Harder (The Unit #3)

by Sarah Greyson

  By the time Tony rounded the platform to help Rob, Rob had killed the second man by snapping his neck. After reuniting with the others, the five men made their way through the small village to the larger building in the middle of the area. Once they spotted it, they knew for sure it was where Martin was being held. In standard formation, the Unit approached the building. They hadn’t met with any further resistance and the door to the building was slightly ajar, which was strange. Tony pulled the door back as quietly as he could while Rob provided cover. With his gun at the ready, he ducked into the front room. “Clear,” he whispered into his communication piece as he moved fluidly into the next room, the men following. “Clear,” he repeated. They continued in this fashion until they had cleared the entire building. No Martin.

  “Tony, you better get in here,” Rob’s voice came through his in-ear headset.

  “What is it?” Tony asked as he joined Rob in the other room.

  “Look on the floor. I can’t fucking believe it. How?” Rob questioned his friend.

  “What the fuck is it?” Tony asked, moving closer to the object in question. “No fucking way.” Tony brought his hand up to his neck to feel that his dog tag was still securely where it should be. “No,” he whispered.

  “What the fuck, man? Care to explain what the fuck your dog tag is doing on the floor of this shithole?” Rob asked.

  Reaching down, Tony picked up the dog tag and brought it to his lips. “Jules,” he whispered.

  “Seriously, Tony? What the fuck?”

  “I gave it to Jules after boot camp. I told her to never forget me,” Tony said, utterly defeated. He dropped his hands to his sides and slouched.

  His brothers knew what Jules meant to him. They knew she was the reason he had never fallen in love with another and shut off his emotions. She was his reason for protecting the country against anyone that could potentially do her harm.

  “I guess she never did.” Michael smiled until he realized what that dog tag meant.

  “They have her. Those fuckers have her. Why? Why would they have her? Her family has no money,” Tony spat out the questions to himself rather than his teammates. “Please let her be safe. Please keep her safe.” Tony’s usually steady hands were shaky.

  As he stared at the dirty, thin mattress that sat on top of the metal cot, he imagined her lying there after they tortured her, bloody and bruised, her clothing ripped. Did she still have all her fingers? He squeezed his eyes tight as tears flowed down his cheeks.

  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images. They couldn’t have her. They would do unspeakable things to her. She was his reason to fight. They couldn’t hurt her. God forbid even one person put hands on her. The thoughts and images running through Tony’s mind were too much. He dropped to his knees and bent his head as silent sobs racked his body. He had worked so hard to keep his emotions off, but the thought of Jules in the hands of the ATG was just too much. Someone had taken his Jules, and they were going to pay. Pay with their lives.

  Rob squeezed his shoulder in a reassuring gesture, but Tony knocked the hand away, not wanting comfort. Needing an outlet for his pain, Tony jumped to his feet and raised his fist at Rob.

  Lifting his hands in surrender, Rob said, “I’m not going to fight you, Tony. We’ll find her.”

  “How? This was a dry hole,” Tony said, utterly defeated.

  “Look, man, I know how you feel. When they took Lola, I was a man on a mission. I know what you are feeling,” Rob said, trying to console Tony.

  Tony gripped the dog tag until his knuckles turned white. He needed to hit something.

  “We will find her. I promise,” Rob repeated.

  Tony paced the small room, balling his fists tighter. “We have to find someone. We should have never killed those two guards. Martin’s microchip was obviously found and left here.”

  “There was no way to know they had her. You can’t blame yourself for this, Tony.”

  “If I had stayed . . .”

  “Who knows what would have happened if you had stayed. One thing's for sure, though, she wouldn’t have you looking for her right now.”

  “Shut the fuck up. Do you hear that?” Steve whispered. The men fell silent. Someone was on the stairs. Their only chance was letting that person come to them, interrogating him, and praying he knew something that could help. The men moved into position within the room. Tony stood right inside the door, ready to grab whomever it was.

  As soon as the man stepped foot inside the room, Tony had him down on the ground, pinned to the floor. “Get Mussa,” he demanded. Steve cautiously crept down the hall to retrieve Mussa from his hiding place.

  “Get the rope.” Tony pinned the man to the ground with his knee on the man’s back. Michael reached into his backpack and removed rope and a zip tie. He gathered the man’s hands behind his back and bound them together. Tony grabbed the man under the arms and pulled him to his feet. Michael was there in a heartbeat tying the man’s feet together.

  “For his sake, he better have some answers.” Tony wiped the sweat from his brow before grabbing the man by the arm and forcing him to sit in the only chair in the room. “Where is she?” Tony asked in Kurdish. However, this man responded in a different dialect, and Tony understood only a few words. “Mussa, ask him. Ask him where the girl is,”

  “Wait, Mussa. Ask him where the hostages are. Both of them,” Michael ordered.

  Mussa posed the question to the prisoner, and to their lack of astonishment, the man claimed to know nothing.

  Tony balled his fist and rammed it into the man’s nose, breaking it. Blood poured from his nose as the man hunched over as much as his bindings would allow.

  “Ask again,” Tony demanded.

