Running On Empty
An LCR Elite Novel
Chapter One
Republic of Congo
Central Africa
A whomp-whomping noise woke him. His mind, though dulled from malnutrition and brutal beatings, could still recognize the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. He touched his eyes, felt them blink—the only way he knew they were open. How long had he been inside the tank this time? A week? More?
They’d dumped him here after his last interrogation. Not because he had refused to give them information. He’d been here a long time and hadn’t given them shit. Would never give them shit. No, this time the punishment had come from managing to break free for a few seconds and slamming his fist into his torturer’s gut. For the first time in forever, he had felt a spark of triumph...of life. Yeah, it’d gotten him a more severe beating and then thrown into this dark, dank hellhole, but damn, it’d felt good.
He didn’t even think about when they’d let him go back to his regular cell. He preferred being able to see sunlight instead of pitch-dark nothingness, but it was all relative. Hell was hell. At least in here, myriad insects weren’t sucking out the last of his blood.
The helicopter noise grew louder, like it was hovering overhead. New prisoners coming in? When he’d first arrived here, he’d glimpsed a few. But that’d been a long time ago. Months? Maybe years? He had no concept of how long he’d been here. Since he heard the occasional pain-filled scream, he knew some were still here. Had they given up all hope? Did they exist in a state of dull mindlessness, waiting and hoping to be killed, thinking that only death would give the final release of pain?
Odd how he could wonder about them but feel not one ounce of sympathy. Torture did that. Turned a normal, caring human being into an empty shell—hollowed out and lifeless. No heart, no soul, no humanity.
Gunfire erupted. Sounded like military grade. M4s, maybe? AK-47s? Whoever and whatever, there were several of them. Had someone tried to escape?
He noticed that his heart rate had picked up. That hadn’t happened in a while. He mentally shrugged. Whatever the reason for the fireworks, the speculation had given him a brief reprieve from misery.
A loud clanging noise sounded outside his cell. Apparently, it was time for another interrogation. Or would he be taken back to the hole he called home, where the endless sounds of her treachery whispered in his ears? Wouldn’t his torturers get a kick out of knowing that he’d rather take a beating than listen to that soft, soothing voice of betrayal?
Hurried footsteps came closer. He didn’t bother to raise his head. They’d get here soon enough.
Piercing light penetrated his sight. He squinted his eyes shut. Damn, that hurt. Covering his face with his arm, he lay still. Waited to be hauled out, for an attack…more pain. Coercion, more voices of betrayal. No point in getting to his feet. Why make it easy for them? Besides, if he tried to stand, he’d just fall.
Then he heard a voice. One he hadn’t heard in a very long time. “My God, it is you. It’s really you!”
Was he dreaming? No, he no longer did that. Dreams were for those with hope. So if this wasn’t a dream, was this reality? After all this time…after all the shouting, cursing and praying. After giving up completely, had someone actually come for him?
Seven days later
Somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean
Declan Steele returned from the dead a changed man. Eyes that had once been vibrant blue and glinting with life were now dark, murky…empty. The strong, muscular body that had once carried a comrade ten miles through a sizzling-hot desert was unrecognizable. Thick, dark-as-midnight hair had been replaced with a dull, wild mane that reached well past his thin shoulders. An emaciated wraith, more than thirty pounds underweight, with a bitter twist to his sensuous male lips, stood in his place.
His appearance wasn’t the only change. Hatred seethed and burned within him. He was a hardened, embittered, heartless creature, determined to achieve only one goal—vengeance.
After his rescue, he had been taken to a large private home, where he had been allowed to shower, alone and with clean water. Fresh clothes had been provided, and food that wasn’t covered in maggots or mold had been set before him.
A doctor had given him a physical, declaring him malnourished and anemic but in good shape considering what his body had endured. The doctor had remarked that his captors had been amazingly humane in allowing aid workers to attend to him from time to time. Declan had stared blankly at him. Humane? The word apparently had a different meaning for the physician, because he’d seen no humanity in any of the bastards who’d tortured him daily.
The health aid workers had been beneficial in one aspect, though. Apparently, one of the physicians from the group had told of a tall, dark-haired prisoner with a slight Scottish accent and predilection for quoting Robert Burns. And that had gotten the attention of his former fellow EDJE agent Jackson Sands.
“We’ve been working like mad to get you out. The minute I heard the description of the prisoner, I knew it had to be you.” Jackson shook his head. “Still can’t believe it…we thought you were dead, man. Everyone thought you were dead. That you’d been killed in that explosion in Florence. But then I heard about…” He lifted a broad shoulder. “I just had to make sure. We worked around the clock to save you.”
Jackson had been repeating these words since his rescue. Damning himself for asking, Declan said, “Who?”
The other man’s eyes widened. Was it the shock of Declan finally speaking or the rough gravel of his damaged voice?
“Who what?”
“Who’s been working like mad?”
“Oh…sorry…my team. I have my own security business now.” He jerked his head toward the two large, silent men across from him. “Meet Neil Erickson and Kyle Ames. I couldn’t have done it without them. Took us a couple of months to pull this off.”
The men remained silent, watching. Declan gave them a nod of acknowledgment and returned his attention to Jackson. “The Agency wasn’t involved?”
“They don’t know we found you. I’ll leave it up to you, when you’re ready, to let them know you’re alive. Sabrina doesn’t know, either. I haven’t been in touch with her since…well, since we thought you were killed. I—”
At the mention of that name, Declan turned away. Discussing the woman and his plans for her was out of the question. This was between the two of them and no one else.
Jackson blew out an explosive sigh and shut up. Declan could tell he made the man uneasy. At one time, he’d been the type to go out of his way to put people at ease. It had been one of his gifts. Those kinds of talents weren’t worth shit anymore.
He had worked with Jackson, had once thought of him as a friend. Even though he had no feelings left in him for anyone, he respected that the man had possessed the balls to carry off a rescue op. A soft emotion like gratitude didn’t fit him anymore, but he owed the three men, Sands, Erickson, and Ames. They’d risked their lives for him. He wouldn’t forget it.
The blue sky and puffy white clouds outside the airplane window were invisible to him as he thought about his next move. He was headed back to the States. He hadn’t asked about their destination. Where he went, where he lived, all of that was meaningless. His heart pumped for one reason only now. To repay the scheming, red-haired witch who’d put him in that hellhole. Sabrina Fox would pay with everything she had. And when he finally put a bullet between her lovely, lying green eyes, she would know exactly how it felt to have your heart ripped out by the one person you loved and trusted above all else.
And then it would be over for both of them.