The truck bounced along the narrow mountain roads and Terry Sheridan
bounced along with it. He was trying to find a way out of this situation. Part of his price for betraying his men and country was the guarantee he’d be left alive and free. Instead, once they had possession of the arms, the Shay-Ling turned their guns on him and imprisoned him under Chen-Lo’s orders. Terry wasn’t surprised to overhear that his execution was to take place the moment he arrived at the compound and in front of the entire gang.

Chen-Lo was the infamous leader of the Shay-Ling; a man with no conscious or scruples but a very long memory. Years ago, Chen-Lo’s older brother had been assisting al-Qaeda in Afghanistan and was crippled during a battle between his company and Sheridan’s regiment. By executing Terry, not only would he carry out revenge on his brother’s behalf, but teach his gang what happens to traitors.

Terry Sheridan always knew he was a lucky bastard and the men who guarded him were not particularly bright. They didn’t realize he spoke and understood Chinese as they carelessly talked right in front of him. What they said was more valuable than water in the desert! The men were extremely unhappy in the gang and foolishly planning a mutiny against Chen-Lo. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was more than enough information to save his arse and Terry Sheridan secretly smiled.

His wrists chained, Terry sighed as the truck came to an abrupt halt amongst shouts and cheers, blustering orders then suddenly … silence.

“Show time,” he whispered to himself as they dragged to the ground and pushed to his knees. He turned blue eyes up to take in the stance of Chen-Lo, a man filled to the brim with bitterness and pressing the barrel of an M-16 right between Sheridan’s eyes.

 “Wait, hear me out.”

“Why should I listen to you,” Chen-Lo sneered.

“Because of what I can tell you about your own men.”

“Oh? And what can you tell me?”

Terry grinned maniacally. The men around them had gone still as death. “You know everything has a price, Chen-Lo.”

“And yours?”

“Hold up your end of our agreement. My life and freedom.”

Chen-Lo studied the kneeling man, weighing his need for revenge against his curiosity about the man’s claims.

“No. You know nothing.” He aimed again.

“That may be so. If you kill me, you’ll never know the truth.”

Chen-Lo lowered his rifle. The truth. And would the truth ever come from a man who proved himself to be a traitor without loyalties to anyone?

But the moment he lowered his rifle, all hell broke loose. The mutineers, realizing that Sheridan had understood their plan and was using his knowledge to protect himself, leapt, putting into action a plan that was far from perfected and destined to fail. Chaos reigned as bullets flew, men diving for position and cover. Terry, his wrists still bound behind his back, could only fall flat on the ground and roll for cover under the truck and wait out the battle.

“Sheridan!” Chen-Lo barked.

It was suddenly silent, the battle pissed away before it became anything worth noting. Terry rolled out from under the truck and was roughly pulled to his feet. Five dead bodies lie nearby, blood pooling on the ground.

Chen-Lo grinned. “You just lost your bargaining chip, Sheridan.”

Terry shrugged. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

Chen-Lo laughed. “No, but you spoke the truth and that counts for you.” He paused, looking at the corpses around him. “You get your life, Sheridan, but not your freedom.” He ordered Terry led away and put in a small room inside the compound and kept under lock and key and guarded at all times.

w

Five months had passed; Terry Sheridan was still with the Shay-Ling. The guards had been relaxed and he could move freely within the compound, but he was never permitted outside of it. Boredom was his worst enemy all those months. Day in and day out filled with nothing, his body fairly sedentary, the mental strain of having nothing to think about, driving him mad. A soldier by nature he had no basis to formulate this sort of existence upon. But … he was alive, and that, in and of itself, held promise.  

Even within Chen-Lo’s compound there could be found distractions, though and Terry Sheridan was a master at discovering those. He’d begun an affair with Mei Cheng, the sister of Chen-Lo’s largest and strongest guards. She was a sweet, lovely lass filed with dreams of a life in the west … far away from the confines of her poor, rural Chinese upbringing.

On a hideous, rainy night, gripped tight together and sweating profusely, deep in the throes of a uniquely perverse climax, the tide suddenly turned. It was from Mei Cheng that Terry learned that Chen-Lo was expecting a truckload of precious Ming vases, bound for his collection of ancient artifacts at his home in Beijing.

Terry approached Chen-Lo and suggested that he drive the truck to Beijing. He told the leader that he and Mei wanted to visit her relatives in the city and marry. He argued that in the five months he’d been in the compound, he’d done nothing to cause trouble or suspicion. This was a chance for him to prove his trustworthiness to the leader. Chen-Lo thought for a moment, then agreed but only provided they travel with an armed guard.