  Mussa asked the question again, and again the man denied any knowledge. This time Tony slammed his fist into the side of the man’s head. His ear instantly swelled and blood dripped from the inside of it.

  “Ask him again. Tell him if he doesn’t answer, I’ll make him wish he were dead.” Tony clenched and unclenched his fists.

  Michael reached for Tony, but he quickly sidestepped and swatted Michael’s hand away.

  Mussa tried again, but received the same answer. With his emotions once more on lockdown, Tony approached their prisoner. He couldn’t afford to feel anything at the moment, especially if the ATG had his Jules. He landed blow after blow on the man’s face. Uppercuts, jabs, back fists, casting punches—he rained terror on the man, determined to get the information he needed.

  Michael stepped in and stopped him mid-punch. “That’s enough. You’re killing him. Then he can’t tell us anything.” Michael placed his hand on Tony’s arm, and again Tony pulled away.

  “Ask him again, Mussa.”

  But still the man refused to speak.

  “Stand up,” Tony commanded in Kurdish. Mussa translated. The man did as he was told, his legs wobbly. “Squat, and if you move, I will end you.” Again, Mussa translated. They placed the man in a stress position, forcing all his weight on two muscles. They would let him sit like that until he gave up the information.

  Suffering was part of the human experience, and this man would suffer greatly if he didn’t tell them what they needed to know.

  “Look at him. Maybe he really doesn’t know anything,” Steve interjected.

  “That’s bullshit. He knows. He will tell us where they are.” Looking at the man’s bloodstained face, Tony felt nothing at the damage he’d inflicted.

  After an hour, the man began to moan. “He’s ready. Ask him again, Mussa.” Tony looked Mussa directly in the eyes as he informed him that he would kill this man if he didn’t give up the information this time, and that is exactly what Mussa communicated to the badly beaten man.

  “Glaahlyia Amber,” escaped the man’s lips in a moan.

  Mussa translated.

  “What the fuck is Glaahlyia Amber?” Tony asked.

  The man confessed, “It’s the yacht where the hostages are being kept.�
�

  “A fucking yacht?” Tony asked, surprised. “That means they’ve been gone for a few days. Ask him where.”

  Mussa translated the man’s answer. “The Mediterranean Sea.”

  Snatching up his backpack, Tony pulled out his satellite phone. “Boss, we need you on this. Martin and Jules are on a yacht in the Mediterranean Sea, and you’re the SEAL.”

  Their boss, Tyrrell, had connections with every branch of the military.

  “We need evac,” Tony requested.

  “Okay, I’ll call the general I know with the army. What are your coordinates?”

  Tony relayed their location. There was no way they had the time or ammunition to cross Iraq into Jordan. The Jordanians hated Americans. They would face resistance.

  Just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, a Chinook transport landed at the base of the mountain village. Tyrrell had come through. The men loaded into the chopper. “Thanks for the ride,” Tony said to the army ranger manning the copter. The back of the copter was pulled up and the bird lifted off without incident.

  The interrogated man, bloodied but alive, lay tied up in the building. He could warn the ATG, but the men had searched every building while they waited, destroying the cell phones and collecting the few laptops they found. There was no way for the man to contact anyone without making a three-day trek to the nearest village. Tony prayed that no one would come upon the man until after they had rescued Jules, but he knew the chances were slim. Someone would be there sooner or later, and then the ATG would know the Unit was coming.

  The copter touched down on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. The Israeli government had given permission for the army helicopter to land on their soil, had afforded the men a warehouse to work out of, and everything they would need to track the whereabouts of a yacht in the Mediterranean Sea. The Unit had their full support due to Tyrrell’s contacts within the United States agencies.

  Tyrrell had stepped off the intercontinental flight at the same time the men were setting up the warehouse as a base of operations. They had just set up the computer monitors with satellite feed when he walked into the large, mainly empty space. His booming voice echoed off the walls. “What’s the status?”

  “We have the satellite feed up on monitor two. We’re trying to close in on their precise location. Once we do, how will this go down? Jules is on that yacht,” Tony lamented, keeping his eyes glued to the monitor in front of him.

  “Tony, I know you love Jules. Please believe me when I tell you, we will get her back,” Tyrrell tried to reassure his employee and friend.

  Tony broke free of the monitor to see the seriousness in his boss’s eyes. Tyrrell’s deep green eyes shone in the dimly lit space. He was sincere, and he knew exactly how to get Jules back. Martin had become a fleeting thought to Tony. “Martin may have been our original focus, but that focused has shifted. We are there to get Jules out safely first, at any cost. I need us to be clear on this,” Tony beseeched his boss as he abruptly stood, knocking his chair to the ground.

  Tyrrell placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. This time Tony didn’t shirk away from another’s touch. Tyrrell squeezed. “We’re on the same page. We’ll get her back. You have my word.”

  “What I would like to know is how the fuck the ATG got her in the first place?” Michael questioned, as he joined Tyrrell and Tony.

