Bad Nights (6 page)

For long moments, Jack was nowhere at all. Then, to his shock, he woke up in a place he didn't want to be. Back in Trainer's clutches, powerless to defend himself from the burns and the blows.

He was lying on a hard surface, naked and shivering from the pile of ice cubes heaped onto his chest.

“Wake up, you bastard,” a harsh voice ordered. “You're not going to escape by sleeping.”

He kept his eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness.

“I said wake up.” The speaker was Wade Trainer himself.

Jack's brain swam with confusion. He'd thought he'd escaped from the torture room. Now he was back again.

Trainer slapped his face—hard. But it was just a bee sting compared to what had come before. To remind Jack, the man poured something hot and stinging on a couple of the cigarette burns he'd already gouged into Jack's flesh.

He couldn't hold back a groan, but he kept from screaming.

“Good. I've got your attention.” The militia leader's voice turned conversational. “You find out what a man is made of by the way he responds to torture. So far, you're being stupid.”

Jack clenched his teeth as he gazed up into Wade Trainer's face. The remarkable thing was that there was nothing remarkable about Trainer's appearance. He looked ordinary, with features you might see on a guy riding the bus to work. His dark hair was straight and graying at the temples. His nose was small for a man, his lips thin, his eyes gray. They were the most notable thing about him. Not because of their color but their steely determination. When you looked into them, you knew this man had a purpose.

He made a formidable opponent. But Jack was being smart—following his SEAL training and looking for an opportunity to escape.

“You went to a lot of trouble to get into the RAM. Who are you working for?”

“Nobody.”

“Don't screw with me now. That fight in the bar where I first saw you beat the crap out of a guy—that was staged, wasn't it?”

“No.”

“You let me think you were a badass lone wolf, bitter about losing your buddies. You let me think you wanted to get back at the U.S. Government.”

“I do.”

Trainer snorted. Ignoring Jack, he went on. “You made me think you bought into the RAM ideals.”

“I do.”

“Bullshit. You made yourself look like the perfect recruit. You had discipline. All the skills I needed in a man. I even made you an instructor. But it was all an act.”

“No.”

“Cut the crap. You may think you can hold out. But you're going to spill your guts to me like everybody does under torture. Why not make it easier on yourself and tell me now. Then I'll kill you quick.”

Jack didn't waste his energy with a snappy reply. He let his mind float away—to a place where the pain was happening to someone else—only he could still feel it.

“Why were you in my office?”

He'd been in the office? Jack didn't remember that or anything else right before waking up in the torture chamber, but he filed the information away.

Trainer leaned over him, grinning as he took a drag on his cigarette and held it up, studying the glowing end. Then he pressed it against Jack's shoulder.

He called on every drop of inner strength he possessed, determined to deny the militia leader the satisfaction of hearing him scream. But keeping silent was getting harder.

“Who are you working for?”

“Nobody.”

“You're lying.”

When he turned his head away, the militia leader grabbed his hair and snapped his face back, damn near breaking his neck in the process.

When he didn't respond, the man closed a hand over his shoulder, his fingers rubbing against the new burn mark as he shook him.

“Jack. Wake up. Jack. Can you hear me?” an urgent voice asked.

The voice didn't sound like Trainer, but it had to be. Or one of his men. There was nobody else in the torture room. Or was his memory wrong? He didn't recall the place smelling damp and musty.

He tensed his muscles, waiting for the right moment.

“Jack?”

In the dim light, he could barely see who had spoken his name. Was that really Trainer hovering above him? His mind refused to focus, but his body reacted in the way he'd been trained. This was his chance to get away, and he took it. Springing forward, he knocked the bastard out of the way where he landed on his ass against the wall.

When he heard a grunting sound, he felt a surge of victory.

“Jack.”

It didn't sound like Trainer. And as the familiar face finally came into focus, he dragged in a sharp breath.

It
wasn't
Trainer or one of his men. And he wasn't in the brightly lighted torture chamber.