It was the opportunity Terry was hoping for and he smiled as they drove away from the compound, the guard in the passenger seat and Mei between them. He and Mei had a plan and it flowed perfectly. Less than ten miles from the compound, Mei claimed she desperately needed to relieve a full bladder and insisted they stop on the side of the road.

The guard was suspicious, but Sheridan cajoled him. “Come on, mate. She’s gotta take a piss. Have a heart.”

A casual exit from the truck, one swift jerk of Terry’s elbow and within seconds, the guard was unconscious, bound to a tree and naked. Mei smiled wide, commenting on the inadequacy of the guard’s weapon.

Sheridan and Mei ended up in Russia. The plan was to head for Switzerland when the vases were sold. From there, he could buy a new identity and they could have a new life in the West. Within a days, all the vases were sold except one, the finest of the collection. Terry left her there, leaving a note that the last vase was for her. It was her ticket to the West. But, without him, Mei lost hope and returned to the Shay-Ling.

Sitting alone in the back of a dark pub, Sheridan learned of a possible arms deal in Kazakhstan. It was there that he received the last message from Chen-Lo:

Well played, Sheridan. Mei has returned with the last of mye vases and you have won your freedom. Be warned: If you show your face here again, I will not be so generous.

w

Three women. Captivity. Not words anyone cared to hear linked together. Thorne worked under Morgan’s leadership and surprisingly learned much more than expected. The man was a master of negotiation. He worked nuance and words into language and dialect the way a fine wine maker might marry grapes to create something new and unique. The women were returned safely and without incident and when it was all said and done, Terry was actually embarrassed at being so upset with Ian’s demand that he go on the case.

Morgan explained that there was no way there’d be an extraction. The group holding the captives never dealt long or played the K&R game. It was more like haggling over trinkets with a Tijuana street vender then bartering for lives. The captors gave Morgan three chances. Morgan shot for the moon, then aimed high, then simply purchased the lives of three British women. Little savvy but a ton of intelligence. There was nowhere else to go.

Morgan called in a favor owed to him and flew out of Kazakhstan a day earlier than Thorne. It was fine, Terry spent his expense account on talking to Julie on the phone and whispering nothing important into her ear as she drifted off to sleep. It was worth it. Soon he’d be home, inside her body and proposing marriage.

Kazakhstan. When had he ever visited such a place and really looked around? Not that there was much to see, an oil rich republic, the city of Astana was fairly cosmopolitan, but the Kazakhstani people poor in comparison to most of the world. The natives had a look. Part Russian, part Chinese, part nomad that he could actually feel as they walked past. Tourism wasn’t a big part of the Astana marketplace or economy. The three kidnapped women were there to research their family tree. In the bar he spied international businessmen sipping cognac, brokering oil deals and much, much more. Politics drifted like thick smoke and far more dangerous. And sprinkled everywhere was the kind of men Terry Thorne knew instinctively.

CIA. Leftover KGB personalities. At least three FBI. Several MI6 agents he actually recognized from personal introductions a few years back. He identified them all by the way they sat or stood never with their back to the door, the way their eyes slid from corner to corner in an elegant, casual yet deadly sweep, the regulation pistol bulge beneath their jackets. And he was sure that in the same split second, they’d had a clear take on him too. He stood and left the bar to get a breath of fresh air, walk the streets. Summer days were brutally hot, but the nights were cool and crisp. He was a block from his hotel and another chance to call Julianna.

What made him turn at that moment would forever baffle him. There was no sound, no call or even sudden movement that caught his attention. Just a man, walking alone and lighting a cigarette under a street lamp. Thorne thought his heart would stop. Drawing in a deep breath, he looked both ways and jogged across the sparse traffic.

“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” he hissed as Terry Sheridan’s face lit up with recognition. But before a bellow of greeting could explode from his mouth, Thorne grasped his arm and dragged him the final block to the hotel. He pulled Sheridan into the side entrance and up three flights of stairs. Inside the room, there was no longer the smallest shred of restraint.

Thorne let loose with a left hook that slammed Sheridan against the wall and down to his arse.

“Real good seein’ you too, ya bastard,” Sheridan pressed a hand against his aching jaw.

“You motherfucker! What the hell are ya doin’ here?”

“What do you care?”

What did he care? But Thorne did care. He cared more than he should and helped his mate back to his feet, receiving a fist to the gut for his efforts. Together they dropped to the sofa, grunting and nursing newly acquired miseries.

“What are ya doin’ here?” Thorne spat, reaching for a bottle of vodka and twisting off the cap. He took a slug and passed it over.

