He pushed further into the cave until the rock ceiling was practically scraping the top of his head. In his haste, he was now swallowing water.
He closed his eyes and commanded himself to remain calm. His training told him that he had to assess the situation and evaluate his options. Panic was not one of them.
He opened his eyes and saw that there was no room to progress unless he went underwater. He would have to turn and face his pursuers if he was to get out of this cave.
Therefore, he turned in the other direction and found himself gazing into blackness. He couldn’t even see a few feet in front of him.
The splashing stopped. Were his pursuers just treading water in darkness, waiting for his next move?
Hand-to-hand combat in deep water without oxygen was clumsy, but he was ready. Perhaps he would make it through the gauntlet by being evasive and just focusing on getting through rather than engaging.
He felt something bump against his foot.
He looked down into the black water, but he could not see beyond the surface.
He felt it again.
He began to kick his feet and swim forward when a hand wrapped itself tightly around his right ankle and began to pull him down.
Peter struggled against the grip to stay afloat, kicking wildly. A second hand wrapped itself tightly around his other ankle, and he was able to yell as he was being pulled under the water.
He grabbed frantically at his ankles and at the hands holding him, trying to pry them off, but the grip was unnatural.
Other hands began to reach out of the darkness and pull at his clothes and tear at his skin as he sank further into the dark void.
He knew he was going to die.
He looked up towards the receding surface and let out a loud yell as water rushed into his lungs and there was an awful burning in his chest—
***
Peter woke with a start to darkness. He heard voices around him in Spanish. His hands were bound tightly in front of him with rope, and his own breath was hot against his face. He was sitting on hard wood, a chair of some kind.
Suddenly something was pulled from over his face, and light flooded his vision. As his eyes adjusted, he saw men kneeling in a row in front of him facing in the other direction…his men.
There was a cartel member standing between him and his men. He was holding the burlap sack that was just removed from Peter’s head. There were two men with AK-47’s guarding the door, and another to Peter’s right polishing a machete with a dank rag.
Peter looked around and guessed that they were in some kind of a shack. It was close quarters, the walls were made of dilapidated corrugated tin , and through the chinks in the walls and joints, he could see daylight and hear nothing but the breeze.
They were out of the city.
His head was spinning, but he recalled storming the store. He remembered shots being fired from within the store as soon as they breached the front door. He remembered his men being cut down.
The Navajas had gotten the drop on them. There would be no reinforcements. Not in time for what was left of them.
The man with the burlap sack spoke first.
“Well, good morning, senor.”
“My name is Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall of the United States Army…”
“I know who you are, pig.”
The other men chortled.
There were four of Peter’ men left kneeling in front of him. They had their hands on their heads and their legs crossed. They were in a perfect row. This was to be an execution.
“There are others on the way. If any harm comes to my men, you will be hunted to the ends of the earth.”
Peter tried to sound confident and forceful while trying not to choke on the dust flying around the shack.
The man tossed the burlap sack into Peter’s lap. “Senor, you are out in the middle of nowhere, no one knows where you are, and you are all alone.”
“Well, I suggest you run now while you have the chance. Reinforcements are closing in.”
“Oh, we have enough time, you gringo pig.”
He produced a pistol and brandished it behind the captive soldier’s backs. Coward.
“When your reinforcements do show, they will see that it was not wise to interfere.”
He turned, placed his pistol to the back of one soldier’s head and—before Peter could voice any protest—pulled the trigger. Blood and