He was in a dark place, illuminated only by the glow from a flashlight sitting on the floor. In the dim light, he saw Morgan picking herself up.

“Shit.” He wasn't back in Trainer's clutches. His brain had made up that scenario when an explosion shook the house, and he fell down the ladder and blacked out.

“Morgan?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“Yes.”

He ran a shaky hand through his hair as he thought about the short amount of time they'd spent together. “I attacked you before, didn't I? When you first found me, right?”

“You were out of it.”

He snorted. “Don't make excuses for me. I'm having flashbacks to that torture session.” The moment he mentioned it, he wished he hadn't reminded himself of the pain. Grimly he added, “I'm dangerous, and you need to ditch me.”

Her answer was swift and decisive. “No. I won't last a couple of seconds out there without you.”

Maybe it was the truth. Maybe she was saying it for effect. And maybe the idea of her ditching him made his stomach knot. He couldn't sort out facts from supposition right now. And certainly not any personal feelings.

Instead he focused on practicalities. Starting with his physical condition. He hadn't needed another injury, but his head ached again, and also his ankle. He must have twisted it in the fall. Maybe broken it. Jesus, that would be bad news.

“How long was I out?”

“Only a couple of seconds.”

That was the good news, he hoped.

“You said that man's name. Trainer. The one you told me about before. He was the one torturing you?”

“His men were doing most of the work,” he clipped out, hoping she'd drop the subject.

Gingerly, he moved his arms and legs. They all seemed to work, except for the pain in his ankle, but at least he didn't think it was broken. Looking up to judge how far he'd tumbled, he saw smoke seeping into the tunnel from the crack around the closed trapdoor.

When he began to cough, Morgan gripped his arm, reminding him where they were and why. Her voice was low and urgent as she said, “We have to get out of here.”

“Right.” No time for self-recriminations or anything else besides the basics—survival. He'd figure out the rest of it after they got out of here. Pushing himself off the dirt floor, he winced as he felt new bruises that had joined the old ones.

She helped him climb to his feet. While she was reaching to scoop up the knapsacks, he tested his ankle.

“Careful of your head,” she said.

He raised a hand above him, feeling the low earthen ceiling and stooping slightly as he steadied himself with a hand against the rough wall.

Picking up the flashlight, Morgan shined the beam down the tunnel.

It looked like no one had been here in the past century. Even with the support timbers every few feet, he didn't like the odds of the ceiling holding, especially with the fire burning above and making the house shift.

“You ever been in here?”

“I knew about the tunnel from listening to my grandma's stories about the Underground Railroad. I found it and went down a couple of times.” She made a tsking sound. “Until my dad caught me and punished me for playing there.”

“Why?”

“He said it was old, and it could collapse.”

“Great.” He looked at the equipment they'd brought. It was tempting to just leave it, but he knew that would be a mistake. If they got away from here, they'd need the survival gear.

When he scooped up a backpack and slung it over his shoulder, she did the same.

She stayed right beside him as he tried not to limp.

“You hurt your leg.”

He gave her the only answer he could. “I'll manage.”

He made his way awkwardly down the passage, keeping his hand on the wall and his shoulders bent so that he'd fit under the low ceiling. The position didn't help his physical condition, but after maybe two minutes, they reached another ladder. It led to another trapdoor closed by a metal bar that fit into a metal slot. When he climbed up and tried to move it to the side, the bar seemed to have rusted into place.

Behind them, the smoke was billowing more thickly, and it was worse up near the tunnel's ceiling. Then he caught the flicker of flames coming from the room where they'd first entered.

As he watched, the old timbers above the front of the tunnel began to smolder. They were damp and didn't burst into flames immediately, but soon this place would be a barbecue pit, with them as the smoked meat.

He turned back to the door, trying again to push the bar aside, but time and disuse had fixed it solidly into place.

Could they shoot their way out? Maybe. But the gunfire would alert Trainer's men that they were still alive and outside the house.

