Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,27
of the stitches in his chest rubbing against his moisture-wicking undershirt and felt a measure of comfort. If he died from Brugada, at least he’d come back.
“Catch up with the others,” King said to Rook. “I want an ETA when we reach you.”
“You got it,” Rook said before heading out.
King knelt down, lifted Sara’s head, and smacked her lightly on the cheek. Her eyes fluttered. “Drink this,” he said, holding a small container to her lips.
She sipped, coughed, sipped again. A moment later she was sitting up chugging the bittersweet mystery liquid. With the small thermos empty, she looked at King with wide, alert eyes. “Oh God, I can’t believe you brought coffee.”
“Espresso, actually. You just drank about five servings.”
Sara’s forehead scrunched. “Is that normal for you to carry?”
King stood and shook his head. “Made a pit stop before we shipped out. Thought you might need it. Make sure you drink a lot of water now or you’ll get dehydrated.”
Sara noticed they were alone. “Where are the others?”
“Waiting.”
“Shouldn’t they be here? In case something happens?”
“I wanted a moment with you.”
A twinge of fear squeezed Sara’s stomach. What was he up to? “Why?”
“Because I’m about to be a bastard and I didn’t want an audience.” He squatted down and faced her. “Listen. It makes total sense that you’re the core of this mission. We’re all here for you. But you’ve got to start carrying your own weight. Push yourself beyond what you believe you’re capable of. The pain doesn’t matter. Physical injury doesn’t matter. You can spend the rest of the year, hell, the rest of your life healing mind and body, but the mission comes first. Your survival is my mission, but that doesn’t mean your experience has to be a good one.”
Sara nodded, her jaw slightly agape. She had yet to consider what the lasting effects of this mission, aside from death, would be. Flashes of limbless veterans filled her mind. Victims of post-traumatic stress—shell shock. Night terrors. Would she become like that?
She looked at King, thinking, Why isn’t he like that?
Then she screamed.
“In the tree!”
The black shadow descended as King dove, rolled, and took aim with his M4. But even his honed reflexes weren’t fast enough. The black figure crouched behind Sara, using her as an effective shield from any bullets King might unleash. A knife was placed against Sara’s throat. The attacker was steady. Practiced.
“Lower your weapon,” the figure said with an accented feminine voice.
King followed her order.
He didn’t move, ask questions, or make threats. He waited.
The silence continued for twenty seconds. Sara sensed that these were predators sizing each other up.
“Pawn Two,” King said. “Let her go.”
“She’s going to get you all killed,” Pawn Two said. “If you can’t protect her, she has no business out here.”
“Who said we can’t protect her?” It was Rook. The muzzle of his .50-caliber Desert Eagle hovered an inch from the back of Pawn Two’s skull. One shot would make her head simply cease to exist.
King stepped forward. “Pawn Two. If you do not remove your knife—”
With a quick twist the knife was removed from Sara’s throat and sheathed in Pawn Two’s sleeve. Sara scrambled away and turned to face her attacker. If she hadn’t nearly been killed by the woman, she would have found her almost comical. She was dressed in black, like they were, but wore a mask over her face like some kind of ninja. And she wasn’t imposing at all. Her five-foot height was balanced by a spindly build. She looked like an overgrown ant, but her gleaming green eyes revealed her to be a praying mantis.
As the Chess Team took up positions around her, keeping their weapons trained on all parts of her body, Pawn Two removed her hood. Her oval eyes squinted when she smiled. “Consider it an object lesson.”
“You could have been killed,” King said.
“And she would have been,” Pawn Two said, motioning to Sara. “If she hadn’t warned you, it would have been you with the knife to your throat.”
Not only did King not have the time or energy to have this discussion, but he also knew she was right. Sara was a liability. But he had no choice. She was the mission.
The woman finished tying her spaghetti-straight black hair in a ponytail and extended her hand to Sara. “They’ll keep calling me Pawn Two, I’m sure, but you can call me Somi, short for Sommalina. Sommalina Syha. Sorry about the neck.”
Sara took her hand and was pulled to her feet. The