Brett Battles - The Destroyed

Nate angled the camera so he could get a better look at the building itself. The front door was about ten feet from his position.

Don’t do it, a voice in his head said.

He took a step forward.

Don’t!

Another step brought him fully around the corner. Keeping his pace slow, and his profile as low to the ground as possible, he crept all the way to the door, reached out, and grabbed the knob.

“Um, what are you doing?” Daeng asked.

Nate was in no position to answer, which was probably for the best since he was asking himself the same question.

He twisted the handle, half expecting it wouldn’t move, but it did. When the latch was clear, he gently pushed inward until the door moved beyond the jamb.

Light streamed out from inside, not particularly bright, but, given the darkness outside, more than enough to be noticed if anyone was looking in the right direction. If he opened the door any wider, the chances of that happening skyrocketed.

He silently groaned in frustration. Unless he could get inside, he couldn’t know for sure if Mila was there.

He cocked his head and listened through the narrow opening. Quiet.

“More men exiting the house,” Daeng said. “You might want to get out of there.”

Nate glanced at the other building, and saw movement on the porch.

Wonderful.

Having no choice, he eased the door closed, and quickly moved back around the side of the house.

“Two of them are headed your way,” Daeng said.

“And the others?”

“One’s still on the porch, the second’s doing a sweep around the house.”

“Okay.”

“You are getting out of there, right?”

“Soon.”

More guards meant more chances of being caught, but it also signaled a potential opportunity. Nate pressed himself as close to the edge as he could get, and listened.

He picked out the two distinct patterns of steps almost immediately, one man taking longer strides than the other. Then a voice, indistinct at first.

“…bably tomorrow.”

“Okay. Sure,” a second voice said.

The steps continued until they reached the outbuilding, then stopped. There was the sound of metal on metal, someone opening the door and not worrying about being heard.

“Any requests and your answer is no.”

“Of course.”

They walked inside and the door shut behind them.

Nate replayed what they’d said. It hadn’t been much, but the “any requests and your answer is no” seemed odd.

He leaned toward his mic and said quietly, “Keep an eye on it and see how many come out. Time for me to leave.”

As Nate was making his way through the vineyard, Daeng said, “The door’s opening again.” He paused. “Two coming. One of them from before, but the other one’s new.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Any requests and your answer is no.

Instructions to someone who’s about to guard a prisoner, that’s what it sounded like to Nate. And if that were the case…

Mila.

Again, not indisputable proof, but to Nate it was damn close.

Mila paced back and forth in her pitch-black cell. Her captors had taken her shoes and socks, so twice she had stubbed her toe against the wall.

For a while, she had tried lying down, but that had only driven her crazy. At least the pacing was helping to quell the excess anxiety she felt building inside.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.

One. Two. Three Someone touched the handle on the other side of her door. She stopped, and shifted most of her weight onto her back foot so she could sprint out of the room if the opportunity presented itself.

As the door opened, the light that spilled through temporarily blinded her, but in that initial split second she had seen the dark outlines of two men standing just outside. She eased the pressure off her leg, her potential run for freedom currently off the table.

She squinted until her eyes adjusted to the light.

Not two men, three.

She idly wondered if they were finally going to administer drugs or do whatever they had in mind to get her to talk. Part of her wished they would. Hanging around in the dark was just wasting time. Any change could provide-however small the odds-the opportunity for escape.

“Turn around,” one of the men said.

She did.

“Now face me again.”

She did that, too.

His gaze traveled up and down her body, stopping at her foot. “What happened?”

She looked down at her bloody toe, and shrugged. Let him figure it out.

He stared at her. “You might want to get some sleep.”

He took a step back, and one of the others shut the door.

She remained where she was standing, the afterimage of the lit doorway still glowing in her retinas. Then, once she was sure they weren’t coming back, she started pacing again.

APRIL 12 th, 2006 ATLANTA, GEORGIA

“That’s it right there,” the woman said. She had introduced himself as Ms. Hafner, but by the way she’d stumbled when she said it, it was clear to Mila the woman had never used that name before.

Mila didn’t care. That was the business. Some people were just better at it than others.

The package was a square box no more than two inches high. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It reminded her of those old-time packages she’d seen in the movies. Parcels, they’d called them.

What it contained, she didn’t know, nor was she even curious. That wasn’t her job. Couriers seldom were told what they were carrying. It was better that way.

Having already been informed that the item being transported was small, she’d brought along her brown shoulder bag. She picked up the box and deposited it inside.

“Anything else?” she asked. There seldom was, but she always checked.

“No, that’s it. You can go.”

A dismissal. That didn’t sit well. She may have been just a courier, but that didn’t make her any less important than the woman. Still, she stifled the response she wanted to give, and left with a smile. Work was work. No sense in pissing off a client.

More times than not, she would travel by commercial airliner. In a way, it provided a bit of a thrill as she passed through various airport security checks carrying packages filled with the unknown. Not once had she ever been stopped and searched.

Sometimes her clients would arrange for her to fly on a private jet or even on a governmental aircraft. Those trips never required a security check. She would simply be ushered on board and directed to a seat. Those kinds of flights were a mixed bag. Sometimes they were relaxing and enjoyable, other times they were uncomfortable and boring.

On this particular assignment, she’d been instructed to go to a private airfield just outside of Atlanta, where she would be hitching a ride on a noncommercial flight to Lisbon, Portugal.

As she drove through the city, she hoped and prayed the trip would not be completely horrible. A small private jet would be nice, something with cushy seats and a stocked bar.

She was well out of the city and into an area of farms and scattered homes when she finally reached the turnoff for the airport. The drive had taken her longer than she’d expected, causing her to push the outside window of the time she’d been given to catch the plane. So when she crested the hill and saw that it was still waiting at the airport just a quarter mile away, she was both relieved and annoyed. She was going to make it, but she certainly wasn’t going to be flying in style.

Though there were no markings on the side of the aircraft, Mila had no doubt the plane belonged to the US military. It was a modified commercial passenger jet. Not large like a 747, but the smaller type.