Freedom Earned

by J D Stone

  14

  Even while running in shoes that didn’t fit with cut-up feet, I managed to make it around the headland to the backside of one of the rocky cliffs, where I decided to climb to get a vantage point. So far, there had been no sign of the woman with the pistol, and I needed to know what I was dealing with here.

  Something moved in the bush to my right, but I ignored it. Maybe there were deadly animals in the jungles of this Thai island, but it wasn’t like my chances of dying weren’t already high. At this point, I needed to simply keep moving. I tucked the hatchet into the side of my pants but kept the knife ready in case there was trouble.

  The stones here were jagged enough for footholds and the overgrowth was dense enough to give me something to grab so that climbing was relatively easy. Nausea and exhaustion were getting to me. About halfway up, I had to rest, but even from there I could see part of the beach where the ship had landed.

  From this vantage, I saw that the ship had stopped moving, but I couldn’t tell whether it had reached the shore because of the rock and overgrowth blocking my view. My guess was it had, or at least was close enough, and the people aboard were now meeting with the woman who had been my captor. That would explain why I hadn’t seen her coming after me.

  That also meant these people were too important to simply blow off. I needed to get a better view to see what was happening. And while I was at it, to find a way out of here. I pushed on, remembering a girl I had once dated, Jules. One of our dates had been to her favorite indoor rock-climbing gym, and man, it was a pain. Fun, but my fingers and forearms had been sore for weeks. This was nothing like that fun climb. It didn’t offer me the phenomenal view of her rear end that I’d enjoyed that day. Here, it was all me. Climbing solo, wondering if Jason was out there talking to the cops, looking for me, or whether he was in trouble, too.

  I pushed myself up to the last ledge and knelt, finally getting a view of the boat and shore. One figure on the side closest to the house stood with an arm gesturing wildly, and I assumed that was my captor. On the other side were four figures. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell if any more were on the ship. That could be a way out of here, in theory. Yet, I still faced a major problem with that escape route. I didn’t know much about operating yachts. It couldn’t be so hard to figure out, could it?

  Seeing them hadn’t been my only objective, so I turned and moved along the ledge to look around. Not all of the island was visible from there, but enough of it to get an idea. As far as I could see, jungle and more jungle. Back toward the ship was the beach, which curved around on both sides. Aside from the house, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to learn that the whole island was jungle and beach.

  But that couldn’t be right, I hoped. In part, because I needed to get out of there. In training after boot camp a lot of Marines had bought those jackets with the bright gold USMC on the back, and older Marines had mocked them for putting targets on their backs. What sort of targets had been on me? How the hell had I ended up in this situation, with this group apparently riding up to take me as a hostage or prisoner of some sort? Marines had to be rolling up to Koh Samui all the time, and many of them worked in intel. It wasn’t as if I was some CIA operative.

  The only way it made sense was if they were targeting me because of my assignments. Someone had a list of everyone involved, and they were targeting that list. Nothing else made sense.

  Looking out over the jungle, I realized the easiest way to die out here would be to go randomly exploring at night. I knew about survival, but had no idea what sort of wildlife might be out there. I didn’t have food, and while I could likely find water, my focus was back on that ship below, wondering what my chances were.

  When I turned back, the group was mid-dispersal. None of them returned to the ship, so I decided to go for it. The downside of that, though, was that it meant they were probably now heading back out into the jungle—likely in search of me. I had to move fast, and make sure to avoid them.

  Each slide down the side of the hill was a chance to fall to my death, but I wasn’t about to slow down. My only concern was to avoid hitting any trees. The last thing I needed was those below spotting movement in them trees.

  At a ledge, I paused to look out at the scene below. No one within sight, now, although one of them was checking out the house. Maybe one of the guys had been theirs? The guy from the club, most likely.