“Hiding,” Sheridan finally answered, several gulps later. “But mate, I’m doin’ real good. I’m tellin’ ya! More money than you can imagine, adventure. The fuckin’ life I should be living. Bloody hell,” he turned a wide grin to Thorne. “The kinda life you should be livin’ too!”

“You’re mad. I swear to fuckin’ God, there are MI6 agents crawling all over Kazakhstan. No doubt lookin’ for you.”

“Yeah? So, maybe we should get outta here?” his grin was maddening.

Terry Thorne stood and paced, his eyes burning a searing path directly into Sheridan’s. “What have ya done, Terry? Desertion? Eight of your men, dead. One’s a fuckin’ vegetable … the poor bloke will never walk or talk or think another thing until he too dies. How could ya do such a thing?”

“Comes a time when a man’s gotta take care of himself, Thorne. You there yet? Cause I can show you a –”

“Get outta here!”

Sheridan stood, his grin dropped and his eyes became dark clouds. “Suit yourself.” But he didn’t move.

It took Thorne’s strong hands and honorable conviction of mind and soul to finally extract Terry Sheridan from the room and from his life. Two men who were such a complete and perfect refection of one another … had been shattered in a few brief moments and less than a few raw words.

Thorne ran cold water, filled the sink and dunked his face deep. There was pain from his heart to the surface of his flesh. He had always loved, admired and respected Terry Sheridan. Had always harbored a deep belief that the reports of desertion were wrong. Mistaken. False. That perhaps Sheridan had been used, abused, manipulated and possibly dead.

But this? This truth? This he could not take in. He simply couldn’t swallow it.

w

It was cold and damp. Sheridan shivered and rubbed his arms trying to generate some heat. The lights, the few there were, were bright, almost blinding. He sat on the hard, lumpy mattress, a small cot really, and thought over the past three weeks since he last saw Thorne. Everything happened so quickly it was all a blur and his mind labored over every detail, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where it all went so terribly wrong.

Two days after his surprising encounter with Thorne, he spotted them following him on the street. MI6 operatives, trying to be inconspicuous, but standing out like the sore thumbs they were. He quickly turned onto a busy street, bustling with shoppers and traffic, hoping to disappear in the crowd. A few tense moments and he couldn’t see them anymore. Sheridan grinned; sure he lost them among the midday activity. Suddenly, gunfire, screams, the crowd running and a man dead in the middle of the street. Sheridan spun and jolted to run but the local police surrounded him, guns pointed and cocked.

“On the ground, asshole,” one of them growled in accented English.

“Ya got the wrong man, mate,” Terry argued, hands held behind his head.

“On the ground,” the captain shouted.

Terry knelt and was rewarded with a rifle butt to the head. He woke in a jail to discover he was charged with murder, one he absolutely did not commit. His trial was swift and his conviction certain, several witnesses stating emphatically that they saw him pull a gun and fire at the dead man. Terry observed three MI6 operatives attending the two-day proceeding, their faces like stone.

Kazakh justice wasn’t exactly blind or fair and it was far easier for MI6 to let Sheridan rot in a Kazakh prison than risk bringing him home. A trial in Britain could shed light on all those nasty little secrets Terry knew, secrets the British government would prefer to remain unknown by the public.

Barla Kala Prison loomed like a medieval fortress. Built into a rocky mountainside, its walls were thick and solid, topped with sharp coiled fencing. One gate, heavily guarded. It was imposing, hard and unappealing. Inside was worse; dark, damp, noisy. Most prisoners held in literal cages with no privacy to speak of.

But Sheridan? He was a special case. The guards led him deeper into the cellblock, to the very wall of the mountain. Carved into the granite were special cells for prisoners like him. No bars, but solid walls of steel, a narrow, heavy door with one small window. The cell was tight with a grating just below the ceiling, making the space appear even smaller. A narrow cot on which to sleep. A thin, stained mattress. A tiny sink in the corner paired with a toilet crusted with dirt and slime. Terry’s new home.

For days, he sat on the hard cot, walked around in circles, bellowed his frustrations at no one. His mind ran over every detail. What went wrong? Was it leaving the Shay-Ling and dumping Mei? No, Chen-Lo had assured him that as long as he stayed away from China, he would be safe from the Shay-Ling.

Was it running into Thorne? It was obvious from their final words that their friendship was irretrievably broken, but could he have given him away? Again, the answer was no. Thorne may despise Sheridan for his actions, but he would never turn him in. Thorne was a soldier through and through … but his honor wouldn’t permit exposing a comrade. Never.

It had to be someone he did business with, someone who got a better deal with the MI6. It had to be that. In the end, it was all about the money.

w

Four months after returning from Kazakhstan, Terry Thorne still wasn’t quite right. He struggled with his heart and fought against troubled dreams; nightmares that plagued his rest and left him raw and irritable. Still in his possession … the engagement ring he had yet to give Jules. But still she stood by him, worried over him, even voiced her concerns at a business dinner with Ian and his wife.

