felt the imprint of a body. The springs on that seat squeaked whenever the car went over a bump. That squeak, combined with the loud banging of the rear shocks, wasn’t doing anything to help his splitting headache.

Be patient. But don’t wait for the perfect moment to make your move because the perfect moment may never come.

Decker adjusted his six-foot-four frame so that one shoulder was lightly touching the back side of the occupied rear seat and his feet were planted on the opposite wall of the trunk. The pain in his wounded thigh was searing. His neck was crimped and he wished he were a foot shorter.

His first explosive push blasted the seat forward a foot. On his second push, Decker threw the rear passenger halfway into the front seat.

The car swerved, and the driver and everyone else in the car started shouting at each other. Decker kept ramming forward until he’d flattened the rear seat. Then he pistoned his shoulder into the small of a skinny man’s back. The car skidded to a stop. Decker lunged for the skinny man’s neck and twisted until he heard a crack.

It was bright outside, possibly early morning. Through the windshield Decker caught a glimpse of craggy, barren hills and a roadside bakery where flatbread was stacked high in baskets out front.

A big man in the front passenger seat rolled out of the car. The driver was in a panic, trying to unlock the safety on his gun. Decker pulled himself completely out of the trunk and into the backseat of the car, then lunged for the throat of the man with the gun.

Someone grabbed his legs from the back of the trunk just as a bearded guy yanked open the car’s rear doors and started smashing Decker’s face with the butt of an AK-47. Decker felt a second set of hands on his legs—this time, right on his bullet wound.

A young guy in a white shirt ran out of the bakery and into the road, yelling something that Decker couldn’t understand. The guy with the AK-47 fired a few shots in the air and the man in the white shirt stopped short.

Decker was dragged out of the car. Once on the ground, four men who’d evidently been traveling close behind in a backup car began to kick him. He grabbed hold of the leg of the tallest of his assailants, threaded an arm around the man’s knee, twisted until he heard a snap, used his thumb to gouge the man’s eye as he fell, and then crushed the man’s esophagus with a fist to the throat. Someone kicked road gravel into Decker’s face, temporarily blinding him, but he grabbed another assailant’s leg and threw a fist up into the guy’s balls.

Decker heard one of his own ribs snap and felt a kick to his head. The last thing he heard before experiencing the strange sensation that his head was being knocked off his neck was a swish of something—a rifle butt?—traveling fast through the air.





7


Almaty, Kazakhstan