  My hand instinctively pulled back at a touch. Something slithered over my hand, and it was a miracle I managed to stop myself from shouting. I lost my footing and slipped, dropping my knife as my hands searched for a handhold while trying to avoid whatever had touched me. As I started to fall, I caught myself on a thick bush growing out of the side of the hill. It started to give, but held when I managed to anchor my feet against the trunk of a tree. From there, I pushed myself over and was able to leap to another ledge.

  I was safe, for now, but it seemed likely that the movements I had hoped to avoid had been spotted. I pushed the thought aside. From there, the descent wasn’t so steep. My heart was racing from the slithering and from the prospect of those below possibly having seen me and moving up toward me at that exact moment.

  Each breath was slow, forced as I attempted to stay calm. My steps were cautious, eyes scouring the dark hillside below. The bottom of the hill was near when I saw the first sign of the others, and they were entirely too close for comfort.

  A man stood maybe twenty feet away, eyeing the hill above. Judging by how focused he was, he had seen something. Was it my movement or that of some animal in the jungle with me?

  I considered my predicament. Hatchet tucked into my pants, knife lost when I’d almost fallen. And now, there was this guy who was likely armed. From this angle it was hard to tell, but judging by what I had seen so far, he would at least have a pistol. When he started toward the hill, I saw the silhouette of a gun that confirmed it.

  They weren’t supposed to kill me, though, so I wondered what he had in mind. Or maybe they’d had enough of my shit and were ready to be done with it all. Either way, he was moving up the hill while I was moving toward the shore. I continued inching forward until there was sand below me, then went for it.

  Damn, it felt good to land on the soft beach, to know I could duck behind the rocky drop-off that led to the shore. I might have a chance at making it to the boat.

  Except suddenly, there was movement behind me. A second man was coming, and I wasn’t going to make it in time. Hoping he hadn’t seen me, I ducked close to the ground and crawled over to the hillside and around the bend. I was able to get between a bush and the base of a palm. I started to roll but remembered the hatchet and thought it better to scoot. The man came around the bend, head swiveling in his search.

  He stepped closer, and this reminded me of one of the most epic paintball trips we’d had back on Camp Pendleton. There I was, lying on the ground and staying as still as I could while the enemy walked by, now only about two paces away, as I had been then. That time, the enemy had been my buddy, Pena, and he had ended up stepping on my hand as he walked, all while not realizing I was there until it was too late for him and I was up, covering his back and ass in bright orange paint. He had complained about welts for the next three days, providing me and the rest of my team with plenty of laughs.

  This wasn’t nearly as fun as that day. Watching the guy walk past me, his foot nowhere near stepping on my hand, eyes up and scouring the hill, then moving to the beach. He had a snub nose and long hair, and with his feminine features, I might have easily mistaken him for a woman in the darkness. One of my hands slowly went to my hatchet, and I waited. I didn’t want to breathe and risk him hearing me, so I held it in until he finally turned and walked away. I let my breath out heavily. I couldn’t have held out much longer.

  I started to push myself up to one knee, but then the first one came back into view. He was climbing right above me! If he looked down, it would be all over. If I moved to lie down or find other cover, he might
notice me. Considering that, I gripped the hatchet, waiting as still as possible. He disappeared from view, likely moving in toward one of the many less-dangerous parts of the climb, but a moment later appeared looking out, calling to his buddy.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  The other guy shouted back, likely telling him that he hadn’t spotted anything, but then started back our way. At first, I was confused. Then it hit me—the guy above hadn’t been asking him if he had seen anything, but probably told him that he had found a sign of my movement. A broken branch or maybe a footprint, for all I knew.

  Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  With his current line of approach, there was no way he would miss me this time. Above, the guy had pulled back, likely investigating further. My predicament left me with two options. The first was to try and hide again, hoping I would be lucky a third time. Or, and in my mind with my adrenaline high and desire to get to the boat rising, I could charge out and take this guy down before his friend noticed.