“Do you ever wonder about the pressure you place on your men?” she asked casually, sipping white wine and watching Ian’s expression carefully.

Terry cleared his throat. “Julianna,” he said, a soft reprimand.

“No, I’m serious. Ian, your field personnel are under extreme stress. Do you watch over them? Just to be sure they are in fact in top form?”

“I apologize,” Terry tried to hide his embarrassment. “Jules has a show coming up, and she is quite stressed herself.”

“Are you saying Terry is overtaxed, Julianna?” Ian grunted, his brow curled as he ignored Terry.

“I must confess, he is not sleeping well, I think he should be given holiday. He has been with Luthan Risk for quite some time, far too long without a break.”

“I see. And Thorne. Are you in need of a holiday?”

“Ah … no … sir I assure you I’m in top form.”

Ian grinned. “I would see fit to offer Terry a holiday if he would break down and propose marriage to you, my dear.”

Ian’s bland wife smiled sweetly and placed a finger to her lip. “Ian, is that not for Terry to decide?”

Terry heard or grasped none of the remaining conversation, paid little attention to the details or meandering path of the evening’s banter. He considered that Ian was correct; it was time to ask Juliana to be his wife. He adored her, admired her and … he truly loved her. Was there really a good reason to put it off any longer?

That night, inside their flat, Terry was silent. Jules slid out of her jacket and stood, the kitchen table between them, her hands on her hips and lips pursed.

“You’re angry with me. Go on, Terry. Get it all out. No bloody reason to hold it all inside … with everything else you hold inside.”

Terry sighed, his shoulders drooped. “Darlin’, what I don’t tell you is only to protect you from things you don’t need to hear. What I do can be ugly, love. It’s hideous and frightening.”

“So, you hold it all inside … making you even more distant from me. Do you tell me any of it? Can’t you at least tell me how it hurts you … because it does, Terry. It damages you and the longer you hold it tight inside your soul, the more pain it’s causing.”

He drew in a long breath, releasing it slowly, praying for calm. “Jules. Marry me.” He stilled his very heart to await her answer. For a moment her eyes softened, her head tilted. Had he sufficiently distracted her thoughts? He could tell by the set of her jaw that he had not.

“Will a marriage vow make you more open to me?”

“Why is this so important to you?”

She slowly sat in the chair. “The other day … I heard something. Something absolutely unbelievable. I heard that Terry Sheridan had deserted, that he’s now in a prison somewhere near Russia for murder.”

“Yes, he is.” Terry too sat at the table, his mind spinning, searching for an exit from a conversation he did not wish to have. Not with Jules. Not ever.

“They broke him, Terry. They broke him into a million pieces … just like Ian’s doing to you.”

“Juliana,” he rubbed his eyes. “Sheridan did desert his men. He left eight of them to die. He fuckin’ sold weapons! Weapons he’s placed into our enemies hands!”

“No … no. I know him. They destroyed him. And now he’s in prison for a murder I know … I know in my heart he didn’t commit. God Terry! We can’t let that happen.”

“He deserves to be in prison, Jules. He deserted his country and left his men to die. He … deserves … to rot in prison!”

Juliana slowly stood, her eyes glued to Terry’s. She held her breath for several heartbeats then slowly whispered. “You. You turned him in. You?”

Nothing would come to his head and no words could form. He watched her.

“You. How could you do that, Terry? They broke him. They’re breaking you.” She slid her arms into her jacket. “They’re breaking you too and I can’t watch it. I can’t.” She lifted her purse and he watched a tear slide down her face. “I can’t … and I won’t. I never want to see you again, Terry Thorne.”

The silence was deafening. A clock ticking from the hallway … the hissing sound of the heated air drifting from the furnace vent … his rhythmic heartbeat. A heartbeat that had no reason to continue with Juliana gone. Terry gritted his teeth and pulled his cell from his pocket. Dialed.

“What’ve ya got going on, mate?”

“Terry?” Ian grunted. “Thorne? Is that you?”

“What’ve ya got I can work on.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Are you alright, Thorne?”

“Top form. What have ya got?”

“Something ugly in Chechnya.”

“Lenoir? I’ll take it.”

“Alright. You’ll leave in the morning.”

“No, now Ian. I’ll leave now.”

“Fine, fine. Consider it your case. Ticket will be waiting at Heathrow.”

Terry didn’t even saw goodbye. He packed his duffle and left London; sure he would save the life of one Pierre Lenoir … or die trying.