“Move over,” Morgan said. As she spoke, the words triggered a coughing fit, and she stopped climbing while she recovered.

Knowing he had to focus on escape, Jack worked his way to the side of the ladder, and she stepped up beside him. He threw an arm around her shoulder, wedging her against himself.

“Sorry.”

“About what?”

“Throwing you down. Just what you needed, under the circumstances.”

“Don't worry about that.” She was holding a T-shirt, which she wrapped around her hands before reaching for the bar, making a cushion between her palms and the rough metal.

“Now,” she whispered.

He added his strength to her effort, tugging upward with everything he had. For long seconds he thought it wouldn't be enough. Then with a ripping sound, it finally came free, throwing them both off balance as it flew upward, sending leaves and other forest debris raining down on their heads, which started Morgan coughing again.

He lowered the door and rubbed her back, feeling her shoulders shake as she struggled to stop making noise.

He kept the exit closed until she had quieted.

“I'm all right,” she said when she was able to speak again.

He hoped it was true. There was nobody out here who could treat either one of them for smoke inhalation.

He steadied himself and cautiously pushed the trapdoor upward again, letting in filtered light, the roar of the fire behind them, and fresh air that was tainted with smoke. They both dragged in several breaths. The oxygen helped clear his head.

“I'm going to take a look,” he whispered.

Climbing up a couple more rungs, he cautiously stuck his head up just far enough to see the area around the trapdoor.

The tunnel exit was screened by brambles and small trees that must have grown up since the escape route was dug. Some of the tree roots pulled free when they wrenched the door open.

Swiveling around so that he could look in all directions, he saw that they had come up behind the rear of the burning house—about fifty yards away from the scene of the action.

Trainer's troops, dressed in combat gear with guns ready, were standing in a circle, their attention glued to the conflagration. He couldn't see all of their faces from here, but he could identify all of them by their stance and bearing. Everyone a Trainer loyalist, picked for their ideology. They weren't here to put out the blaze or save anyone's life. But what had Jack expected—that the militia leader would have called the fire department?

From Jack's position, he could see six men. Ryder, Chambers, Salter, Porter, Hamilton, and Jessup. He assumed there were more outside of his line of sight.

Ducking back inside the tunnel, he spoke to Morgan in a whisper. “I'm going out. Keep the door cracked, and keep your eyes on me. When I motion for you to follow, stay low.”

She nodded, and he eased out of the tunnel, keeping almost flat to the ground as he assessed the situation. From below the trapdoor, he could hear Morgan's harsh breathing.

Satisfied that none of the militiamen was watching anything besides the blaze, he motioned to Morgan. She handed the sleeping bag up first, then flopped out onto a bed of brown leaves, imitating his low profile. Turning, she stared back at the house that was now reduced to flames and blackened timbers.

The sad look on her face tore at him.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I guess you loved that place.”

“I have mixed feelings, actually.”

The way she said it made him want to know more, but there wasn't time for any personal discussion now.

They weren't out of the woods yet, so to speak.

Sweeping his arms along the ground, he gathered leaves and scattered them over the trapdoor, trying to make the spot blend back into the rest of the forest floor.

Morgan helped, gritting her teeth, probably to repress another coughing fit. He looked at her with concern, worried about her lungs and worried that she might reveal their position if she couldn't stay silent.

He pointed away from the house and started to move, easing along on hands and knees. It was an awkward way to travel, and he stopped to rest when they'd put fifty more yards between themselves and the action.

Looking around again, he spotted trouble another twenty-five yards ahead.

When he went stock-still, Morgan looked at him questioningly. He flattened himself against the ground and pointed. Ahead of them was one of Trainer's new recruits, a tall man in his thirties with sandy hair and pale skin named Gibson. Most of Trainer's troops had been in the military, but Gibson had been a truck driver who'd lost his job when his long-distance company had to lay off some men. Way behind everyone else in his level of training, he hadn't spotted them because he was facing away, taking a leak against a tree.