Rogue Threat by AJ Tata

absent any apparent signs of fear, was weary with pain. Turning, Peyton lifted her head toward Matt’s door, and for a brief moment, Matt believed their eyes met. She stumbled as she entered the room, and Matt quietly closed his door.
    Peyton was alive, which meant that the disembodied voice he had heard earlier must have been talking about the poor Air Force attendant.
    Matt knew from his training that the length of time spent in captivity is inversely proportional to one’s likelihood of escaping. The more time his captors had to plan his demise, the more successful they were likely to be. As for the prisoner, all the planning in the world would not make up for a lack of resources to execute an escape plan. The one resource upon which Matt had drawn in the past was the element of surprise. Although a year-long layoff had dimmed his instincts a bit, he already knew what he was going to do.
    The door opened and one man led another into the room, each carrying a Browning pump shotgun. Interesting choice. That told him something about his situation. He guessed they were in an area that was not entirely secluded—not public, but not altogether isolated. The shotguns could double as hunting weapons to local onlookers.
    “I see you have returned from the dead, Matt Garrett,” said the second man, who was clearly in charge. He had a soft, musical voice.
    “Either that, or we’re all in hell,” Matt scowled, his throat raspy. Hearing his own voice after hours of silence confirmed, in a strange way, that he was indeed alive.
    “Yes, well, hell for you it may be,” the man retorted, drawing near, his shotgun crooked into one arm as if bird hunting.
    Matt could see that the other captor, however, was training his Browning directly on his midsection, another indication that these were not amateurs. Shoot for the largest body mass to wound and then kill if necessary. The shooter’s principle was to ensure a first-time hit.
    Matt watched as the man with the musical voice approached him assuming that Matt was too weak or wounded to be a threat. Truthfully, Matt was acting the part just a bit, like a prizefighter limping along, doing the rope-a-dope, to cajole his opponent into letting down his guard. In his lower periphery, Matt could see that the approaching captor’s weapon was hanging loosely along his forearm. The butt of the weapon was pressing upward against his triceps.
    “I have someone who is very interested in meeting you, Mister Garrett, but our actions of the last twenty-four hours have jeopardized our ability to travel. We have instructions that now the meeting will not take place,” the man said in lilting tones that, when he spoke, made his sentences seem almost poetic.
    Matt knew immediately what “Now the meeting will not take place ” meant. His captors’ instructions were to kill him, plain and simple .
    “Someone wants to meet me?” Matt asked, not particularly listening to his own words. His mind was reeling, threading several different scenarios through his own unique process of visualizing the course of action and war-gaming the potential results. Which one was most likely to succeed, most dangerous to him, most dangerous to his opponent, and least obvious?
    “ Wanted to meet you. My instructions are to inform you that his name is General Jacques Ballantine and that he lost his only brother during the invasion of Iraq in 1991. In fact, General Ballantine tells me that your brother, Zachary, murdered him that day.”
    During that war, Matt was on his first assignment in Northern Iraq, working with the Kurd resistance movement. He had been redeployed shortly before his brother. It was hand-to-hand combat, Zachary had told him. There were no options. Zachary had said he would do it again in the same situation. No regrets. Resulted in a major intelligence find. But the general, for reasons not explained to lowly Lieutenant Zachary Garrett at the time, had been promptly released back to Iraq.
    And now,