McMichael blinked as if she was letting the news sink in. Then, with both hands, she reached down and touched bare legs and fondled the pants lying across her hips. “Why’re my pants off? Where the fuck is my combat belt, my shoes?”
He didn’t want her dwelling on more crap. “I had to check your wounds and bandage them. Your pants were in the way. Now put ’em on, and once we get out of here, I’ll figure out a solution for your feet. Worst case: I’ll carry you.”
“I don’t think I can, you know, put my pants on. It’s too tight in here, and my head hurts.”
Upton decided more medication would help. Inside his combat vest, he fished out another tablet and unclipped his hydration system. “Yes, you can. Here’s a painkiller. Wash it down, then I’ll look the other way while you wriggle into your pants.” He watched her frown, so he provided more encouragement. “We’re near the end of the pipe. It comes out right next to the highway.”
Seeming convinced, she opened her mouth, and Upton put a pill on her tongue. Taking the proffered straw, she washed down the tablet and once again closed her eyes.
Upton was ready to get going and didn’t need her conking out again. He re-clipped his hydration system and said, “Staff Sergeant, you need to put on your britches. I’ll turn around and won’t look. Okay?”
“Just a moment. I’m gathering my strength. Just give me a minute,” McMichael whispered.
Frustrated, her head almost in his lap, his legs straddling alongside, he sat hunched. Concerned, he debated how to get her moving.
Something startled him.
Lifting his vision, staring down the way they’d come earlier, he focused his attention. Through his night vision, he caught a quick flash of movement near the bend twenty meters away. A lightning jolt of adrenaline shot down his spine. Without hesitation, he reached for his holster and pulled his SIG Sauer M18. In a single motion he raised the weapon, flipped off the safety, and trained it at… nothing.
Whatever he’d seen, it wasn’t there now, but every fiber in his body screamed, be ready.
Chapter Eighteen
DEATH STRUGGLE
May 8, 01:22 (PDT)
McMichael knew she needed to get moving. Her pants draped across her hips, she reached up and pulled the material aside, exposing herself. Determined, opening her eyes, she whispered, “I’m getting up. Look the other way.”
Before she finished speaking, McMichael felt Upton’s legs astride her give a jerk and, at the same instant, heard a spitting sound. For a split second, the noise echoed through the pipe and a flash of light illuminated her surroundings. Next came a thud from behind. Scared and unsure, everything now dark and quiet, she held her breath, waiting. Two seconds later, she heard an unknown voice.
“Don’t even fucking move.”
McMichael flinched at the unexpected order. Smelling gunpowder, she figured it out and knew she was in deep trouble. After another few seconds, she heard the person inching closer and come to a stop. She remained rigid and unsure of how to react.
“Girl, don’t even fucking move. I plugged that bastard sitting behind you dead center mass. You’re next unless you tell me, quick, who the fuck you are and what the hell you’re doing in here?”
Fear mixed with adrenaline raced through McMichael’s body. Behind her, she imagined Upton, shot and bleeding. Maybe dead. What to do and how did the man know she was a female? Then she recalled pulling her pants aside. The man must be wearing night vision with a perfect view between her legs. Panic rising, she slowed her breathing and pushed herself to think. Her life hung in the balance. With resolve, head still aching, she lifted it a few inches off the corrugated metal and glanced towards the voice. Nothing. Her vision couldn’t penetrate the darkness. Survival instincts kicked in, and she replied, “I’m injured, been unconscious, please don’t hurt me.” Dropping her head, she hoped the soft pleading might buy time. Instead, she detected the man crawling closer. Immediately, she felt an urge to scoot away but, just as quick, she heard the man come to another stop.
“What’s your name?”
McMichael struggled to maintain her composure. She wasn’t sure what she faced. Fighting back panic, she played along. “My name is Lisa. Who are you?”
“I’m Specialist Kinney, US Army, sent to investigate this here pipe on my own. I’m the best at recon. They sent me because, well, the thing is, I’m the toughest soldier in the squad.”
McMichael didn’t respond and remained silent, her worst fears realized. The enemy would now kill or imprison her. But it was only one man. Maybe, she thought, I can take him. But then the old doubts returned, and she cringed.
“Why are you half-naked, and who is that soldier behind you?” asked Kinney.
Mind racing, McMichael could almost feel the man’s eyes between her legs. Pushing aside the thought, she told a half lie. “I’ve been unconscious, but he might have pulled me in here. I’m not sure of anything.”
A sudden light replaced the darkness, and she guessed Kinney had turned on a headlamp. She considered lowering her hands to cover her own nakedness but was afraid to move.
“Good news,” said Kinney. “We’re close to an exit. Don’t fuck up. Follow my instructions, and I’ll let you live. We’ll be out in a minute.”
Cornered, torn between flight or fight, McMichael lay rigid and considered surrendering. Then she realized her right hand, still hidden from sight underneath her discarded pants, rested alongside Upton’s boot. Careful to stay unnoticed, she worked her fingers and touched a sheathed combat knife. Hope jumped, along with self- doubt. The thought of stabbing someone in close personal combat scared and repulsed her. But all day the enemy had tried to kill her, and she was tired of cowering. Even more, she wanted to be reunited with her kids.
She remembered her training and reminded herself she was a soldier. Decision time. She could fight or submit. If she gave up, she might never see her children again.
No, she’d rather fight.
Determined, she touched the knife. The length of the blade was reassuring; she could do this. But getting the knife out undetected and luring the enemy close enough to strike would be the challenge. Guided by instincts and detached intelligence, she reacted.
In a soft, submissive tone, McMichael asked, “I want to live. Specialist Kinney, that’s your name, right? My back hurts, I need to stretch, okay?” Not waiting for a response, she spread her bare legs wide, opening them until they could go no further against the confines of the pipe. Not hearing a reaction, but sensing his fascination, she continued and drew up her knees flaying them open.
She heard a small gasp and guessed she had his full attention. While she put on the show, still hidden, her right hand unsheathed the KBAR combat knife. With legs and knees spread, to keep Specialist Kinney further off balance and to lure him closer, she begged. “Please, I’m thirsty and hurt. Help, me.”
On all fours, Kinney crawled closer, keeping the beam between her legs.
McMichael froze, waiting. She knew the man was eyeing her most intimate parts, but she remained steadfast.
Very close, he stopped and shined the light higher. “You’re wearing a combat vest. You a soldier?”
Her hand on the knife, McMichael was close to attacking, and now this! She needed to keep his guard down and draw him near. “I don’t know. I can’t remember anything. I’ve been unconscious. Please I need water, and my chest hurts. Take off my vest.” She lifted her left arm and placed it on her breast. Meanwhile, her right hand, hidden beneath her discarded pants, worked Upton’s knife until, at last, she palmed the handle.