CHAPTER TWO

"What now, master chief?" asked William.

"We're going to get the fuck out of here," said Conor. "I'm not sure why we were sent in here to kill their president, but there's so much fucking chaos we can't get near him. Pack your gear, and let's move now."

"How the hell are we supposed to leave when all the roads are blocked?" asked Johnson.

"We'll find a way. We're fucking SEALs. That's what we do."

They left Pyongyang, heading south along the farm roads. It was longer and definitely more treacherous, but it would allow them to avoid the busier roadways. For the most part, no one even bothered to look their way. They'd changed their shirts but were still wearing their black cargo pants and black boots. Sooner or later, they would need to change out of those and wear only civilian clothes.

Conor wanted to get some miles between them and the capital. Hopefully, if they could get within a few miles of the border, they would be able to find a way across. His teammates didn't know it, but he had a scrambling device in his pack that would block the cameras and alarms long enough to get them across.

He knew that something was wrong on his team. That someone wasn't telling the truth, but he had to prove it without a doubt. His worst nightmare was coming true. He didn't trust his entire team.

"Any word from our CIA contact?" he asked Johnson.

"Nothing, sir. William said he went out to find him, and he never showed. Fucking spooks are notorious for leaving us hanging out to dry." William looked up at the men, nodding.

"Yeah. He never showed."

"Just keep listening for them."

"Maybe we split up," said William. "You and me will go south. The rest of the team can go west."

"We go in as a team," said Conor. "No one is going to be left behind. We need to figure out what's happening, but we're doing it together."

"Yes, sir," chimed the men.

They'd walked for days, trying to stay hidden from view, avoiding troops sweeping the area. Their own commander had said it was a suicide mission, but they had to get in and get out.

"Conor! We've got troops coming around the bend. We've got nowhere to go," said the man.

"Hide. Find a place to fucking hide. I'll let them take me. You guys come and find me." He opened his pack, digging for what he needed.

"No, that's not how this works," said his petty officer.

"It's how it fucking works if I say so. Hide your asses. Now."

Conor shoved his pack into another man's hands, taking off his vest and any identifying materials. He stripped to his boxers, pulling on a pair of jeans from his pack, wearing only his t-shirt. He messed up his hair, kicked off his boots, and began casually walking down the road in his bare feet.

While his men hid in the trees, he waited for what he knew would be the worst decision of his life.

"Stop!"

"Whoa," he said, raising his hands in the air. "Sorry, I'm lost. Some guy stole my things and…"

"Shut up!" The soldier jammed his rifle into Conor's back, dropping him to his knees. Cursing beneath his breath, he obediently fell, his hands still above his head. He knew that they wanted to feel superior, and with him at six-feet-six, there was no way these men would want him hovering above them.

"Listen, I'm just lost. Like I said, someone stole my backpack and clothes. I have no idea where I'm at."

"You're a liar and American. Although that generally goes hand in hand," said the soldier.

Another man secured his wrists, forcing him to stand and shoving him into the back of a covered truck. Conor blinked several times, adjusting his eyes to the dark interior. Seated on the bench was another soldier, beside him a woman with long, thick black hair. He thought her eyes were dark but not shaped like a Korean's.

The only thing he could think to do was flirt.

"This sucks for a first date, doesn't it?" he smirked.

The last thing he remembered was a boot flying into the side of his head as he fell to the floor of the truck. The woman kneeled beside him, whispering.

"Stupid American."

Conor blinked several times, the dull pain knifing through his head as he caught glimpses of sunlight through the lone window. His hand was cuffed to the side of an iron cot, his shirt stripped off, and his trousers cut into shorts. His mouth felt like five pounds of cotton. He didn't know what time it was, what day it was, or even where the hell he was.

"Try not to move. It will only hurt more," said the soft female voice.

"Maybe you could have told me that before I moved." She chuckled, shaking her head.

"Afraid not, handsome. They want me to coax the truth out of you. If I do that, I get to live. In prison, but nevertheless, I live. You're giving me a lot of ideas, but I'm a lady, and I don't like to do such things with strangers."

"I told them the truth, and I wouldn't speak so openly if I were you. Our North Korean friends are famous for bugging the rooms. There are probably cameras as well."

"There are," she nodded up at the corner of the room. He turned slowly and gave a short nod.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"Souvenir hunting."

"Same," he frowned. He sat up, his hand holding onto the bar that it was attached to. Sucking in a breath, he winced, looking down at his bruised abdomen.

"Oh, that," she smirked. "You wouldn't wake up, and I guess they thought hitting you with a baseball bat would help. But you were lucky. The guy with the bat isn't very big."

"It doesn't feel that way," growled Conor.

They heard commotion outside the door, and two North Koreans entered the room. They stared at Conor, looking somewhat surprised. He wasn't sure why. Were they surprised he was alive or surprised he was sitting up?

