Free Fallen Angel by Jeff Struecker Page A

wounds, especially the facial injury his captor used as an ashtray, grew warmer by the hour. Masters had no doubt the seeping injuries were infected.
    How long before the infection spread to his blood and to his organs? Would it reach his brain? Infect his heart or liver?
    He thought about Egonov's threat of gangrene. Masters saw gangrene during a tour in Afghanistan. A boy, no more than eight, was wounded by shrapnel from a suicide bomber. The wound wasn't life threatening, just a deep cut to the right forearm. His parents decided to nurse him themselves. Medications were in short supply and the injury festered. When the boy's parents approached Masters and his team as they swept a village, the wound was gangrenous. Masters's team transported the boy to the nearest functioning medical facility. The last time Masters saw the boy, he had only one arm.
    What would need to be cut away from his body to save his life?
    He heard a scream. Distant. Muted. Familiar. He had been hearing such agony-laced cries every few minutes. Hearing another human beg for mercy was soul crushing; it was worse when the voice was recognizable.
    Stu. A young sergeant. Tough as nails and fearless in a firefight. Funny. Always ready with a joke, especially off-color jabs. Masters never met a man who liked to laugh more.
    The laughter was gone. Just wails and screams and weeping.
    It came from the room next door. Masters could hear the door open and close. It would open and a few moments later the pleading would begin. Later the door would open and close again and all would go silent. He knew what they were doing and he hated them for it. They were bringing his men into the adjoining room so Masters could hear them being tormented.
    He understood the plan. They would let pain and infection torture his body and let the cries of his men fry his brain.
    Masters wanted to pray for release, for rescue, for miraculous intervention, but his prayers ran a different direction. "Five minutes, God. Just give me five minutes alone with Egonov; just five minutes to make my point."

    MOYER AND HIS TEAM stood on the pitching deck of the destroyer looking at the thirty-three-foot-long, rigid-hull inflatable boat rising and falling in the swells of the discontent North Pacific. He raised his gaze and looked across a quarter mile of churning sea to see a rolling Japanese fishing boat.
    J. J. said what Moyer was thinking. "I thought the skipper said the seas were calm."
    A narrow chief with a square jaw looked puzzled. "These are calm seas."
    "Be honest," Rich said. "You're just trying to have some fun with the Army boys, right?"
    The chief shrugged. "The SEALs don't seem to mind. By the way, that's their boat, so don't do anything stupid like shoot the rubber hull. Those boys are a tad sensitive about their equipment."
    "We won't hurt their little toys, Chief." Rich took another look at the boat.
    "Toy, eh." The chief huffed. "You would perhaps like to swim?"
    "We wouldn't dream of hurting your feelings." J. J. exchanged glances with Rich. "You look a little green around the gills, Shaq."
    Rich frowned. "Black men don't get green around the gills."
    "If you say so, big man, but I know green when I see it."
    "Yeah? Well, I feel good enough to throw you all the way to the fishing boat."
    "Stow it, gentlemen." The chief moved to the edge of his ship. "We don't want to spend any more time here than we have to. It's dark, but not dark enough for my liking." He pointed skyward. "Who knows who's watching."
    "God?" Crispin said.
    "I think he means spy satellites, Hawkeye."
    "Oh. I knew that."
    "Sure you did, kid." Rich put a hand on the shoulder of the newest member of the team. "You know, the new guy goes first, right? It's tradition and this unit is big on tradition."
    "But just think of how much I can learn from watching a professional like you."
    "Hawkeye?" Moyer said.
    "Yeah, Boss?"
    "Get your butt in the boat."
    "Yes, Boss."
    The chief and a petty officer helped Crispin climb