Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Mark Terry
gesture. “I am the leader of a group of freedom fighters aligned with the goals of the FSA.”
Shit. That pretty much put him in the al-Qaeda camp.
Derek said, “We are here by mistake. If you can get us to the Turkish border, I would be glad to take any message you have to the Western authorities.”
“ Western authorities,” Sheikh Nazif said, as if tasting the words on his tongue. “Why does the West think they have any authority in Syria? Hmmm?”
Inwardly Derek sighed. He hated playing word games with these psychopaths. “Money talks,” he said. “They can arm the FSA better to fight the Syrian Arab Army in their battle for freedom. But a persuasive argument needs to be made.”
Sheikh Nazif stepped forward, hand up, waving a finger in Derek’s face. “No! No! That is a lie! The West, the Americans!, the Europeans!, they do not need an excuse. They do not need a persuasive argument. They will arm whichever people they think will benefit them! Either oil or natural gas or because they think they will better assist their lapdog, the Zionists! The Americans pretend they are not at war with Islam, but they have been at war with us for centuries! That is why we fight the Jihad.”
Derek said nothing.
Nazif took a step back, looked over his shoulder at the unconscious John Hammond, and pointed to Derek. “Bring this one with me. Many questions. I have many questions.”
“I would prefer to stay with—”
Black Scarf slammed the butt of his AK47 down on Derek’s right shoulder. With a scream, he dropped his knees as pain coursed through his body. Black Scarf pulled him roughly back to his feet by his other arm and pushed him violently toward the door.
Stumbling, Derek slammed into the doorframe. Red Scarf aimed his own rifle in Derek’s face, finger putting pressure on the trigger.
“Okay, okay,” Derek said. “I’m going.”
4
Before stepping through the door, one of his captors pulled a black bag over his head, perhaps a balaclava turned backwards. He couldn’t see anything. With his free hand he reached for the cloth, but was shoved through the door, which closed and latched shut behind him.
“Hey!”
Someone grabbed his free arm and levered it behind his back, putting pressure on the good shoulder. Rather than fight, Derek relaxed, went along with it. If he knew how many people there were, if he had some sense of the building’s layout, maybe he could be more proactive. But now, his arm in a sling, wounded, Hammond incapacitated, the number of people holding him captive, the smart thing was to hang on and gather intelligence.
He hoped.
Derek knew from experience that there would come a moment, sometimes a very short, unpredictable moment, in which an opportunity for escape opened up.
It was possible that moment had just occurred. It was possible that, with only the three men in a confined space, unaware of his capabilities, the door open, that he might have taken out one of the men, taken his gun and fought his way to freedom.
Now he would have to wait for another, hopefully better moment.
Derek was experienced enough to know that a better moment might not come. A moment, some moment, probably would. But it might not be better.
Many captives had died waiting for the perfect moment to escape.
They pushed him down a hallway, the floor feeling like concrete beneath his feet. The building was a little bigger than he had thought, possibly an apartment building or some sort of commercial space.
They led him through another doorway, he thought. The acoustics seemed to change.
Multiple hands gripped him and forced him to lie down on what felt like boards. His head was lower than his feet. His left arm was yanked around and tied down. His legs were strapped to the boards.
“Hey! What’s going on? If you have questions, just ask them!”
His right arm was still free, immobilized in a sling. He wondered if another escape opportunity, another precious moment before they tied him down,
Shit. That pretty much put him in the al-Qaeda camp.
Derek said, “We are here by mistake. If you can get us to the Turkish border, I would be glad to take any message you have to the Western authorities.”
“ Western authorities,” Sheikh Nazif said, as if tasting the words on his tongue. “Why does the West think they have any authority in Syria? Hmmm?”
Inwardly Derek sighed. He hated playing word games with these psychopaths. “Money talks,” he said. “They can arm the FSA better to fight the Syrian Arab Army in their battle for freedom. But a persuasive argument needs to be made.”
Sheikh Nazif stepped forward, hand up, waving a finger in Derek’s face. “No! No! That is a lie! The West, the Americans!, the Europeans!, they do not need an excuse. They do not need a persuasive argument. They will arm whichever people they think will benefit them! Either oil or natural gas or because they think they will better assist their lapdog, the Zionists! The Americans pretend they are not at war with Islam, but they have been at war with us for centuries! That is why we fight the Jihad.”
Derek said nothing.
Nazif took a step back, looked over his shoulder at the unconscious John Hammond, and pointed to Derek. “Bring this one with me. Many questions. I have many questions.”
“I would prefer to stay with—”
Black Scarf slammed the butt of his AK47 down on Derek’s right shoulder. With a scream, he dropped his knees as pain coursed through his body. Black Scarf pulled him roughly back to his feet by his other arm and pushed him violently toward the door.
Stumbling, Derek slammed into the doorframe. Red Scarf aimed his own rifle in Derek’s face, finger putting pressure on the trigger.
“Okay, okay,” Derek said. “I’m going.”
4
Before stepping through the door, one of his captors pulled a black bag over his head, perhaps a balaclava turned backwards. He couldn’t see anything. With his free hand he reached for the cloth, but was shoved through the door, which closed and latched shut behind him.
“Hey!”
Someone grabbed his free arm and levered it behind his back, putting pressure on the good shoulder. Rather than fight, Derek relaxed, went along with it. If he knew how many people there were, if he had some sense of the building’s layout, maybe he could be more proactive. But now, his arm in a sling, wounded, Hammond incapacitated, the number of people holding him captive, the smart thing was to hang on and gather intelligence.
He hoped.
Derek knew from experience that there would come a moment, sometimes a very short, unpredictable moment, in which an opportunity for escape opened up.
It was possible that moment had just occurred. It was possible that, with only the three men in a confined space, unaware of his capabilities, the door open, that he might have taken out one of the men, taken his gun and fought his way to freedom.
Now he would have to wait for another, hopefully better moment.
Derek was experienced enough to know that a better moment might not come. A moment, some moment, probably would. But it might not be better.
Many captives had died waiting for the perfect moment to escape.
They pushed him down a hallway, the floor feeling like concrete beneath his feet. The building was a little bigger than he had thought, possibly an apartment building or some sort of commercial space.
They led him through another doorway, he thought. The acoustics seemed to change.
Multiple hands gripped him and forced him to lie down on what felt like boards. His head was lower than his feet. His left arm was yanked around and tied down. His legs were strapped to the boards.
“Hey! What’s going on? If you have questions, just ask them!”
His right arm was still free, immobilized in a sling. He wondered if another escape opportunity, another precious moment before they tied him down,
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