  I had to Assassin’s Creed his ass. If there was one thing I had learned from video games, and of course from the Marines, it was that moving at the exact right moment was key. Hiding the body was also vital, but first came the need to survive.

  Waiting, I watched as the clouds above moved aside, only half-covering the moon now. Moonlight lit up half this guy’s face, casting shadows from the palms and reflecting off the water beyond him. A glance down showed that it hadn’t hit my hiding spot yet, but if the clouds moved any more, I might be exposed.

  He was only about three paces away now, and the guy from above hadn’t reappeared yet. Another step, and I went for it. Pushing up against a rock as if I were a sprinter about to try for the Olympics, I lunged as I raised my hand, hatchet gripped tightly. His eyes moved to me, went wide, and his mouth opened. With a sickening crunch, I connected—the sharp end of the hatchet slammed into his cheek, crunching on either teeth or jawbone. Shoulder-slamming him off, I pulled the hatchet free with a spray of blood. He staggered back, his hand shaking as it tried to lift his pistol, but he was clearly in shock. Maybe I was, too, but my body was moving on instinct. Every ounce of survival skill the Marines instilled in me was kicking in. I faked a strike while at the same time kicking out his leg, bringing him to the ground. I didn’t waste a second. Before he could do a damn thing, I was on him, bringing that hatchet down on his skull, wrenching it free, then striking again.

  It wasn’t a clean kill by any means. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I would one day be killing someone with a hatchet, but now I know how stupid an idea that can be. For one, each strike implanted the weapon into his flesh and struck bone, but it wasn’t like the thing cleaved him in two or anything like those old medieval movies with their broadswords.

  Each strike like that was another sound that could give me away, and when his pistol went off—a completely wild shot, but enough to raise the alarm, I only had enough time to kick the pistol away, then turn back and see one more opening—his neck. I landed a solid downward hacking motion. I didn’t know whether it was from crushing his windpipe or the cut, but either way, he twitched, done for.

  I rolled, grabbed the pistol, and came back, dragging him by his leg to my hiding spot. Shouting registered above, but it was more distant than before. Muffled. My enemy up there had kept going, and now was likely backtracking, but maybe I had time. No doubt the others had heard, too.

  All of that added up to one simple fact. If I was going to make it to the boat, now was my one shot. I couldn’t view it from this angle, but figured that after I dropped over the ledge, I would be able to see if anyone out there had heard the shot. If there was no movement, I would likely be able to place a safe bet on the idea of nobody being aboard.

  I sprinted as fast as my legs could carry me.

  15

  Moonlight flooded the beach as the clouds overhead moved on, carried fast by the heavy wind. Anyone looking my way would have seen me. To my relief, I reached the ledge and threw myself down to the smooth sand below. I lay there staring up at the sky, my breathing raspy, my lungs burning and slimy bile in my mouth. Maybe it was from the running, maybe it was from the killing.

  Holy shit. I had killed a guy.

  The thought didn’t sit easily with me. It was self-defense. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Now that it was over, I couldn’t get the sickening feeling of the hatchet scraping bone out of my mind, made even worse by a worry that maybe the guy hadn’t intended to attack me. Oh, God, that crunching bone, the squishing of flesh and the blood… the smell of it. And the look in his eyes—horror and inevitability.

  For all I knew, they had been cops sent by Jason to find me.

  But no, that couldn’t be the case. Right? Oh, God, I hoped that wasn’t the case.

  That bloody hatchet was still gripped tightly in my blistered hand, clutched to my chest, as I felt each rapid rise and fall of my chest. The only way I was going to survive this—mentally, at least—was to go with the assumption that they were out to get me. He had fired his pistol, after all. And the others were looking for me, without a doubt.

  I nodded, telling myself to get a grip, and then rolled over to the ledge, pushing myself up enough to look. The hill was close enough that I could still see what was going on, but far enough that if they looked my way, I would be small enough out here that they might not be able to see me.