"Get up," they said, looking at the woman.

"Why?" Conor didn't think she looked panicked or concerned at all. She stared directly at the man, questioning him.

"Get. Up."

She stood, wiping her hands on her pants. She was the woman he remembered from the truck. She had long, thick black hair, but her eyes weren't dark at all. They'd only appeared that way in the darkness of the truck. Her eyes were green. She was taller than the average woman but lean with small, pert breasts.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"You are free to go."

Conor stared at the woman as she looked down at him, swallowing hard. She didn't get emotional, didn't thank them, nothing.

"Thank you. Take care, American. I hope you get your souvenirs."

And then she was gone. The two men followed her out the door without another word said. He didn't get her name, didn't know why she was really there, nothing. For days, maybe weeks, Conor was beaten and interrogated. He'd sent his team on their way, and hopefully, they'd gotten to the drop point. If not, they were stuck behind the lines of the worst fucking nation on the planet.

His entire body hurt. Everything was throbbing in pain. He heard commotion outside the room, then the two bullies standing over him arguing. One had a hammer in his hand, ready to come at him again. This time, they'd tied him to a chair instead of the bed. Maybe they wanted a better angle. Who knew? All Conor knew was that he was about to die.

"Who is there?" asked one of them, hearing noises outside the interrogation room.

"Nothing. No one."

"It's not nothing. The door doesn't fly open on its own. Look again," insisted the first man.

"There is no one there. You look!" he snapped.

Staring into the dark, empty outer office, they both shrugged. One of the men picked up a small wooden baton and raised it above his prisoner's head. But when he attempted to bring it down, he met with a resistance he didn't know existed.

"Hit him!"

"I'm trying!"

"What is wrong with you?" his partner exclaimed.

Grabbing the hammer again, he raised it, attempting to swing at their prisoner's leg. It got no further than his own waist. Something twisted his arm, breaking the bone as he dropped the hammer.

Staring at his friend, he shook his head.

"Ghosts."

"There are no ghosts!" He pulled his arm, trying to obtain release from his own aggressor.

"Wrong, motherfucker, I am the ghost that you read about," said Eli. He slammed his fist into the man's face, watching as he fell unconscious. With the hammer in his hand, Eli slammed it into the man's head. The crack of his skull echoed in the small room.

Eazee twisted the other man around, gripping his neck, cracking it as he fell beside his fellow soldier.

They both stared at the bloodied, swollen face of the prisoner, cutting his ties. Each taking an arm, they lifted the man who was silent.

"Is he dead?" asked Eli.

"No, he's just unconscious. Let's go. Cover him with the blanket."

Reaching for the stealth blanket in their pack, they covered the man, and Eazee tossed him over his shoulder. The poor man moaned, the pain probably unbearable even in his unconscious state.

"I know, buddy. Just keep it low so we can get you out of here and to a hospital. You're a fucking mess."

Maneuvering around the building, they found an opening in the fence and made their way through. On the other side, in the tree line was the team waiting for them.

"You brought a friend," smirked Zeke.

"Picked him up before they killed him. I think they've had him for a few days at minimum," said Eli. "Let's get him back to camp. We can find a doc and explain it later."

"Take off the suits," said Hiro. "We don't need them now that we're on this side. The jeeps are parked up ahead about a mile." He stared at the man thrown over Eazee's body. Eazee laid him down on the grass, his face a mess. Standing over him, Hiro shone a light down on him.

"He's big," said Tanner, nodding at the man. "Looks like he was wearing civilian clothes. Not sure he's military. I can't tell what his nationality is, but he's not Asian."

"Give me some water," said Kiel, kneeling beside the man. He doused a t-shirt in water, wiping the man's face. As the blood cleared away, one very blue eye opened.

"D-don't leave me, you bashtards."

"That's hardly the way to thank your rescuers," smirked Eazee.

"Et-than. Ish me," he slurred. Eazee knelt down beside the man, staring at him. As he got a closer glimpse of the face, he stared at the one eye that was open, eerily familiar.

"Who the fuck is that?" asked East.

"He's a big bastard. Tall," said Zeke. "What's your name, son? Who are you, and how do you know Ethan?"

"Ish me, shir. C-Conor. Conor Quinn. Taken a while back. Days. Maybe weeks, don't know. Beaten. Mission went to shit."

"Oh, fuck!" cried the chorus of voices. The men began scrambling, hoping to at least deliver some first aid to Conor. They pulled out a collapsible litter to place him on, then began an IV to pump some meds into him.

"Conor, what the hell, brother? Where is your team?" asked Eazee.

"I don't know. Told them to go to extraction point. Leave me. Don't know. Fuck! Pain. I'm in pain."

"Get him back to base," said Zeke. "I'll call Titus and Dom. We need to know what the fuck is happening and why he wasn't reported MIA."