try,” Tso said. “I’d find a way to make it quick for—”
The sound of his shoulder dislocating and separating exploded across Tso’s consciousness like an atomic blast. A red curtain of blood replaced his vision, his ears resonating with the rumbling echoes of his cracking bones and popping cartilage. He returned to reality, the taste of his sour bile in his mouth, the stench of vomit next to his head. He didn’t remember throwing up, but it had to have been while his consciousness disconnected. His arm was a limp, useless mass of twisted muscle and bone.
There was no one to be seen around him.
“Hey…” he croaked. His throat was raw from yelling, or maybe the acid in his bile searing unprotected esophagus.
There was no answer and he twisted, looking around.
“Hey! Hey! I’ll talk!” Tso shouted.
The forest was empty, except for the corpses of some of his men. He tried to roll and crawl, but with only one arm and a shattered pelvis, he was helpless, motionless. All he could do was clutch at leaves and roots, unable to pull his lifeless limbs along. He saw the handle of his pistol poking out of some leaves and reached for it. Fingers sank into mud and he pulled. It seemed to take an eternity to shift only an inch, and two of his nails had been pried out by the roots due to his efforts. Bloody tips stung as they sank into the dirt for more leverage and haul himself closer to the pistol.
He was drenched with sweat, and his cut was burning from the effort. Tso looked at the puckered brown skin, seething with infection. With another tug, he felt the rubber grips of his pistol and he pulled it closer. It felt lighter, and he looked at the magazine well.
Empty.
Maybe there was a round in the chamber. He thumbed back the hammer and pressed the muzzle to his temple. The trigger tripped and the hammer fell with a loud clack.
Tears cut through the sweat and grime on his cheeks.
They’d left him with an empty gun, to taunt him with the faint hope of a swift end.
“There are twelve more men at the base,” Tso called as loud as he could, feeling something pop in his throat. “Twelve men, with machine guns, and motion detectors as well as UAV drones!”
Tso took another deep breath and repeated his cry.
He shouted his report five more times, for a total of seven, when he heard the crunch of wet leaves under boots. His throat tightened as he looked up to see Carl Lyons standing over him. He held a 9 mm pistol by the barrel, handle presented for the Thai.
Tso reached up, swallowing. His fingers wrapped around the grip. He turned it over, and there was no magazine in place.
“You’ve got one shot,” Lyons told him. “Use it wisely. We won’t give you another.”
Tso nodded. “My people will tear you apart.”
The ENT commander tilted the barrel of the pistol between his lips and pulled the trigger, getting the hell out of Panama.
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