  To my relief, it didn’t look like they had found the body. Two of them were there, one with his pistol raised, the other with a rifle. It sounded as if they were arguing with each other, but not in Thai. What language was it? My guess… Kazak.

  It all started to make a little more sense, now. One of the missions I had worked on had involved compiling a case against some locals based on intel I had collected going door-to-door and interviewing the residents. Our work led to several arrests, both local and then international when the CIA stepped in and tied it to a group operating out of several other countries. At the time, I only heard about connections to Hezbollah and a group out of Kyrgyzstan, but it was entirely possible that some had been in Southern Thailand.

  My suspicion that this had to be part of that was growing. They had obtained a list of everyone involved. I was in deeper than I had previously thought. But, none of that could change my plan for getting out of there. I had to reach the yacht and somehow sail the thing.

  I stayed low at first, crouch-walking in case they looked my way. My guess was that they wouldn’t yet be looking in this direction. Hubris wouldn’t allow them to think I would have a chance of making it to the boat—I hoped.

  From behind me, a song started up. Distant but unmistakable. Shake it Off, by what’s-her-face. Holy hell, why was that playing? As it continued, I started running faster, because slowly it was dawning on me. That was a ringtone. One of those guys was calling the other, and they had service! They were probably trying to call the dead guy.

  On one hand, that terrified me. They were going to find that body soon—the sound of the chimes would give it away. On the other, it gave me hope because that meant they weren’t yet looking in my direction. They were likely turned toward the sound, searching the side of the hill. I was up in a full sprint then, acutely aware of my need to reach the water before anyone noticed. More thoughts were racing through my head. I was kicking myself for not searching the body. If I had found that phone, I might have been able to call the police again or maybe found a way to get in touch with my base to tell them where I was. To beg for help and forgiveness.

  Without a doubt, if I got out of this I would be in trouble. But that scenario appealed to me more than the alternative of being captured and facing whatever these jackasses had in store for me.

  Either the music had stopped or I was out of earshot, but I had reached the water’s edge. And if I were out of earshot, they wouldn’t hear me splash into the water. I hoped. Now that I was there, the boat looked a hell of a lot farther away than I had hoped. But I was a Marine, right? Supp
osedly able to swim long distances.

  Only problem with that thought was that I had practically failed swim qual back in boot camp, and never really bothered to get better. Marines don’t really know how to swim, or at least not all of them. To qualify, all you had to do was complete a short swim, tread water for a minute, and do a dead man’s float. There might have been more to it than that, which I couldn’t recall, but it wasn’t much. Even if you failed a section, you didn’t start all over—you only repeated the portion you failed. I had been so out of breath after the swim, and I had failed to properly tread water as I struggled to breathe. They had let me out, yelled at me with threats of failing boot camp, but then sent me back in. I passed, but the whole experience had left me with little confidence when it came to water.

  At the moment, though, confidence didn’t mean much. I was driven by a will to survive and a knowledge that I’d be more buoyant in salt water. So, I swam. Or was about to, but going out into the water, I realized that it was incredibly shallow for what seemed quite a while. It wasn’t that the boat was so far out, it was that it had to stay a good distance from land to avoid running aground. I was able to swim when the water was up to my knees, which was better than staying high and being spotted.

  While the water had been warm, it was cooler as I swam farther out. Not cold like the Pacific, though. If you want to learn to surf without a wet suit in California, be prepared for the cold. At least here in Thailand I would be able to last a lot longer, or at least I would if I kept my arms and legs moving.

  A thought hit me and I glanced around, only then spotting the dinghy they had taken from the yacht. It was on the shore, farther along the beach and at a point much closer to the house where I had been held captive. A figure was there, its lit cigarette visible in the darkness. At least that meant I had chosen the right option. No reason to add more chances of death to the list. While I was a badass by some measures, going up against people with guns would always be stupid. Now I hoped that, given the circumstances, they hadn’t decided to leave someone aboard.