  “Abigail said that she’s working as an investigative reporter, and a while back Jules did a piece on someone named Barone, who she linked to the ATG. There are two plausible scenarios. One, she was investigating the disappearance of Martin when the ATG caught her and figured two were better than one. Or two, the ATG captured her for retaliation for the piece she did. What they don’t know is her parents have no money. Her father beat her for the first eighteen years of her life. He would never pay out of his own pocket for her return. Christ, he tried to kill her numerous times. Why they have her is beyond me. Maybe she got too close. Maybe she knows information about their organization that she shouldn’t. All I know is that I won’t rest until she’s safe,” Tony promised as his electric-blue eyes met cold, calculating green ones.

  After several agonizing hours, the men had pinpointed the location of the Glaahlyia Amber. She was seventy miles out from the Israeli port of Ashkelon. They were going to need a cruising vessel. One phone call to their contact with the Israeli government and they had their vessel waiting at port.

  The men were able to hitch a ride with the Israeli government’s Dabur-class patrol boat. They would have to anchor several miles out from the yacht to avoid detection and don their SCUBA gear.

  The men were armed with MP5 variants just for this mission, the same weapons used by Navy SEALs. The submachine guns were capable of use even when wet, in case they had to fire before they even got on the boat. The suppressor for each gun could also fire with water inside it. Outfitted in tactical Min-Mag dry suits, the men strapped their MP5s to their thighs, pulled on their SCUBA gear, and were ready in under thirty minutes.

  As the sun dropped slowly behind the horizon, Tony stood at the edge of the patrol boat, ready to get Jules back.

  “You okay, man?” Michael asked, approaching from Tony’s rear.

  “Yeah. I’m just anxious to get to her. Everybody ready?”

  “We’re good to go. Let’s get her, brother,” Michael said, resting his hand on Tony’s shoulder.

  “How long have you been here? How long have you been in this condition? I didn’t know they had me captured alongside you until they put us in this room together,” Jules said as she twisted her hands behind her back. The ropes felt like they just kept getting tighter the more she twisted and struggled, just like a Chinese finger trap.

  They were being held in a stately room trimmed with mahogany crown molding. Stanley Martin was across the room tied to a pole that ran from floor to ceiling. His ankles and hands were bound with duct tape. She was tied to the post of the plush bed with a constrictor knot. She was as comfortable as she could be with her back against the corner of the headboard. Her back was angled to the right to stay on the bed and to keep her arms from pulling. The furnishings of the room matched the crown molding. The built-in cabinets of the bedroom had gold handles, and a television hung from the ceiling in the corner of the room. The pole appeared out of place, but it looked remarkably similar to a stripper’s pole. She imagined women seductively sliding around it while dancing for the men that lay in the bed watching.

  Stanley’s head hung loosely to the side. He was unconscious. His eyes were swollen shut, and caked-on, dried blood covered his face.

  Although it looked hopeless, she kept talking. “You know you have people coming for you. You’re too important not to have people out looking for you right now,” Jules whispered. “Me, on the other hand, no one will be searching for me. I might as well be dead. I have no idea what they have in store for me. I made a stupid, rookie mistake, one that got me captured. They know I was the one who broke the story on their association with Barone. I have no idea how, but they do. They don’t have good things in store for me.

  “Stanley, you have to wake up. I can’t go through this alone. Stanley! Wake up so that I know you’re okay,” she beseeched. “Once again, it’s all my fault. I was so close to finding you. Too close. I had insider information on their whereabouts and outposts from the story I did. That’s what got me captured and us moved. Once they realized that I knew your location, they sent a man to tail me. I noticed him right away, and I let him get close, thinking he would lead me to you.”

  Stanley’s head began to move. He looked like he was struggling to lift it. Then, all at once, his head popped up and shook in a frenzied way, back and forth.

  “Stanley, it’s okay. I’m here with you. It’s Jules. I was coming to find you when I got captured.” Jules said in her most reassuring voice.

  “Jules, is that you?” Stanley mumbled through cracked, swollen lips.

  “Thank God.” She paused, tears glistening in her dark, amber e
yes. “Yes, Stanley, it’s me.”

  “No. No. No. You shouldn’t be here. They’ll kill you.”

  “Let’s not worry about that now. Let’s worry about how we’re going to get out of here.”

  “Are you tied, too?” he asked, struggling to tear apart the duct tape that held his hands bound together.

  “Yes. I’m tied with rope. My feet aren’t bound. I’m on the bed. If I can just slip my hands out of one side of the ropes, I can undo you.” Jules continued struggling with her bindings. “Wait. I hear someone. Someone’s coming, Stanley. Play unconscious,” Jules warned. He hung his head, and Jules quit struggling and became as still as a cat stalking its prey, waiting to see what her captors would bring.

  In walked a man of Middle Eastern descent. He was short and wore a pair of khaki Dockers with a blue polo shirt. Her eyes were immediately drawn to his hands. He held a pair of plyers in one hand and what looked to be a clamp-on vice in the other. Fear stole her breath as her mind spun out of control. She could plainly imagine her hand in the vice grip as he removed her fingernails. As a job requirement, she’d had to go through hostage training. KMM spared no expense, hiring former Green Berets as the instructors. She had known the possibility of being tortured, yet she still believed it wouldn’t happen to her. Now, here she was, facing just that.

  She had to free her hands. Not caring if he saw, she brazenly struggled against her binds.